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.