Archive | March, 2009

Scrooge McDuck and Magellan do Boston

31 Mar

I don’t know if it’s just spring fever or I’m just completely lazy, but I’ve been pretty bad about updating my blog for the last week or so. I suppose I’m just not feeling very bloggy lately. I spent the majority of the week trying in vain to get ready for Kat’s cheering competition in Rhode Island. Between packing, cleaning and laundry I was pretty busy. It amazes me that no matter how many loads of laundry I do, it’s never done. I must’ve done about 17 loads last week. Apparently Chris and the kids didn’t get the memo that we only wear ONE outfit a day and that just because you try on something for 30 seconds does not make it dirty. Sigh. Anyway, we left early Friday afternoon for Rhode Island. Despite several attempts to buy a GPS, Scrooge McDuck (aka Chris) says it’s cheaper to print directions that to buy a GPS, so we used MapQuest…even though MapQuest gives us bad directions ALL the time. Well Scrooge McDuck got exactly what he paid for when MapQuest tried to kill us. Yeah, MapQuest apparently doesn’t like the major highways and took us right through the middle of Boston, which we didn’t even realize until we came around a corner and find ourselves smack in the middle of the Boston tunnels at freaking 4:15 on a Friday afternoon. Now in case I hadn’t mentioned it before, I have a little claustrophobia thing. I also have a fear of being underground in the dark with a bunch of people who’d rather punch you in the face than let you switch lanes. So here we are sitting in bumper to bumper traffic in a fucking tunnel with idiots swerving in and out of lanes, honking horns, flipping people off…holy shit I thought I was going to die. Chris, normally cool, calm and collected, turned off the radio and was like shutupshutupshutup to the kids. He’s asking me where to go, and I’m completely freaking out because I’m 110% sure that there’s going to be a huge fireball coming through the tunnel any second (a’la Independence Day) and we’re all going to die a firey death because we can’t escape the tunnel of hell.

Believe it or not, the tunnel didn’t explode and did see daylight again…45 minutes later. It was another 45 minutes before we were even out of Boston. Boston sucks. A lot. Finally, finally, finally we got to Rhode Island. We did get lost 3 times from the end of Boston to the Rhode Island state line. The whole time Chris is yelling at me, telling me to read the directions, which I totally was. It said get off at exit 8A, but there was no 8A. It went 9, 8, 7…no 8A. Someone told me later that 8A actually was after exit 6. Well of course it is, because that makes a lot of sense. Anyway, I told him to get off some exit and ask for directions.

Chris: Yeah, thanks a lot Magellan, you’ve been very helpful.

Me: Well you know what, that’s what happens when you’re too cheap to buy a GPS. I told you we should get one.

Chris: Yes well, once again you’ve done a superb job with navigation.

Me: Jackass.

He’s referring to last spring when we were going to Six Flags in Massachusetts and I read the directions wrong and we wound up literally in the ghetto…like with real live drug dealers and hookers on the corner. We were supposed to go to a street in Agawam, and I led us to a street of the same name in Springfield. We had to stop at a convenience store next to a bar with one of those LIVE DANCING NUDE GIRLS! signs for directions. He was pretty pissed. He also could be referring to the time that we went to Athens, Georgia and we took a 3 hour detour on country dirt road because I mis-read the map. All we saw were cows and fields for hours and hours. He was pretty pissed. Of course he could be talking about the time that we went to York’s Wild Kingdom and I mis-read the map and missed the exit and drove into New Hampshire…twice. He was really pissed that time. It’s just a few detours, what’s the big deal? And this time it wasn’t even my fault, I read the directions right, it was totally MapQuest’s fault.

When we got home he started pricing GPSs.


Are you a trampy whore or just a sociopath?

24 Mar

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?

