Ready?  Ok.

I have the patience of a moth in need of a flame. Wait.  That doesn’t make sense.

My patience is about as apparent as scotch tape on a zebra’s ball sack.  Fuck. Hold on.

Ok, how about: If you act like an idiot, I will blog about you.  Because my patience?  Is non-existent.  Ask my kids.

Today, I would like to pass along the idiocy of a certain package delivery company.  I wont say their name here, in order to protect their reputation, but I will give you this hint: DEE ACH ELL.

Alright, so here’s the back story:  We had a package dropped off at our house last month that shouldn’t have been.  The sender was some company in Germany and they completely botched every part of how an American address should look.  While I can’t blame the delivery service too much, I am still baffled as to how it ended up on our door step.

Finally, after staring at this package for weeks, I get my shit together and contact the delivery company via email.  What you find below is the email chain between the customer service agent, Mary Jo and myself over the past week:

*****

SurferWife:  Hi! We had a package dropped at our door last month from DHL that does not belong to us.  The address is wrong and the recipient name is wrong.  The package was shipped from Germany and we need it to be picked back up and sent to the correct address. Can you make this happen? Thanks!

Mary Jo:  Thank you for contacting DHL.

We are unable to locate the package with the provided tracking number. Please provide us with the sender’s and receiver’s complete address with zip codes and the estimated ship date. We apologize for the inconvenience and we will do everything possible to locate the package.

Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

SurferWife:  Hey Mary Jo!

Whoopsies! Maybe I wasn’t clear.  I don’t have a tracking number.  I have the package at my house. But it’s not mine. It was delivered incorrectly and I simply need you guys to come pick it up and take it to the correct destination.

Mary Jo:  Thank you for contacting DHL.

Please get back to us with the 10-digit tracking number, sender’s and receiver’s complete address with zip codes and the estimated ship date, so that we will do everything possible to deliver the package to correct adress.

Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

SurferWife:  Yo Mary Jo!

Like I mentioned, I don’t have a tracking number, but these are the addresses you requested:  Blah, blah, blah, blah….Address, Address, yadda, yadda.

Mary Jo:  Thank you for contacting DHL.

We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience caused. Please get back to us with the valid 10-digit tracking number of the shipment, so that we can assist you better.

Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

SurferWife:  Mary Jo, Is it happy hour at DHL right now? Because I think one of us is drunk.

Ok, is there a 10 digit tracking number on the actual package?  Because I don’t see it.

I just want to be clear you understand the situation here.  I am not waiting for a package.  A package was left with me by mistake and I just want you guys to pick it up and deliver to the correct person…. Thus, no tracking number.

Mary Jo:  Thank you for contacting DHL.

Please provide me with a complete adress and tracking number so that we can assist you better.

Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

SurferWife:   I DON’T HAVE A TRACKING NUMBER, Mary Jo! For the love of international shipping, I do NOT have a tracking number, girl.

Mary Jo:  Thank you for contacting DHL.

Please provide me with your complete adress along with zipcode, so that we can assist you better.

Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

SurferWife:  you can find me and this dumb package at: blah, blah, blah… address, yadda, yadda.

Let’s do this, Mary Jo!  I think this thing is happening now!

Mary Jo:  Thank you for contacting DHL.

I have schedule a pickup on January 24, 2012 and the confirmation number is …….

Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

SurferWife:  Shut Up. Seriously?  You’re rad, Mary Jo.

*****

So, I happily leave the package on my doorstep and erase its existence from my brain.  Until I check after lunch to not only find it still sitting there but with an invoice slip for me to fill out saying how this is going to be billed.  Mary Jo’s fucking gopher came, went and now wants to know how I’m paying for this disaster.

*****

SurferWife:  Dude. Mary Jo. The jig is up.

I left the package– that was incorrectly delivered to my house– at my front door for dhl to pick up per your instructions.

I have come home to find the package was NOT picked up but instead I was left with a shipment waybill sitting on top of the package.

I know nothing about this package. I am not the sender NOR am I the recipient. It was delivered last month by mistake.

Please, please just have this package picked up and delivered to wherever it’s supposed to go.

I’m tired of looking at it and all of these emails are ridiculous. Someone is going to be forced to eat shit soon and it’s not going to be me, MJ, you know?

Also?  It’s ADDRESS not ADRESS. Cripes.

Mary Jo:  Thank you for contacting DHL.

