Hermie's Perfume

It's not really Hermie's perfume, it's Hermes, or Airmissss (drag out the "s" and look snobbish when you say it). They make those $7,000.00 handbags that don't even have cocaine in them. I accidentally bought an overpriced serving of their bottled luxury when I stepped into the Very Expensive Department Store yesterday to warm up.
I should know at my stage of life how to handle this sort of situation; meaning that I should keep moving briskly, and, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, avoid eye contact. Following my successful negotiation of the handbag and cosmetic sections, I got sucked right into the perfume counter.

I could pretend that I was seized by some kind of proustian recall, triggered by the wafting fragrance getting my hippocampus all atwitter; however I really was just scared of the saleslady. Well, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. She really liked me. Really. She told me she could tell I had excellent taste, and of course any woman with my skills of discrimination should be wearing her stank, because it is the finest in all the land. So even though it smells like feline urine impregnated damp wool, it's the best! And I need it! It's what she wears, after all. Now what the hell do I do with it? Use it to keep the vampires away? sprinkle it around Archie Bunkers socks?

G-Rod

Here's a picture of the big stupid-head Governor pretending that he likes crippled kids, when he was actually at the children's hospital for the purpose of shaking them down for money. We see his giant mug and his right hand, you know his left hand is rooting around to see if the kid's got a few bills tucked away, or candy at least.
Smilin' Rod is the main reason I don't accept medicaid, because the state never ever paid me, not even the tiny miserable amount they allow. He probably needed the money for his hair maintenance fund. I think that's a weave, and it's squeezing his head so hard that he can't figure out that an 8% approval rating is sort of bad. Who are those 8% anyway? Maybe all those medicaid junkies that he got the free surgeries for.

Tween Vampires

Because my house is an autocracy and censorship is alive and well here, I'm forced to read and vet the current youth literature offerings. This was delightful for Harry Potter, and tolerable for that book about the flying bear. Now there is "Twilight" with it's 3 sequels, which seems to be surpassing Hannah Montana in popularity, and it's fucking excruciating.

Yes, they extol virtue and restraint, but besides that they pretty much read like a Harlequin romance (which I LOVED when I was 12). Miss H. is probably a few years away from reading these because there is very little action, just a lot of nuanced love shit. I will attempt to illustrate the style of " Twilight" by constructing some sappy drivel:

"His tawny eyes were irascible and his sensuous mouth formed a hard line with anger. Her expressive eyes flashed with emotion and her high cheekbones flushed with bright color, making her glorious in her rage. She tossed her tangled tresses, assaulting his anger-heightened senses with it's heady scent. Unwillingly his anger started to melt, his eyes softening and his sculpted biceps relaxing; he let his breath out in a long heartfelt sigh. They could manage this one time without the butt plug."

See what I mean?? just dreadful.

Sensitivity Training

Archie Bunker has to attend a sensitivity class every so often as required by his job so he can be appropriately PC and hopefully not bring a lawsuit upon himself or his employer.

Quote: " I don't know why I gotta do this shit, I got no problem with the shines". Honest.
Next: "The faggs are fine so long as they ain't lookin' at my ass" (too bad we're all stuck looking at his ass, as it is ordinarily hanging out of his pants, not a pretty sight)
Then: "The fuckin' women though. Who do they think they are?"

HOW damn drunk was I when I said" I DO? " Is annulment out of the question? Yes, I should have left before the kids realized he was more than just a mountain on the couch that they could climb on. Damn Damn Damn.

Dear Dr. P.A. from Dr. I.N.

OK, lets start with the positives. You almost always have cigarettes and you can drive a threaded k-wire like nobody's business. Cute car, remarkable un-whacked son with a nice haircut.

However, despite your amazing charm, talent, and beauty, Glamor magazine could do an entire issue on your fashion eyesores. Holy mother of God. Please, Please, I weep for your shoes when they are paired with those horiffic white sweat socks. Also, there is a special fashion tribunal just for people who put rubber bands in their hair. Please, for all that is well coordinated in the world, soothe the office aesthetic and get some appropriate accessories, or face the prospect of a visit from Stacy and Clinton of "What not to Wear" and expect to face the ridicule of an offended nation.

I mean all of this the utmost respect and care.
Bestest, Mr. Blackwell

Crazy Times

Crazy #1
I'm just taking a breather from slamming my head against the frozen ground in order to try to rid my mind of Brit's new song. DON'T EVEN say the title or it'll get right back into my head. Can't we all just LEAVE BRITTNEY ALONE? Then maybe she'd leave us alone. ugh it's already back in my head again. It's as stubbornly pervasive as the garlic scent lingering around Archie Bunker, which conveniently brings me right up to

Crazy #2
Believe it or not, this one involves that crazy baby daddy of mine. Anyone who has been paying attention knows that Archie Bunker got on the crazy bus some time ago, and one of his many obsessive compulsive issues is hoarding. While he was in the process of reviewing some of his buried treasures he discovered his 4-years-deceased mother's make-up box. Instead of having a little moment of misty memory and chucking the shit, he brought her old & used cosmetics home and told me that I ought to begin wearing them. If there is anyone who does not think that that is just creepy and wrong on several levels I'm waiting to hear why. Group shudder, please. Time for me to get back to the head banging thing again.

Holiday Recap

This is an in-law who has just successfully completed her diet. We're so proud! Soon she'll be able to shop somewhere besides the big girl store.

My hometown is in the heart of middle America, where there are an astonishing number of extra large people. I believe that their wide bottoms are necessary to balance out their skinny little minds. Most of these individuals wear stretch pants and hit the the Wal Mart's at least 3 times a week. I know this because I spent a bit of time at the Wal Mart's myself this visit (guns and ammo, ya know).

The first time I went Wal Marting was when I had just arrived in town, and I was still wearing my fuzzy driving slippers. My original intent was to change into my boots before commencing to shop, but then I saw the people in the parking lot. Most of them appeared to be in some type of sleep wear, and some were eating fried chicken; therefore I opted to shop in my slippers. It felt a little weird, but most of the attention I generated was more of the pitying type for my presumed eating disorder than for my choice of shoes. Anyway, everyone was real real nice! I gotta go there more, luv that place.

Next is a picture of the friggin awful desert that someone brought to dinner. She brings this same slop every year and thinks it is her highly anticipated duty. She had to get up a 5am to start cooking! It wasn't completed til 4pm! she was so exhausted from it's fabrication that she could only collapse and rest when she got to the house. It's some kind of pecan mess which tastes like burnt toast with spoiled humus all dipped in a bucket of snot. Every year we all admire it and pretend to eat some. Just one of our little traditions, ins't it sweet?
I guess it's better than getting sloppy drunk and making rude revelations about ourselves and others, but that might even be fun to try once. I'd say: (slurring)"Archie Bunker, you asshole, I'm a lezzie! I'm gunna get a crew cut and a tattoo and try to date Lindsey Lohan! I LOVE her! Pass the smokes asshole. You're an asshole! Also, I don't want your dead mothers old makeup, it's creepy you Anthony Perkins weirdo! fuck off! you're an asshole!". yea, I know I said "your an asshole" a lot, but drunks do tend to repeat themselves.

CHESTER!!

This picture is of my coat, to whom I respectfully refer as Chester. It's a giant mink coat with a matching PETA paint target hat. I used to feel a little weird wearing it due to the innocent creatures that were bludgeoned for it's creation, but now I just feel warm.