Well isn’t that special

20 Mar

So today I was on Facebook taking yet another one of their quizes. Today’s was Who Would Be Your Celebrity Boyfriend? Sounds fun. So I take the quiz and my result is Colin Farrell. So I said to Chris, my celebrity boyfriend would be Colin Farrell. Does that surprise you? He says, not really, you’re both badasses. Interesting. I said, True, but I married you, so what does that say? He thinks about it for a second and says, that I’m more badass than you expected? PFFFFFFFFFFFFT. I respond with a snort, If you’re a badass, I’m the Church Lady. He says, well you do go to church on Sunday…

Ok seriously. What the fuck? I’m so NOT the Church Lady. Yes. I go to church. And yes, I like it. No, I’m not the God-less heathen y’all thought I was. If that somehow makes me less badass, well screw you. I still swear like a motherfucking trucker (nothing like a little gratuitous swearing to prove my point). Sure I bake cookies for the neighborhood children, care for sick kittens and read to the blind, but I’m still a total badass. Okay, I really dislike other people’s children and wouldn’t bake cookies for them for fear that they’d come back for seconds. I don’t really care for sick kittens, I don’t really like cats. And I don’t really read to the blind, because that’s kinda what they have audiobooks for. Clearly I’m still a badass.

Chris, in all his badassery is scared to get a tattoo. He says he’s not scared, he says he just hasn’t found the perfect design yet. I say he’s scared as hell. I have 3 tattoos, it’s not scary. He went with me to get the one on my wrist and was watching with complete fascination, asking constantly, doesn’t that hurt? Well yeah dummy, it’s a needle poking ink into my wrist, what do you think? When it was his turn, he was all, No, no. I didn’t mean I was getting one TODAY, I was just looking. Yeah, sure. Here’s what maybe you didn’t know about Chris.

1. He’s a staunch Southern conservative republican. Not very badass.

2. He’s was educated in a private Christian school. He took AP (advanced placement) calculus…FOR FUN. He got a 1320 on his SATs. Not very badass.

3. The first time I met him he was wearing a white and green polo shirt tucked into pleated khaki pants. Does that sound very badass to you?

Granted, he’s changed a lot since I first met him, and I’ve burned all of his pleated pants, but he’s still not a badass. He’s funny, sarcastic, witty, snarky, he makes me laugh every single day, he’s the most fun person in the world to be around, he’s a great dad and my best friend, but he’s NOT a badass.

P.S. Like that? How I turned it around at the end and got all aww I totally didn’t see that sweetness at the end coming! Yeah, that’s why I’ll be having a steak dinner with a side of shopping for something sparkly and you’ll be sitting at home watching American Idol on DVR while your husband snores in the chair. I’m just that good.

Hopefully no mom jeans…

19 Mar

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been getting more traffic on my blog, search engines are starting to find me, I’m listed on a couple of other blog sites, etc. So I checked my stats for today and I had 8 hits already today and a search engine found me! Kick ass! Nope, hold the kick assery… The person who got to my blog was looking for “retard porn”. That means that someone went to their AOL search and typed in “retard porn” and found my blog. Sigh. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with porn. But retard porn? Dude, c’mon. I don’t even want to know what retard porn is, or why there’s even a market for it. Anyway, this is the post that AOL likes to think is “retard porn”.

Now that I’ve burned that image in your brains, I’m going to do one better: my ass in jeans. Yep, spring is here and I need to go jeans shopping. I love, love, love shopping but absolutely detest trying clothes on in stores. I mean it’s enough to send me into catatonia land. The bad lighting that makes you look jaundiced, the fun house mirrors, the three-way mirror…ugh. So I buy the majority of my clothes online to avoid the trauma, plus online you can get great deals on designer and otherwise really expensive clothes that you couldn’t if you shopped locally.

