Archive | May, 2009

Strange things afoot at the Olive Garden

24 May

Friday night Chris picked me up from work and we took me to Olive Garden for dinner. The food (as always) was really good. Have I ever truly professed my love for Olive Garden? Seriously good shit. Good food, no doubt, everything else…not so much.

There were these two ladies having dinner together, having the loudest conversation I’ve ever heard. One of them was practically yelling. Not in an angry way, in an annoying I think my conversation is more important than anyone else’s kinda way. It was so bad, we couldn’t even hear the waitress when she came to take our order. And I almost had to go over to her table during dinner and slap her in the head when she starting laughing. It was the most annoying laugh I’d ever heard. You know those people that are all, AHAHAHAHAHA like really loud, but it doesn’t sound like laughing, it kinda sounds like a truck idling? Yeah, she was doing that. I gave her my best “shut the hell up” look, but she was totally oblivious. Not surprising.

Then, the waitress decided to grate cheese all down my shirt and on my boobs. She came over with the plates, and instead of grating the cheese while the plates were still on the tray, she put the plates down in front of us and was all, would you like some grated cheese? Syeah, I would. So she starts grating it, and moving the grater all around the plate and it’s flying everywhere, going down my shirt, falling in my lap. She too, like the loud lady, was totally oblivious, even though I was like, ahh, cheese in my lap. She’s like, heh. All dismissive like I was kidding. I wasn’t kidding, I was picking cheese out of my bra all night.

So between the cheese down my shirt and the oblivious loud lady, dinner was definitely not as good as it could’ve of been. I was thankful though that they weren’t stingy with the breadsticks. I hate that. There are some waitresses that like only give you two breadsticks at a time, one for each of you. The second she puts the basket on the table, we’re like, yeah, we’re going to need some more breadsticks and then she comes back with three. Ok, 1. we’re fat. Clearly we don’t have a problem wasting food, you can bring out more three, we’re totally going to eat them. 2., why three? Do you want us to fight for the third? You see there are two of us sitting here, right? Chris and I refer to these Olive Garden waitresses as the Breadstick Nazis. Once we had this really, really nice German waitress, she was like full on, accent and everything all, you want seafood alfredo, yah? She was really good with the breadsitcks, brought them out in even numbers and brought like six at a time. I almost said to her, we usually get a total breadsitck Nazi, I’m glad that’s not you! Then thought better of it. The German waitress would probably not appreciate my Nazi humor.

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Unicorns, rainbows and flowers. No porn here.

22 May

Next Friday (June 5th) is my one-year blogaverasy. It’s also incidentally the date of my high school graduation…12 years ago. Man, makes me feel old. Last night I was telling Kat about why she should give up lying to me forever, because ya know, I was a horrible kid and pulled every scam there was to pull, lied, cheated, stole, I was a regular delinquent in every sense of the word, and I’m going to continue to catch her because you can’t scam a scammer, reformed or not. Anyway, I’m telling her about all this bad stuff I used to do, and she’s like, when was that? I was like, well, I was about 15 or 16, I guess. And she goes, heh, that was a LOOOONG time ago. The child is lucky to not be bald. I had an urge to snatch the hairs right off her mouthy little head, insinuating I’m old. I gave her my “look” (you know the one all moms have that can mean one of any number of things (“watch your mouth”, “knock it off” or my favorite, “be careful not to awake the sleeping dragon, young child. She’s likely to start breathing fire if you keep it up.”). But given her penchant for running out the room in a fit of tween angst and my penchant for taking her cell phone away, we both decided to change the topic. I can’t tell if she’s just pushing boundaries or honestly being a smart ass. I mean if you spend enough time with me and Chris, the smart assery is bound to rub off a little. I don’t know, she makes me so tired. Davey has his issues, but he’s so much easier to live with. He’s a smart ass, but not in a disrespectful way. He’s actually a lot like Chris, and Kat is a lot like me, which is terrifying. Teenage Kat scares the hell out of me. I think I may reserve a space in the mental institution just in case.

Anyway, sorry. I totally derailed there. Blogaversary. In the past 3 weeks or so, my blog traffic has increased, which I think is pretty cool. I also thought it would be a good time to add a “Best of” page. So I asked Chris to give me his favorites and I added a couple of my favorites, so it’s a good little list. If y’all think I missed one, let me know. Also, I was looking at the search terms that people have used and gotten to my blog and have realized a couple things: 1. you really can find anything on the internet and 2. people are fucking crazy. For instance:

The most searched term to find my blog is “giant gummy bear”. Ok, not too bad, a little strange, but not bad. This is of course referring to my post about the giant gummy bears on a stick and the best stop smoking aid ever.

Then we start to get a little disturbing. We’ve got stuff like “donut boobs”, “cannibal porn” and “freezer porn”. I don’t think I want to know what cannibal porn is, but clearly Google has misunderstood my post about cannibals in the freezer. Now I don’t know about why you’d want to know about donut boobs or what exactly they are, but I did write about getting your boobs off my donut.