Miss H. is developing a cute little social conscience and asked me if I would please abstain from buying any more fur coats, and expressed angst over Chester. Parental response: " well honey, Chester is already dead. If I don't use him his life would be totally over, done & forgotten. By wearing him I celebrate his existence! Now shut up and eat your burger."

Goodbye Friend

This is what happens when a child leaves a toy on the stairs, and the mom steps on the toy while carrying her precious MacBook, and the MacBook flies into the air and then down the stairwell and bounces off the floor 25 feet below. Sad... I'll miss you buddy.

More Hospital Complaints

Here is a picture of the resident, Young Dr. Jeff, who was in charge of my care during my recent hospital stay. In this photo, he is searching for the treatment protocol for cellulitis. He never did find it, but he kept looking for everything up there.

He did aid me in reaching the conclusion that I should not become a spy. Now I know that if an enemy initiated any fingernail type torture I'd be willing to rat out my mother within the first nanosecond. Dr. Jeff lacks the ability to obtain effective local anesthesia; I hope to never see Young Dr. Jeff out in the real world, because I will probably pulverize his dominant index finger with a hammer, make a few small incisions along either side of it, then jam some gauze packing though what's left. Then I'll ask him if he has plans for Thanksgiving, and what kind of pie he likes. Then for good measure, I'll give him a wedgie with his red plaid boxers that seemed to always be showing. motherfucker.

Naturally I didn't have any worries about the children and the homefront, not with Archie Bunker there to tend to matters. He only really got angry once, which was when I refused to come down to the hospital lobby (IV pole in tow and ass out) so he could drop the kids off with me for a few hours; he had to go buy everyone new clothes because he couldn't figure out how to work the washing machine. Oh well....at least he didn't sell them into slavery or anything. Upon my homecoming, the kids were alive & well, sticky, filthy, and sick of pizza. N. is still clinging to me like a barnacle, but this hopefully will soon pass.

Spa Week

No, I've not been slacking, and my complaints are building up deep within my dark and bitter soul, getting ready to EXPLODE like an unpunctured overheated can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew; that shit's gotta vent, you know.

Anyway, now that I have 10 working fingers again I can begin to air my grievances about my extended stay in the hospital, or hostible, as N. calls it, or relaxing spa as Archie Bunker (the new code name for that idiot I'm always trashing) referrers to it.

My purulent pre-gangrenous hot throbbing finger kept me in the big house for 5 days. 5 DAYS!! no one stays in the hospital for 5 days! Except, perhaps, the celebrities who come down with severe cases of exhaustion.

How did this happen? Well, perhaps it was bacterial exposure when I was helping Archie Bunker adjust the stick up his ass. I just don't know. It could be my penance for having fun on the dirt bike.

ABCs

I tried Bumblebees.
I tried Balloons.
I tried Bozo the clown.

N.'s teacher said he HAD to start getting some of the letters down. Otherwise he'll never even be able to read "SHORT BUS". Never mind that he could probably build the short bus with his Legos, his erector set and some tin foil, he needs to get academic or he'll never realize his full powers of destruction.

After many frustrating attempts, with bunches of beginner "b" words, bags, boogers, ballerinas, bones, barf, bandit, band aid, back, butterfly, bottom, batman, bugs, box, butter, etc. something clicked and he got it. BOOBIES.

He uses his simple illustration every time he writes the letter. When he's done he gleefully shouts "BOOBIES"!! and rotates the picture clockwise in case someone doesn't get it.

I'm so proud.

Election day

It's the big day. My plan?
Close my office early because
the entire downtown has been preparing for the crowds all week. Friendly people from Wisconsin are probably already laying claim to picnic spots, and I certainly don't have time for any of that happy shit.
I will do my civic duty and vote, then I will go hide under my bed with my young'uns. Maybe room for the dog, but not for Nick, no way no how.

My expert prediction:
Obama win: Riot
Obama loss: Bigger Riot

Me, Me & Me

Here are my shoes with the requisite "bit of purple" demanded this season by the fashion police; just trying to follow the rules here.
Along with the shoes are my new pantyhose which were recommended by one of the other moms at school after I admired hers. She gushed that her Wolford undergarments were lifechanging. She got them at an expensive boutique on the very exclusive street which I usually avoid because I'm sure the fancy-pants people will be trying to decide if they should give me their spare change, or try to notify the family that I work for and tell them that I'm allowing their children to run around with dirty faces.

Anyway, I purchased the "lifechangers" even though they cost $60.00. So far the only life change I've noticed is less money for whiskey and cigarettes, still waiting though! One good thing about them is that they are slightly opaque, thereby covering the large black and blue areas on my lower extremities incurred in the activity discussed next.

Yup, that's me, again doing the teenage boy thing, despite the assumption of a fully developed prefrontal cortex. I figure I need to hone my skills just in case the whole "new world order" thing doesn't go so hot and I need to flee. I think I could fit the kids on there with me, but definitely not Nick, he'd have to jog along with us, which would have us free of him in about half a block. Someone would need to stay behind and look after the dog and the shit in the garage anyway. (yes Lisa, that is my Boston jacket)

















Next photo, ME AGAIN !!! on the TRAMPoline. I'm trying to hurt the parts that weren't damaged in the whole dirt bike thing. Let's review the positives:
1. The tasteful rise of my Mom jeans, leaving my undergarments a mystery (they could be Depends for all the observer can tell)
2. The tasteful rise of my Mom jeans, leaving my entire ass covered.
3. No tramp stamp!!! can you believe it? Despite ample evidence to the contrary, sometimes I do act my age.
4. Impeccable manicure. Someone has to shepard our young ladies to a dignified maturity.

Toxins

So I'm getting ready to scrub for my case, when the nurse tells me the pt's mom is wiggin' out in the family waiting area, she apparently feels like we're rushing her daughter (who is 29) into the procedure. Never mind that I have had 2 pre-op visits with the daughter, spending the better part of that time talking her out of unnecessary procedures.

Out I went out to talk to mom (while the pt was on the table--too late to cancel) who wanted to talk about natural and organic treatments, as she is convinced that the placement of some "medical device" during a bladder procedure 10 years ago is responsible for her subsequent development of.......(drumroll).......Fibromyalgia!!

"Couldn't we use a laser?" she wants to know.

 What is so fucking magical about lasers, anyway? Do we just point the magic beam at the offending area, then poof, all better now?? no, there is not a laser procedure alternative, and yes there will be absorbable suture and hardware.
"Are we leaving anything in her pristine girl that could leach toxins?" she HATES toxins. toxins, blah blah blah toxins. Are her meridians out of balance? could acupuncture correct the problem?

well ma'am, I do generally entertain these questions with great patience, but baby girl's asleep on the table right now, so let's shit or get of the pot, and girlfriend did sign her consent form (twice, here and in the office) so can I go now?

And the grand finale for this early morning saga: mama was so dang crazed with worry about meridians and toxins, she forgot her lighter, can I help her out cause she's gotta go smoke now. Let's just don't judge, and remember that tobacco is natural, so it can't be bad for you.

My hurting girded loins

For fun, a picture of some genuine child abusing bullshit, please DCFS, find these people and bring them to justice! I'm sure the kid is still in therapy...or we could be looking at the child version of our very own flappy mouth (see post with same title). If she spends much more time snogging with mullet-man, this is probably what her spawn will resemble. Can you hear the Def Lepord or Whitesnake playing on the 8-track?? Who thinks they are all wearing parachute pants?