So anyway, I’m jeans shopping. Jeans are so, so hard to buy and get the perfect fit. Let’s face it, I’m not a size 2, and finding curvy girl jeans that don’t make you look like a either stuffed sausage or a potato sack is hard. So I wanted some help. I found these two really cool “jeans finders”, the first, Zafu, told me that according to my info, Torrid Jeans are the way to go. I can deal with that. So I click on the link, and my “perfect” jeans are no longer available! No problem, surely Torrid sells more that just one perfect pair of jeans for me…yeah, not so much. Almost all the jeans were skinny jeans. Skinny jeans, in my humble opinion do not belong on ladies with a little extra junk in the trunk, some more wiggle in their jiggle, have the J-Lo butt thing going on or are bigger than a size 4. I personally wouldn’t have my big old healthy butt anywhere near these, but I aboslutely applaud the model for wearing them. However, the designer should be taken outside and beaten. They’re really not flattering.

So…yeah. Torrid not so much. Let’s try this again. The second jeans finder, True Jeans, told me that my perfect jeans are SVOBODA. Hrm, interesting, I’ve heard legend of these uber-expensive jeans that don’t gap in the back, don’t bunch in the front and are sheer perfection…but are they really curve friendly? Or are they a clever ruse to hide yet another pair of mom jeans?

From every review I could find, they really are that good and totally worth the money. My ass shall be residing in those…as soon as I can convince Chris that $128 is a reasonable for a pair of jeans.

Wish me luck, or else this will be me in a week…

Humbucker is not a bad word

18 Mar

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.

Animal Voodoo

17 Mar

So we’re driving to cheering, everything is going right on schedule, we might even be there early. Then we hear this rumbling. I was like, babe is that the car? Chris goes, eh… We see smoke and both go, oh shit. Chris starts pulling over, but the car isn’t stopping and he’s having a hard time even getting into the breakdown lane. Once he finally got it stopped, I get out and looked at the tire, TOTALLY flat. Like not a little flat, like riding on the rim flat. Chris gets out to inspect and confirms my original diagnosis…it’s flat. We have a spare but no jack. So I call AAA, and give them all the info they need and specifically said that we’re not all the way out of the road, so could they please send a police officer to at least get people to slow down/move into the other lane. The guys says no problem, we’ll be there within 10 minutes. So 10 minutes go by, then 15, then 20. No police, no tow truck, nothing. Just cars speeding by at 80 mph. At 25 minutes, I call AAA back, fucking LIVID. I was all, where the HELL are you guys? He’s like, ma’am, they’re on the way, I assure you. They’re about 15 minutes away. I was like, THAT’S WHAT YOU SAID 25 MINUTES AGO! He’s all, ma’am if you could just calm down…Heh. Not likely, DON’T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. I HAVE 2 KIDS IN THE BACKSEAT AND CARS ARE SPEEDING BY. THERE ARE NO POLICE IN SIGHT. WE NEED HELP! He’s all, certainly ma’am. I’m all, go fuck yourself.

So after I hung up on that douchebag, this tractor trailer nearly clips the back of the car. I was like, that’s it. Get out of the car. Everyone out. NOW. So they get out and I was holding their hands, trying to walk down this steep hill into the ditch. They’re starting to cry, and I’m just trying to get them off the side of the road. We get to the bottom of the hill, and there’s like a river of muck (dead leaves and such) and of course there’s still snow. I’m thinking, no problem, we’ll just kinda hop across. Yeah, there was no hopping. I took a step and sunk in up to my freaking knee in this ice cold watery mud shit. As I sunk in, Davey took a step and sunk in up to his ankles. He starts wailing (literally). So I grab him (my leg still stuck in the river of shit) and fling him out of the shit and onto solid ground. I’m trying to yell instructions at Kat to make sure she doesn’t sink, but of course she can’t hear me over David’s wailing, the whizzing cars and her own sobbing. She starts to sink and I grab her and toss her next to David. I manage to pull myself out, and limp over to the kids, who are huddled together crying. We were standing in front of a bunch of trees, and Davey goes, Mom, I’m really scared we’re gonna die!. Chris (ever helpful) says, you’re not gonna die buddy, but watch out for bears! Davey lets out this wail and is like, AHHHH, OH GOD! I’m trying not to laugh, because he’s obviously scared, and was just like, Baby, there are no bears. We’re not going to die, I promise. I don’t think he believed me. Chris walks down the hill to make sure we’re not dead and walks across the mud in 1 step, no sinking. He goes, why didn’t you just go this way? Heh. Well thanks dear, I sure do appreciate that tip. But I gotta tell you, I so enjoyed sinking in the mud and getting soaking wet. Jackass.