So since I’m obviously getting some messed search hits (my favorite was “pollyanna on the outside whore on the inside”, which I totally don’t remember writing about anything even remotely close to) from now I’m going to write about rainbows, flowers, unicorns and leprechauns. Well not leprechauns, because they’re kind of freaky.

Domestic Bliss

20 May

So this weekend I’m finally getting my “new” couch. Ok, so not new. One of my friends is moving away and was having an “everything must go!” sale of all of her earthly possessions…or at least the stuff she didn’t feel like dragging half-way across the country. Anyway, I’m buying her couch for $100, which is awesome. She’s a super clean freak, total OCD, so this couch is super clean, it completely puts my beaten to hell, dog chewed, kids boogered, nasty ass couch to shame. Not that I haven’t tried to get a new couch for like 4 years, but Scrooge McDuck strikes again. So the other night I’m thinking of all the rearranging and redecorating I’m going to have to do and I’m like, I think I we’re gonna need a sofa table. Chris is like, what the hell is a sofa table and why do we need one? So I explain (it’s just a table that goes behind a sofa. Clever name, eh?) and wave my hands around all excitable and such, and I’m all, doesn’t that sound great? He makes the dumbest face I’ve ever seen and says, yeah, well, we’ll see. How much is it? Eh. Ok. The guy seriously has earned his Scrooge McDuck nickname. In the interest of not wanting to get divorced over a stupid sofa table, I start thinking about alternatives.

As we all know there are legions of mommy crafters out there and they all have blogs. I am so not one of those mommies. I suck so bad at crafting it’s not even funny. The one time I used a hot glue gun, I glued ribbon to my arms, the table and wound up with second degree burns on my neck. Against my better judgement, I start looking for their blogs to maybe get a little design inspiration, I’m just hoping for no glue gunning. Here’s what I’ve learned.

1. These mommies are like fucking MacGyver. They fashion a new table cloth with matching curtains from paper clips, magazine clippings and a glue gun. It’s crazy.

2. If I’m ever going to be crafty, I’m going to have to get over my fear of glue guns. One lady redid her guest bedroom by with nothing but a glue gun and popsicle sticks. It was kinda pretty. These women even have names for their glue guns, clearly, they love them and are much more comfortable with theirs than I am with mine. I’m going to name mine Hell Beast.

3. I love Pottery Barn. You want a “beachy chic” look, Pottery Barn has it. You want “urban farmhouse”? Pottery Barn has that too. You don’t have to learn to sew or paint or even get over your unnatural fear of glue guns. You can just order whatever your little heart desires. They’ll even ship it right to your door sans popsicle sticks.

Yeah, so what we’ve really learned here is, fuck crafting. I’m going to Pottery Barn. And I’m getting a sofa table.

My story

19 May

I don’t know how to feel today. Proud? Embarrassed? Maybe a little of both? My story was published at Violence Unsilenced today. It feels great to tell my story, maybe my story can make a difference for someone. It also makes me want to throw up. Every time I read those words, it makes me angry, sad, and sick, and now they’re out there for the whole world to see. I told Chris last night that this was way different than posting my story on my blog, no one reads my blog! Putting it on Violence Unsilenced’s website…well to me, that’s huge. I keep telling myself, this is for the Katherines of the world, the young girls who need to understand how easily it can happen, how quick it can go bad, and how it’s never ok. And its for all the Merritts, who wish they’d known better, wished they’d made a better decision, and lived to tell about it. I hope that telling my story will help someone else. Chris says it’s supposed to help me too…I haven’t decided yet whether or not it has, but either way, I don’t regret it.

The issues that plague me Vol. 1: the old lady questions

14 May

Last night we were watching this infomercial about a Time-Life CD collection, Oldies But Goodies. The kids watched in amazement/awe/horror as Chris and I sang along with all the songs. It had really good songs, like all 50’s and 60’s fun stuff. They were interviewing all these old people, who were going on and on about how that was “their” music, no music collection is as good as this collection, listening it was like reliving the “good old days”, etc. So I start thinking, what about my “good old days”?

I’m picturing me in my 60’s or 70’s. Will the jeans that I wear morph into polyester slacks with a crease down the middle? Will my tank tops and t-shirts morph into collared sweatshirt with kitten faces on the front? Will my Nike Shox morph into the Buster Brown-esque velcroed atrocities that old ladies are hell bent on wearing? Will I trade my Michael Kors bags for floral pastel cotton bags with faux wooden handles? How about music? Will I trade Rob Zombie for Lawrence Welk? Will I start complaining about the loud hibbiddy-hop music? Will I start driving an old lady Buick? Will I run out of the house in the morning in curlers to chase kids off my lawn? Will I even know how to be cool? Will the image of old ladies change when my generation is old?

These are the issues that plague me.

The petty larcenist a la Winona Rider

12 May

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

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

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

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

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

8 May

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

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