Still finding my ownself under the close scrutiny of the DCFS and all, I decided it would not be the best time for the kids to learn to ride motocross. It was a shame to see the one unused bike sitting there all lonely-like, so I girded up my loins and jumped on while the kids amused themselves on the trampoline, a much safer option.
The whole favor that I did for my body by skipping this year's marathon was undone in the first thirty minutes, then I started on the big jumps. This shit is for fourteen year old boys. Next time I go, I'm going to try to be a little drunk so that I don't tense up so much on the falls. Just a thought. Now my legs are so sore I can't even chase the little shits down in order to administer their beatings.

babysitting

When the police came today and nearly arrested Nick for child endangerment, and I did not immediately jump to his defense, it was the straw that broke the camel's back; he claimed to want to divorce me!! THE HORROR!! I do not live up to his every fantasy!
Yes, he really said it: "we're getting divorced. I'm moving out." In response I said, "pardon me, I couldn't hear you because the Angels were singing hallelujah to loud for me to hear you."
Anyway, he's since changed his mind. Sheeaat.

To review our family run-in with the law:
Nick decided to take 5 y/o N. to a job which consisted of putting a new roof on a downtown building. After a few neighbors got a glimpse of a little boy running around the non-fenced rooftop, they called the police and related that there was a child on a rooftop who was not being supervised. The police came and told Nick to keep N. off the roof. Nick said ok, and suggested that everyone needs to mind their own business (not always the best approach with the police).

One hour later the police were again called because N. was back on the roof . The police returned to find N. wandering alone and unsupervised through the alley. The cop had to climb up the ladder (which N. had apparently climbed down alone) to find Nick who had not yet figured out that N. had left the rooftop.
Always the diplomat, Nick & the officer begin a discussion resulting in Nick coming unhinged at the suggestion that the above may constitute a lack of appropriate judgment as it applies to parenting.

At that moment I arrived to pick N. up, because I thought he would be getting bored sitting in the storefront shop which is where he was supposed to be playing with his hotwheels . The police officer informed me of the situation, as well as her inclination to arrest Nick; this is when I'm supposed to start belting out "stand by your man" and show family solidarity...instead I threw him to the wolves, agreed that he was and asshole and that a 5 year old child should not be involved in a roofing project.

Nick stewed and sulked and drank and worked out a visitation schedule. Then he went to the police station to inform them that they were WAY out of line, and that he is probably one the very few parents in this world who is actually perfect. With that visit he managed to piss off every cop in the police station; he's just so clever, that man 'o mine.

So for almost 48 hours I felt like a lotto winner, only to have it pulled out from under me when he decided to start kissing my ass and talking about buying me things. DAMN. SO CLOSE.

Next to come: a visit from the DCFS. Due to that upcoming event I guess that I should not opt at this time to go into the woods with whiskey, smokes and a few cans of sardines, not to reemerge until I am visited by visions of an all wise shamen who can tell me how to get that asshole to go away. Maybe later.

Flappy mouth

Yes. That is a banana clip holding back her hair which is lacquered down with aqua net, blue can. remember that shit? Hurricane Ike couldn't move that mess. Also, I think she still drinks Tab. She wears blue eyeshadow and absolutely appalling high-waisted camel-toe ACID WASH jeans. I bet her man's got a mullet.
This is flappy mouth, the most annoying person in my office. Someone musta jacked her in the jaw a while back because she barley moves her mouth when she talks, therefore nobody knows WTF she's saying. All I understand is the final "know what I mean doc?" which she tags on to the end of every sentence. God only knows what I'm agreeing with when I nod in order to get her to go away.
She is not on my payroll so unfortunately I cannot fire her. She spends most of her time trying to get the people who are on my payroll to do her work. She also calls me in when she screws up a blood draw then mysteriously disappears when the victim, er...patient starts complaining about having to be stuck repeatedly. Yup, she's buggin me.

Sweet Maria

N. now has a whole stable of little kindergarten harlots hanging around him. When I pick him up after nap his whole harem runs to give him little hugs. From this, I conclude that he will be either a ladies man or a drag queen, only time will tell...I wouldn't mind having a shopping buddy if it turns out to be the later.

In light of this most recent development, sweet little Maria is now my favorite darling little child. How did she earn this favored position despite some previous reservations I had about her? Well her sweetness and decency just shone through! especially when she told N. that his mommy was SO pretty she could be on TV!! (don't even say she must have meant Cops or Springer, you hurtful assholes). I'm always a sucker for any kind of flattery, and she has been true to her man since pre-K. So my little butterfly Maria, I'm so so sowwy for calling you a skeezer and a skank. And if you do have nits, it just because everyone else does too.

The line in the sand

Darn. I'm a nagging bitch! My hardworking man can't take it anymore!! He does everything, EVERYTHING for me, and I just want more, more, more.
I have put my foot down and demanded in my evil harpy manner that
1) the garage must be made to accommodate my car
2) there must be a clear path to the laundry facilities
3) clothing that does not get placed into the hamper will not be laundered.

My mate who apparently continues to function a few bars short of a signal, finds these demands absurd because he already does so much work! I guess if he means driving around town picking up shit out of alleys to put in our garage, because he's already filled up his WAREHOUSE with other items that one might find a a flea market, then yeah, he's got his nose to the grindstone. Really though, can one ever get too much busted up shit and empty cans to enhance one's living space? I'm going to end up medicated because he's crazy. Backwards again!! it's a pattern.

I'm happily hiding downstairs in the guest room, because I can see clear evidence of a floor. Sometime during the nights thus far both kids and the dog end up trickling down here, so that all of us are piled onto one twin bed while the Lord of the Manor takes his repose in the massive fancy-mattress kingsize bed. Nonetheless, I like it down here better.
He keeps trying to explain that he's so damn busy being Mr. Mom and pursuing important legal matters that he just can't help me.
That's OK, in fact I'd almost be upset now if he complied, because I like it down here. He can just keep drinking those big cups-o-crazy for now.

Vituperous bile, Chapter one

There is someone that I like less than my husband, believe it or not. He is my former employer, we'll call him creepy creeperson. I really really hate him. I guess I can thank him because if not fueled by utter disgust, I probably would never have started practicing on my own. That's the only positive I can think of. I have not worked for him since 2005 but it may be appreciated that I still have a huge chip on my shoulder.


If your first day on the job is September 11 2001, and the office is located on the 13th floor of the 666 building, then you should know just to say "fuck it" and never go back again. That was my first day. I started that day because Creepy was having his front butt vacuumed out via liposuction. I must admit that it was a stunning & giant front butt. That's what I heard anyway, but he may have actually been aiding and abetting the terrorists on that date, because that's the kind of guy he is.