So FINALLY the tow truck comes and they start fixing the tire. They’d been working for about 5 minutes when the police show up. The cop strolls over to Chris and is like, license and registration please. He takes all of Chris’ information and goes back to his car. Mind you, he’s never once even asked if we were ok. All he did was glare at me and the kids huddled together our feet and legs soaking wet and covered in mud. He comes back, glares at us again, and then writes Chris a warning for not changing his address on his license. Then he left. Never even waited for the tow truck to finish. Seriously? That’s what we called you for? Thanks so much, that was so helpful.

So tire’s fixed, and we get back up the hill without further incident, and get back in the car. I was bitching about how gross the muddy water was and how it smelled and turned my foot brown. The kids were both talking about how they were sure that they were going to die, and they saw their life flash before their eyes, all the melodrama you’d expect from my children. Then Davey says, I was so scared when we sank in that animal voodoo. Chris goes, I think you mean doodoo. Davey was like, nope, I mean voodoo. It was NASTY.Then Chris and I are talking about what a jerk the officer was, and I called him “Officer Douchebag”. Davey goes, hehe. I like it when you call him Officer Douchebag. Probably not the best protocol teaching my son a new bad word, but what are good mommies for, right? And hey, the kid just sank in animal voodoo, what do you expect? He’s traumatized.

So that’s my adventure. I’m left with a bruise the size of Ohio on my calf, my hip muscle is pulled and I’m limping because my knee is all messed up. Although there is no moral of the story here, and there’s really no lesson learned, we didn’t die and that’s good enough for me.

88 times the awesomeness

12 Mar

I just got done eating and I think my intestines might explode. Ugh, so full. I’ve spent literally the last 36 hours eating anything and everything I could get my hands on. See, yesterday I quit smoking (I know, I know, it’s fantastic, I’ll live another 137 years, you’re so proud, blah, blah, blah), and didn’t really know what else to do. I had my new best friend Nicorette, but Nicky was really letting me down. I chewed and chewed and it just wasn’t helping. So I ate. For breakfast, I ate a chocolate glazed donut and a bagel from Tim Horton’s. While waiting for lunch I ate a whole bag of pretzel rods. For lunch I ate a Nestle’s crunch bar and a bag of Doritos. For dinner we had breakfast for dinner, and I had like 483 pieces of bacon, a couple of sausage links and waffles and I had about a half a pan of brownies for dessert. I rolled myself up the stairs to bed relatively early for fear I might eat more.

So this morning, Day 2, wasn’t quite as bad, until it was. After the kids left for school I ate a brownie. Then when I stopped at Tim Horton’s again and this time got 2 chocolate glazed donuts, a bagel, AND a sandwich. No, not a breakfast sandwich. I’m talking a foot long turkey club, complete with bacon. I’ve been at work a little over an hour and I’ve eaten all of it. I can’t decide whether I’m super excited that I haven’t smoked at all in more that 36 hours or if I’m devastated that in that same time I’ve eaten enough to feed a small village for a week.

I’ve also had lots of “advice” on how to quit smoking: wear a patch, suck on a lollipop, snack on carrot sticks, chew on a coffee stirrer, use sugar free hard candies, stick sharp pointy objects into your eyeballs when you get a craving, etc, etc. Screw all of them. I’ve found my method. Gummy bears. Rather, gummy bears on a stick. And better still, the world’s largest gummy bears. Shyeah. According to Vat19’s website, these babies are 88 times the size of a regular gummy bear (which is 88 times the awesomeness), weigh a half a pound and they’re made in the United States by hand “with gloves on”. Can you really ask for more than that? I think not.

I’ll be placing my order later today.