I ignored the glaring omen and kept working there right up through 2005 when he fired me because I demanded that he quit trying to climb on me and that he pay me the large amount of money that was due to me for several months work and about 20 surgeries. Maybe I should have presented my demands on separate days. Why do I bring this up now, 3 years later? because he's going to get sued by someone else, and I'm sooo damn happy about that that my mouth twitched a little like I was going to smile or something.

date night

Yes, happy couple that we are, we go out at least twice a year. This is to supply the "us" time prescribed by the marital counselor back before I gave up completely. It should be noted that the counselor involved was discovered by Nick one night when he was in a bar, complaining about me leaving him. After our meetings she was always trying to sell me these "all natural" supplements. Maybe if my bowels were healthier my tolerance of Nick would also increase. Nick thinks she was a smashing success. I think she was a stupid ninny, but here I still am.
So anyway date night:
Nick gets home & starts yelling about how its time to go where's the sitter we should be leaving right now! Since I'm ready and he's not I chat with the sitter while he takes a shower. Then (still shouting about how we need to go NOW) the looks for a shirt and starts bitching about how I've shrunk them all in the wash, because they are all too small.
Then we run out the door, get a cab, run to our seats and watch the performance. During intermission he drinks a beer and tells me who he's going to sue next, cuz they done him wrong. Then we watch the rest of the concert but not all the way to the end, because we have to be the first ones out so we don't have to wait for a cab. We go straight home.
Then we pay the sitter, and date night is over!!! wasn't that fun??

Maria

That dirty little skeezer Maria is back this year in kindergarten, and N. still seems to fancy her (please refer to "Preschool skank" post). I finally got to see her; no running sores or nits were evident upon visual inspection, but we all know that doesn't really mean anything.
N. actually made me promise not to tell his sister that he plays with her at school-- this is SERIOUS. She's coming to his birthday party, so today after nap I'll let her know that I don't want to see any nonsense with the hula-hoop. Maybe I'll mention his "special" relationship with little Paulie. Shit, bitch. spin up off my boy!

The big gay sleepover

Little N. has a best buddy, little Paulie. When they are together they typically break things, spill things, climb things and attempt to jump off of things. Behind their angelic little faces they are demonic agents of entropy. N. was invited to spend the night at Paulie's, and hysterical joy ensued; imagine the destruction that could be wrought in an entire evening.
Paulie has a nice mom that makes pancakes and allows them to trash the entire basement and even permits them to watch Sponge Bob. So what, you wonder, could Nick find to bitch about during this happy event?
Well, the sleeping arrangements, of course. He was half mad with worry that if they were to sleep too closely together, that sometime during the night, these two four year old boys might accidentally rub up against each other, bump uglies or something, then wake up Saturday morning humming show tunes and searching for nail polish. Oh, the horror.
He is still trying to cope with the fact that we have a family member who is gay, and absolutely convinced that if the young man in question would just try a woman, that an epiphany would occur. He is so convinced of this, that he has offered this sweet soul a thousand dollars if he would do it with a girl, just once.
He does not experince similar anxiety over H.'s sleeping arrengements with her little girlfriends. Hmmm.

The giant Petri dish, K-8

Nick, the proud civic worker and owner of approximately 200 sick and personal days, has squandered most of them on hangovers. This leaves me to deal with the actual event of illness, H. this time. She can puke with outstanding precision and has such explosive diarrhea that if aimed properly she could probably knock the hat off of the doorman across the street.
The emergency back-up fell through and here I am, as my staff shops online and I stay home. The nice thing is that I can't get canned, the bad thing is that I could go belly up. Going back to school (aka giant Petri dish) is always a mixed blessing.
My options for the day: 1. Catch up on some laundry/housework, toss some of Nick's broken lamp collection.
2. Watch season 6 of "The Sopranos", feel Carmella's pain.
3. Do some journal reading.
4. Do some fun reading
5. Search for the elusive Higgs boson particle in the couch cushions while "The Sopranos" are on.
6. Wash my hair

Dr. Meany

Every time I have a sick kid I have to see the asshole Dr. because the 2 good ones are booked. My kids hate him, even though he wears ties with cartoon characters. When they play, they have the "Nice Lady Doctor" and they use Darth Vader in the place of the Mean Dr. Man. Every time I leave after seeing him I feel like an idiot, an inept parent and ever so pissed-off. I get enough of that shit right here at home. Really.
The 2 times that I've called the office because of N.'s acute asthma, Dr. Vader said go to the ER and follow-up in the office. In the ER he gets a little steroid and is all better. I follow-up as instructed and see asswipe who tells me my kid's fine, no treatment, he's fine! am I sure that his RR was really that high? Can I count past 20 with my shoes on? So yesterday after a few days of wheezing, crying, & coughing unresolved with albuterol I drag him in so he can see him when is symptomatic so the ER is not managing his chronic condition.
N. is wheezing like a diesel engine on it's last legs and Dr. shithead agreed that there was some kind of problem but decided that it's probably me administering the albuterol incorrectly. "He should be breathing deeply and holding for a count of five" kind of like a bong hit (I saw it on TV once). If he can get a crying 4 year old to do that, my hat's off. So maybe he could have rx'd a neb?? or suggested evaluation? nope, just gave me a long lecture about me being an idiot, him being a genius, stick to my own specialty (if I'm not then why am I in YOUR office? dickhead?). Then charged me for a level 4 visit. Never going back there.

My Manhuntin' Profile

In the course of fantasizing about Nick running off to Vegas with an update who makes mean pasta fagolio, I considered my prospects.

My match.com "woman seeks whipping boy" profile would be something like this:

So much baggage I need a Sherpa! Crazy ex who's a big man with a bad temper and major jealousy/control/abandonment issues; but it's all under control. Really.

All about me:

• I don't like lingerie unless it's flannel
• My lifetime maximum for receiving criticism has been met and exceeded.
• I have great Whopping Shitloads of SEXY student loan debt!
• Business owner, almost any day getting ready to start getting close to breaking even.
• I do not like jazz or poetry
• I'm almost sure that I never want to have sex again.
• Blonde/blue. Skinny, only thing big things are my feet.
• I enjoy reading, running, pretzels & jelly beans.
• I do not like sharing my popcorn at the movies.
• Good cook & gardener
• 2 great kids that you will never have to be bothered to meet! if you try, I'll chase you away with an axe!

Seeking:
a nice neat gay man-- we could admire each others wardrobes.
or
about 10 kitty cats.

oh, and meet the family:

sorry Dad, but you KNOW that's their backyard. Looks like someone shut off the satellite service!! what the hell!!

mutton done up as lamb

This is pretty much what most of the ladies at our neighborhood block party look like. The more seasoned glamor girls are cruising for a man, any man. The men in their age group are usually paired up with the chippies represented in image #2. These grandpappy men have brand new babies provided by their sparkling and perky chippies. The surly teenagers from a previous marriage are babysitting for the newborns. The unattached men are eyeballing the surly teenagers and the Polish nannies. As the evening progresses the old gals get buzzed on expensive champagne and totter around on their stilettos, a pair of which costs more that my first car (used dodge colt). The chippies resist the urge to top off everyone's drink because they were all cocktail waitresses at some point (not in any way suggesting that cocktailing is not a noble profession). Then there are a few of us that are kinda bitter because we spent all that time in school and ended up with some asshole that would have preferred a cocktail waitress.
It is probably one of the few block parties that can boast of more people in sequins than bluejeans. There was a 7 piece band and several separate little groupings who had hired caterers in case they didn't want the organic tofu pretend hotdogs and soy ice cream which was the main fare.
For the kids there was a scary ass clown who made all the little ones cry and gave all the bigger ones bad dreams.
As the evening wore on, one of the old gals tipped right off her Jimmy Choo's into the neighbor's boxwoods. I thoughtfully rescued her and allowed her to vomit into the bag intended to pick up the little fuckers poopoo. I sure hope I get into to heaven. Why do we have to work so hard to please men that look pretty much like this?

Disney Princess Douchettes

Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora, Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Pocahontas, Mulan. I hate them all. H. apparently knew well enough to not bother asking if she could undergo a $200.00 makeover at the Bada Bing Disney World salon.

I think that allowing our girl children to watch midget porn would be better parenting than filling them up with the Disney Princess crap. At least the porn would involve consenting adults who are fully conscious, unlike the princesses, most of whom are in their mid-teens and occasionally comatose (sleeping beauty, snow white).

Am I an awful mother because I don't permit the whole Disney cabal? They have not been out-and-out banned (as have the Slutz dolls) but I have discouraged them, and maybe even accidentally pitched a few of the accouterments into the throw away pile citing lead or magnet containment. Naturally, Nick digs the shit out of the dumpster if he finds it; cursing and ranting at my wasteful extravagance. Who knows when you may need an ill-fitting sequined leotard with an attached tulle skirt?

Poor maligned Barbie at least has career aspirations, while the Princesses seemingly are able only to sing (Aurora, Belle, Ariel), clean (Snow White, Cinderella), and await rescue by The Manly Man (all). Of primary importance, they are all young, beautiful and stacked. Yes, Belle likes to read; but for all we know she's reading Danielle Steel drivel or some Jackie Collins shit. I guess she's not reading about Stockholm syndrome.
Also noteworthy is that in the hands of Disney, the gift of intelligence bestowed upon Aurora by a Fairy Godmother in the original fairy tail was changed to the gift of song. Yes, I know Disney did not invent the entire damsel in distress genre, and I admit to enjoying the occasional happy ending chick flick myself, but let's just quit this happily ever after shit already.

And where are the fat chicks? the ugly ones? the old ones?
Well, they are all evil. Consider the fat chick: Ursula in the Little Mermaid who is an evil sea slag of some sort. Next some ugly ones: Cinderella's mean bully step sisters. How about old chicks? Apparently Snow White's entry into womanhood was coincident with her vain and wicked stepmother starting to prune up; recall that the loss of her "fairest in the land" status kicked off her homicidal rage.

There are generally two female Disney characters:
1. The young, helpless, orphaned, beautiful princess
2. The fat/ugly/old embodiment of evil. I consider the Fairy Godmothers an anomaly; whenever they are present they are just counseling the princess on how to get the guy by every method short of the old pinhole-in-the-condom trick.

Perhaps the most annoying and consistent theme extending even to Bambi and Nemo is the dead or absent mother. Cinderella and Snow White have evil stepmothers. Pocahontas wear's her dead mom's ring around her neck. Ariel's mom was killed (or something) by pirates. Belle has no mother. I don't know where Mulan and Jasmine's mothers are, but only their fathers are included in the story. Nemo's mom gets offed in one of the early scenes, and we all know about poor Bambi's mom; but she at least had a speaking role. Why must the vacuous twattles be motherless? Maybe because their mothers, if present, would have said something like "honey get your head out of your ass, put on some clothes, and get a job". Maybe.

I heard that the little mermaid sequel may include Ariel having a baby. This will not contradict my above thesis because she'll likely die in childbirth as her lower half is a fish, and she probably lacks a proper birth canal (maybe an "Alien" type birthing?). So how did she get knocked up in the first place? Probably just from sweet kisses, because I'm pretty sure the Disney gals don't fuck.

Is all this malice just because I'm bitter in general? I'm pretty sure my Disney disdain predated my generalized man bitterness, but I guess maybe I am a bit sore because my prince turned into a frog. BACKWARDS. I got it backwards. shit.

Hurricane Fay

As if Orlando in August isn't dreadful enough on its own, throw in one asshole named Nick and one slow moving tropical storm named Fay. We had 2 sunny days, the day we arrived and the day we left. It otherwise pissed rain with the occasional tornado watch.

I can keep pretending that there is not some kind of grand supernatural conspiracy against me, but I'm becoming convinced that I must have been mean to old people and kicked puppies in a previous lifetime. Now I'm doing my penance.

We did venture out to the parks a few times where we shared the territory mainly with visitors from the UK, Ireland and the land of Froggies. Apparently they are used to business as usual despite torrential downpours. The good news is that we got through all the rides really fast, as there were virtually no lines.

More good news: American women, despite our reverence of everything European, have not cornered the market on poor decision making with respect to who belongs in a bikini. Maybe the Europeans were trying to solve their vitamin D deficiencies all in one day by exposing as much surface area as possible?
Anyhow, our tubby gals in the US can keep wearing their tiny two pieces and say with confidence "this is how they do it in Europe". Despite their repeated egregious swimwear faux pas, I did not spot any ladies from the other side of the pond wearing matched Lycra or velor sweat suits out to dinner. So they win.

Even though Nick forgot his blood pressure medicine, I strongly resisted the urge to put him on the big roller coasters, mainly because there was too much luggage for me to haul back by myself. The too-much-shit was of course compounded by Nick, who can no more pass a maid's cart without filling his pockets than a premenstrual woman can make it past a chocolate shop. If anybody is in need of shower caps or little bottles of shampoo, please notify me immediately.

Fuct

This is totally what I'm going to wear for my next wedding. Yes, I'll need to have some enhancements, but it will be well worth it if I can look this elegant. Of course, the groom will probably be some big ol' lezzie, but all the better right? Don't ever say I'm not one classy broad.

Last week I lost my fabulous iPhone, my ailing car did not get fixed, and my office manager went out of town for vacation. I should really just stay in bed because I don't know where the hell I'm supposed to be, and even if I did know I couldn't really get there, and if I did remember where I was supposed to be I couldn't call anyone and cancel because my phone is gone. I believe that this qualifies as being pretty fuct. See what I mean about just staying in bed? My car worked for a short time today and now it's making the same funny noise that generally leads to a burning smell which is usually a tip off that somethin' ain't right. Nick probably just doesn't want to fix it because he knows that I'll drive away and never come back.

We did go to visit a dear friend today who has not seen the kids for quite some time. N. flew right into high gear and happily showcased his wide range of abilities, including all the noises that he can make with his body. He tried to cuss at me when I put him in the penalty box, but thankfully the best he could do was call us all a bunch of booger eaters, I swear that kid is a poet sometimes.

Finally he settled down after being awarded the task of sharpening a box a pencils, this he found compelling because he got to use the automatic pencil sharpener which he did not even try to put his fingers or tongue into.

Nick was far to busy writing conspiracy theory letters and filing lawsuits to fix the broken belt on my car. He has actually hired someone to help him type his crazy ass letters because I ungraciously stepped down some time ago. He is sure that the last letter he sent out will cause the disbarment of our mayor,thereby providing a void into which he could step. "Mayor Nick". Holy mother of God. He'd probably want to put tin foil on the windows at city hall so the aliens couldn't tell the CIA what he's up to.

Elvis is Alive and 5Ks suck

Everything about 5K races is fun except for the running part. It doesn't even matter if I'm in shape or not. Even if I'm in the midst of marathon training, a 5K usually makes me want to quit all running forever.

I get sucked in the same way every time; it's a nice summer evening, ONLY 3 miles, fun party afterwords usually with enough food to get me out of cooking dinner, sounds like fun. Then I always end up going out a little too fast after not having warmed-up at all, then I'm committed to my pace because the "slow down" option never occurs to me, so it's either carry on or quit (never).

Every time I run this distance I become convinced that someone forgot to put up the 2 mile marker, because mile 2 always seems so damn long. I have this same thought EVERY TIME. Then finally I finish and say, "well I'm never doing one of those again". And here I am, getting ready for the next one.

Thanks FK! this was all so you could get out of your shitty Viagra Triangle date with me along chaperoning. I am a dedicated friend. Next year you're dressing up like Elvis, I get to be Priscilla. And I'm not running. I'm walk/jogging at a pace slow enough that I don't spill my beer. How I hate those bitchy little 5ks.

And of course I can't forget the support from the sidelines. Yes, Nick was there, channeling The King, waiting for the peanut butter and banana sandwiches and beer tickets. If a regular decent person wanted to insult someone and sat around all day thinking of mean things to say, they could probably not come up with the remarks that slide effortlessly from my own king.
to me upon finishing :

"There were at least 20 women that finished before you, and one of them was a little chubby. I guess you're just getting old"

to FK who has been running for less than 2 years, and rarely in a competitive setting:
"Oh well at least you finished!"

All this from a fairly fat man who can't negotiate a staircase without getting winded. Who defiantly is not cleaning out the garage today because now that my car is broken down, why the fuck am I bitching about the garage? I'm so ungrateful.

Teen Couture

Who knew about all these teenage trampolina shops?? I guess I have a few short years to prepare myself for the day that H wants to wear clothes from shops where I can't tell the difference between the skirts and the belts. I think some of the belts actually provide more coverage than the article of clothing they are meant to accessorize.

Aeroposlut, Horestein, and Abercunty and Fish are the shops to which I was introduced by my newly teenaged niece (who is now better endowed than I) during her weekend visit. She did issue a warning that I may need to cover H.'s eyes, and some of that shit made me blush. Thankfully, my niece is not inclined to wear the skank gear herself, but she is very much drawn to the stores. I would defiantly insist on a prophylactic dose of Valtrex before trying anything on in any of those unisex dressing rooms, "clothing optional beyond this point" says the sign. Don't look honey, this is how babies get made.

I was of course a very demure teen myself. Back in the day we looked pretty much like little Amish girls. Well, except for those jeans that were so damn tight they couldn't be zipped while in a vertical position, and once they were successfully in place, a little tiny fart could blow your boots right off. All very proper otherwise; I'm pretty sure. Even if I'm totally lying about this, there were no digital cameras or You Tube back then, so who's going to know? I'm sure I was always ladylike. Pretty sure. Lets just don't judge, ok?

Sugar & Spice

Today N. is trying to figure out how to make the sound produced by the placement of one's palm over one's pit and pumping the arm up and down. He's determined to perfect this skill prior to the arrival of his cousin this weekend. I'm happy that he has a goal; he's seemed a little aimless lately. I think he may still be in slight stunned awe following my reaction after I discovered him eating gum from the underside of the restaurant table earlier in the week.
Cadaver workshops and county hospital coverage apparently have not rendered me immune from the occasional gross-out that can be provided by my sweet little boy.

Asshole, Chapter 2

Where to start? I've been locked in a dungeon toiling away at laundry, ironing, and meal preparation for the past 3 weeks. It was almost as much fun as a girls trip to an out of town spa, but not quite. Wait, how the hell would I know what a girls trip to an out of town spa would be like? Maybe it would completely suck, and I'd spend the whole time wishing I was at home cooking and cleaning for that asshole, er...my loving husband, I mean.

Since my last post, we have been invited to never return to the home one branch of my family. Out of everyone at the whole huge wedding, including drunken hillbillys and Extra Super Baptists, Nick was able to distinguish himself as the Supreme Asshole and word was passed that he is no longer welcome. He has estranged himself from his entire family, and is now beginning to work his way through mine. I wish he'd get himself a girlfriend, then I could just boot his ass and act all indignant.

We've also celebrated birthday #7 for our lovely H. It was an over the top extravaganza, as per her big fat daddy. Nuffin's to good for his little girl. Said party included renting a bus and taking about 60 children and a few grown-ups to a water park. When I politely mentioned that this was getting rather expensive, I was informed that we were wealthy and could afford these things; that is until it came to the issue of providing lunch for our guests, at which point the big shot said that ordering sandwiches was ridiculous and expensive and I could make them, what do I think we are, rich? CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER. He also had stolen enough napkins and forks from Chipotle in the last several months that he saved another ten bucks there, whew.

Nick's 50th birthday is coming in the fall and I'm either getting him a Rolex or divorce papers. I've got 3 months to decide if I'm shopping for lawyers or jewelers.

Board results coming soon. PRAY.

Lourdes of Madonna

I hate to break bad on kids, but since people keep saying that H. looks so much like the little Madonna tripe, I'd like to point out that my daughter is the most beautiful child on the planet, second only to my niece. And my lovely daughter does not have a freakin unibrow, nor does she have a beginner 'stach long enough to braid. Madge needs to put down that $4,000.oo Hermes bag and take her little girl for a little waxing. and everyone needs to just quit comparing H. to inferior beings. Thank you very much.

Fabulass fourth

Of course the kids wanted to see the fireworks. The problem is, that although I too wanted to see the fireworks, I had no desire to enjoy them with the great unwashed masses crowding to the waterfront as they feast on giant turkey legs and salmonella flavored potato salad.

The perfect solution: a nice little catered event upstairs in FK's fancy ass office with lots-o big windows overlooking the whole sloppy mess.

The kids looked like mini homeless people, as they had spent most of the day with Nick, who's grooming habits are less than impeccable. Nick fortunately stayed home, which gave me a delightful evening just by the virtue of his absence.

It was all quite opulent, that is until we had to figure out how to get home. Eventually, when we figured that there would not be a helicopter coming to retrieve us, we ended up joining the teeming hoard and walked up the avenue homeward. It was quite a lot for the kids to take in, what with all the suburban teenage girls dressed up like little hookas and the real ho's vying for the suburban boys. Thank go we live in the city. I'd hate for my kids to have to mix with those raunchy kids from the burbs.

Also, a lot of really really BIG drunk people wearing crocks and fanny packs. Is there really anything more gay than a fanny pack? not so much the item itself, but the name. "Fanny pack". think about it. gay, gay gay. Action hero Mitch Rapp donned a fanny pack in one of the novels, and I expect in the next one he'll be wearing a feather boa. I've totally lost respect for him.

KNOCK KNOCK

One of the nice things about having little kids (besides being able to have little people to lord over), is that they think that I am amazing, beautiful, and hysterically funny.

Not to worry, I'm completely aware of the fact that in about 3 years they will start to be embarrassed to be seen with me, and in 6 years they may actually hate me; but for now, they think that I am some kind of wonderful goddess, and I will bask in it while it lasts.

Today I told them crappy jokes from Highlight's magazine, and then some jokes that veered a little into potty land, and they nearly ruptured their little spleens laughing. They think knock knock jokes are the funniest things they've ever heard, there doesn't really even have to be a good punch line.

N. can amuse H. for hours by his burping prowess. They also believe that I have only burped once in my life. My benchmark belch which set the standard for all other burps came as a surprise to everyone, even me. It was so damn loud the neighbors probably heard it, I'm sure I was undergoing some temporary demonic possession. Anyway, the kids refer to it as the bullfrog burp, and the memory of it assures my continued domination on the circuit. They think I saved up for it my whole life, and that I will have a similar occurrence sometime around my eightieth birthday.

Mr. Romance

9 years married. seems like 5 minutes.....under water. Should you ever forget to buy a card for someone for a special occasion, try this: " I couldn't stand to give you a card with words written by someone else." Maybe they'll coo and think that you're soo romantic, or maybe they'll think you're a boneheaded asshole and suggest that you go rub your knuckles in dog shit. Go ahead, try to guess which one I did.

For the occasion of our anniversary, I requested that the garage be cleaned out, so that I can park my car in it instead of a half mile away in a garage spot that we have to pay for. Of course the extra outdoor spot at the house is for Nick's truck, because him having to haul his beer belly half a mile is way harder that me having to schlep the kids and groceries a half a mile. So anyway, he said that the main reason we couldn't use the garage as a parking place is because my bike is in there. So I'm still looking for my bike, but you better believe that I can't wait to find it! It's so surprising how much space one bike can take up.

Magnus Chokus

CHOKE.
That is the one word summary of my board exam.

I'd choose to birth a porcupine or maybe run a marathon in 4 inch high-heeled, thigh-high vinyl hooker boots one size too small, rather than sit for that exam again; which unfortunately, is a very real possibility. Shit, shit, shit.
Things to do differently next time (praying: please, please, PLEASE don't let there be a next time):

1. Don't forget my hairbrush: So I wake up Saturday morning looking like Amy Winehouse less the crackpipe and tattoos, only to discover that I had packed the entire hair salad kit with the notable exception of my brush. or my comb. So I finger combed and used a stylish rubber band and some of H.'s pink plastic barrettes. I'm positive that I accomplished just the sophisticated, intelligent professional look that might win me a point in a crunch.

2. Don't forget my toothbrush: Ratty hair and fuzzy teefs. I was one stanky little package. I did have an eyebrow brush, so my brows at least looked neat and tidy.

3. Don't hack everyones limbs off: There usually are other treatment options. I know them, I know them in inside out, I could recite them standing on my head drunk, I just couldn't recite them during the fucking exam.

4. Don't have a cold: I'm positive that I blew the volume equivalent of my body weight out through my nose. It at least broke up some of the limb carnage. I think the bright red nose and attendant sound effects added a little approachability to my whole hot mess look.

5. Frame Mr. Bunker for some kind of a crime: The more I told him that I was going to want peace and quiet for my non-sequestered hours of the weekend, the more certain he became that this was all one very elaborately planned lover's tryst. I think that if I knew that he was locked behind bars, at least for the weekend, I wouldn't have been worried about him busting into an exam room catching me red handed, mid choke, holding an MRI study or something equally incriminating.

6. Bring smokes: After a crushing first day, I accepted the gracious invitation from a classmate to join him for a smoke outside, which did help my state of mind. This is because after relaxing outside for a few puffs, I developed nausea and a splitting headache which were sufficient in severity to take my mind off the events of the day.

In summary, it was not a good weekend. I could have studied for another month and it wouldn't have made a bit of difference. There was one question to which I truly did not know the answer, otherwise I knew everything, but those idiot examiners just could not read my freakin mind, those assholes.

On the brighter side, I did get to catch up on my gossip and fashion magazine reading during some of the breaks, so I know all about Brittney and Brad and Angelina. While perusing the pages of "In Style", I also noted that I and my women colleagues, few in number though we are, collectively form a massive fashion eyesore.

free clinic & flag day

Never mind that it's balls to the wall study time for boards, my peeps need me for the once-a-month free clinic, serving the city's homeless, needy and generally scrambled. That is where I am known as Dr. P-A and my partner is Dr. I-N. That spells PAIN for you slow ones.

The regulars line up at the crack of dawn like it's a rock concert, and then they bicker like little kids about who gets to go first. Usually Geraldine gets to go first because she is the loudest. She doesn't really even have anything wrong with her, she just wants to be first on general principal, and get the first crack at any freebies. She visits and complains about the surgery that she had 20 years ago, and asks the same questions every month about revision.

Mr. C visits each month so I can clean up his ankles after he gets shackled, which by his own admission happens because he gets drunk & belligerent in public areas. He was very suspicious of us when we started the clinic and despite his truly great need, he just lurked around for the first several months we were there. He asked who was paying, why were we there, and refused to accept any reason given until finally someone said something about community service, which he naturally assumed was court ordered, and now he's a happy regular visitor. He asks how long I have to come and probably thinks I did something pretty bad, as I told him there was no end in sight. He likes me better now that he thinks that I've run afoul of the law; I wonder what he thinks I did.

Another regular, Roberta, greeted us by saying "happy flag day" but it sounded very much like she said "happy fag day", which probably wasn't a mistake, as we were next to Stanely, our regular girly man. He took no offense, only pointed out that Roberta's flag scarf did not match her pants.

Bling

Apparently, despite our dire financial straights, which had Nick in an uproar because the outrageous extravagance of speech therapy for N., he was able to scrape up enough cash to get me a huge & sparkling ring for my birthday (trying to make up for mother's day). It is quite pretty, and I opted not to discuss this glaring hypocrisy because seemingly I'm some kind of jewelry whore.

It has been suggested to me that I could use my shiny new accoutrement as part of a home speech therapy program; every time little N. lisps or says "oh tay", I give him a gentle backhand with the bling finger hand. I dunno though, DCFS can be so freakin uptight.

(for Lisa A.: still waiting for the "gunt" to be put in it's proper place)

Zebras & Giraffes

Clearly this is one spectacular jacket. I was sure that my mini fashionista, H., would find it as appealing as I do. It even has a bright pink lining which cannot be appreciated in my ghetto photo.

Both kids were subdued over breakfast, until H. finally blurted out that zebra jackets are horrible, and she LOVES Zebras, and whaa, whaa, sniffle, please mommy don't get any more Zebra clothes. Then N. chips in, also on the verge of tears, asking if I was going to be getting a giraffe jacket, and please, please don't get a giraffe jacket.

Naturally, I considered telling them that I didn't kill the Zebra, it was a mean lion that ate poor Zebra's guts while his heart was still beating, but instead I decided to explain all about synthetics, and all was good in the world.

Birfday

Yup. The big day is looming. I'm really old now. I'll probably start looking all stooped over pretty soon, and any day now I'll develop that old lady smell that's like wet dog and old dirt mingled with mothballs and Chanel number 5. Who knows, maybe I already have that odor. Additionally, I'll start tucking balled up kleenex into the sleeve of my cardigan or somewhere in my bosom.

I've started arguing with one of my friends, also old, about which of us is more forgetful. We go back and forth for a few rounds then we forget what the hell we're talking about.

I should probably start being nice to my kids so that they'll put me in a decent nursing home. I guess to that end I ought to stop telling them that if they're bad I'll send them back to their real mommies.
Miss H. has this all figured out; she retrieves pictures of me taken while I was very pregnant, and pictures of us all leaving the hospital together, and pictures of me putting her as a newborn into various kitchen vessels (stew pot, roasting pan) to see where she'd fit. Using these as evidence, she states that I am, indeed, her real Mommy. I believe that I only actually played this game with The Boy once and he just started crying, so now we just see who can burp louder (me).

I guess if they run short on nursing home funds for me, they can sell Archie Bunker on the black market for his organs. I think kidneys fetch a nice sum, and along with the liver they'll probably raise enough for me to have a private room and a Filipino sitter .

Preschool Skank

My sweet baby boy seems to have developed a small crush on some little cootie queen. All year he has stayed in the boy's corner building towers and crushing things with his scabby band of brothers, now suddenly he's all smitten over this little tramp, Maria.

I know this because hers is the only female name outside of his teachers and the lunch lady that he has committed to memory. He knows his buddie's names, and he calls all the little girls "that girl". Except, suddenly, Maria. I don't know who she is, but I'm thinking straight-up ho; probably wearing Lucite Mary-Jane's with a slot for tips.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm the only female that he should be worshiping, at least until he turns five.

Front Butt

OK Miss CG, now do you get it? Sadly, the Front Butt does not actually require obesity, it can occur in people who are quite well proportioned; hence the warning issued with respect to the higher waistlines of the season.
The front butt, as previously mentioned, is indigenous to the state of Indiana. When we were kids in Indiana, we used to refer to this sartorial mishap as "Cow Piss", as it appears that the volume contained in the bladder is similar to that which may be contained by something bovine. Now that I'm a mature adult, I have opted for the much more respectable term "front butt".
In instances involving obesity, "front butt" is not technically correct; there is a term which is more specific for that situation. The correct term is "bootydo", as in "your gut hangs down lower that your booty do".
I completely regret this digression into the realm of fashion, and will soon return to my primary purpose of trashing my husband.

Spring fashion review (in rather poor taste)

CAMEL TOE / MUFFIN TOP / WHALE TAIL


Study break = quick review at magazine rack in the bookstore. My offerings and observations are provided here, as I am a bit of a fashion Icon (for second hand, 3-seasons-old type shoppers).
I have thoughtfully provided illustrations of the below mentioned fashion problems. I am NOT the model in any of these.

So, the 2008 spring fashion magazine review:

• Any article of clothing described in a fashion magazine as"flirty" is generally intended for, well, the workin' gal. Be advised that "flirty" is a code word for "slutty".
  

• The good news: the waistlines are moving up, so we'll be seeing a few less butt cracks with the accompanying "Whale Tail" or "Bat Sign", as you prefer. This should also eliminate the dreaded "Muffin Top" created by too-small low waisted pants.

• The bad news: the higher waistline will convert "Muffin Top" to an even worse phenomena known as "front butt" which has never lost it's allure in most of the state of Indiana. I could not find an appropriate illustration for the "front butt" but it is a fairly descriptive term.
  

• More bad news: elimination of the "Whale Tale" can also produce "Camel Toe", and it it possible to have simultaneous "Camel Toe" and "Front Butt". I have not come up for a name for this fashion horror just yet. Let's just try to avoid it, ok?
  

• $3,000.00 handbags? I'm sorry, I have to draw the line at the $800.00 shoes. The $800.00 shoes at least have the redeeming quality of being good for business.

Poor, Poor Pitiful Me

Another Mother's day.

Would someone please tell Nick that on Mother's day, it is conventional to honor not only your own mother dead or alive (dead in Nick's case), but also to recognize the mother of your own children??
Isn't it enough that we were at the mercy of his mother for her living years? This is the fourth Mother's Day since her departure, but she still rules the day. I know we are not supposed to speak ill of the dead but I'm typing, not talking; I think that makes it ok.

Anyone who needs a recap of the late great Madame G., please watch the first 2 seasons of The Sopranos and pay attention to Tony's mom, and yes, she really was that mean. If ever Nick was a sympathetic character, it would be in matters concerning his mother. Thats all I'm saying.

Mother's day whilst Madame G. was living:

The Martyr:
We show up. We are greeted by the matriarch thusly: "Oh, let's just forget it. It's too late now, I know you had to call your (my) mom. I know she's just so important to you... , we'll get together some other time, you can just go call your mom again and I'll just go and sit alone in my darkened house and hope that one of my other children will visit."

Then: "Oh, you brought me flowers, that's nice, but I really only like silk flowers because they don't shed, why don't you just take those back home with you?"
Next, cajoling and pleading by Nick, eventually garnering her grudging assent to be taken out, this leading into to the next practiced step: "No, No, I am not choosing the restaurant! You (me) pick the restaurant this year."
I fell into this trap once before and lived to regret it due to the astonishing scene which involved food being thrown, and NOT by the children. This ploy was designed to make me insist that, by happy coincidence, the shitty family style restaurant that she preferred was also my very favorite.

The Bully:
You could see the hostess literally flinch as we approached; she knew she was doomed. Madame G. was not a frequent guest, but she made a lasting impression. The last time we'd visited, the same hostess had been forced to re-seat us twice, then move the victimized party that ended up next to us. The hostess truly was doomed; wherever she tried to seat us was going to be a personal slight to Madame G, and she would dole out a taste of the wrath. The hostess would be accused of trying do hide us away in the back, or put us too close to the kitchen, or too close to the restroom, or too close to the window,etc., etc. After finally successfully seating us, she'd be off the hook until our departure, at which time any complimentary items such as mints or matchbooks would be shamelessly pocketed, and hopefully non-complimentary items would be somehow secured or placed out of easy reach. No matter if they weren't though, most of the staff would have stood there and let us take their first-born just to see us out the door.

The Beast:
The next victim would be the waitress. Nick would usually try to say something nice, inquiring politely if she had children of her own, how was it going working mothers day, and so on. Any response not directly relating to our upcoming food order would earn her a full on attack from Madame G., during which the waitress was told that we didn't need her life history in order for her to serve us lunch. Following this, I would usually excuse myself to the ladies room, try to locate our poor victim, slip her and extra $20 and tell her to hang in there. At least she wouldn't be spitting in my soup. Nick would try to keep Madame G. from making a complete scene, and attempt to quiet her down, particularly in the event that we were near a group that was anything but whitebread heterosexuals, otherwise the gender and racial insults would start flying.

Usually I'd return to the table to find her interrogating my children about whether mommy made herself throw up in the potty after she ate, and whether or not I was serving canned or frozen foods to her son (the throwing up thing was a bit confusing for H., as vomiting had become sort of a hobby for me during my pregnancy with N). Based upon the confused answers of a 3 year old, Madame G. concluded that I was bulimic, and told Nick that he shouldn't buy food for me, because I'd just waste it. Then she'd tell me that this wasn't Hollywood, and so why did I have to be so thin? THEN she'd tell me about Nick's beautiful ex, the model, and how she really did need to be that thin and, on and on and on.

Then the pork roast would come. There were two alternatives for the inevitable food complaint, usually requiring a visit from the manager. Complaint #1: It's dry, not enough gravy Complaint #2: To much gravy, probably trying to disguise poor quality or old meat. Either way she wasn't going to eat it (she was full after cleaning out the bread basket), didn't want to be charged full price because of complaint #1 or #2, and wanted to take it home with her, but she would pack it up herself, thank you very much.

Eventually she'd take great pains to point out to Nick that his wife (who happened to be standing next to him) was not doing a good job of keeping the baby's face clean, "oh could someone please clean off that baby's face, it is such a shame to have such a beautiful baby with a dirty face."

Then she'd wipe out the hostess stand, we'd drop her off, and blessedly, Mother's day would be over with.

So now she's gone. Nick still buys her flowers (new, not used; see Valentine's day/sloppy seconds post) and steals flowers from someone else's grave to bring home to me. Oh well, it beats pork roast served by a terrified waitress & discussion of my eating disorder. Still, coffee in bed or maybe a little tiny box of chocolates would be nice. Maybe next year; H. will be 7 and I can probably trust her to do the coffee thing with no scalds.