We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience caused. According to the records The pickup has been dispatched and the courier will pickup the shipment today.

Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

*****

Guess what’s still sitting on my doorstep?  The fucking German package.

Readers just tell me what to do already:

Do I keep up the email debacle?  Or do I finally open the damn package because I am now desperate to know what it is that I am investing so much time over.

Intention.

This is the perfect word for January, isn’t it?  With new beginnings and resolutions all around us, the word intention is sure to come to the forefront of our minds often.  Since Jen unveiled the word earlier this month, I have tossed it around in the ol’ melon a bit.  I knew I didn’t want to write about intention in conjunction with resolutions as that’s too obvious.  So then, how DO I want to write about the word intention?

I finally feel inspired on this word.  I have decided to poke, prod and analyze this word as more of a question, as in, “What are my intentions?” And “What are your intentions?” 

These questions can be used to cover a wide spectrum of areas in our day to day lives.  I mean, we all have intentions from the moment we wake up until we go to bed at night.  From our intentions of getting our kids safely to school, to finishing a work project, to mopping the floors, to eating healthy all day, the list could go on and on.  But I’d like to wrangle it in a bit and ask myself, “What are my intentions with my blog, writing, and use of the Internet?”

Obviously, I will be the first to go on the record and say that the words I write here, will never change anyone’s life.  I don’t write beautiful, poetic verse that evokes such emotion that tears spring to your eyes.  I don’t have a hobby or a specialty where I can share my knowledge and experience to help you.  What you get is the crap that flies to mind and out of my mouth on a daily basis.  Most times, I write this blog because I enjoy writing and I enjoy making folks laugh.  If I can combine the two and make folks laugh from my writing then that’s what I intend to do.

While I may poke fun at myself and others to get the laugh, my intentions are to never be downright hurtful to someone.  I would never use this blog or the Internet to say something to or about someone that I couldn’t actually say to their face.  My intentions on SurferWife are to present myself to you on a vodka lined platter.  What you see is what you get with me and my intentions around this joint, are to always stay true to myself. Which usually means a whole lot of nonsensical, trivial crap.

With that said, I have seen some truly mean behavior on blogs recently and it baffles me.  Did you start blogging with the intention of judging others?  When you woke up this morning, did you intend to hurt someone’s feelings with your careless words on your blog?  Did you even take a moment to reflect on how someone else may feel because you chose to degrade, belittle and insult another person’s blog?  I sincerely hope not.

I would go out on a limb to say 99% of us would never intend to use our blogs that we have invested our blood, sweat and tears into, as a vehicle to hurt others.  But there is that 1% and I hereby intend to never live so miserably.  And I also intend to never subject my fancy readers to such crap.

My intentions with SurferWife are to keep on feeding you with my useless, bullshit nonsense,  beautiful drawings, and celeb encounters.

What are YOUR intentions with your space on the Internet?

For those of you that actually haven’t heard me blabbing all over the place about The Dailey Method already, they are my new favorite workout and you can read more about them HERE.  In the meantime, I have dusted off my artistic skill for you to admire.

Facing the mirror doing Standing Pretzel 'Seat Work'

So, above you can see all of us doing this cute sounding workout.  They call it ‘Standing Pretzel Seat Work.’ Sounds sweet and innocent enough, right?  Maybe if you are a contortionist.  You’re basically working each side of your ass until it feels like it’s going to burn and fizzle off.  And that’s just to start.  They throw an extra four minutes on from there.

Clearly, that’s me in the middle.  With my hair all askew, sweat dripping, my reflection staring back at me with a dead behind the eyes expression.  That’s the darling instructor to my left.  All tiny and floating on air, smiling at me.  Laughing inside and announcing into her microphone, “SurferWife, now don’t stop.  I can tell you drank beer and ate brie cheese over the weekend. You can do this.”

So I do.  I decide to distract myself by looking at all of the stray eyebrow hairs I need to pluck and by counting my new wrinkles in the mirrored reflection in front of me.  Then I notice the random gal at the end to my right is doing the wrong leg and then I feel better about myself.  I may look like a whale in heat, but damn it I am working the correct leg.

So, this is about 8 of the 60 minutes of hell I put myself through almost daily.  You should come.  It’s way fun and I look like an asshole every time, so you’re guaranteed entertainment at my expense.

I call this: The Floating Mustache. Why Mustache, you ask? Because that’s her name. Yes, HER. Her name is fucking Mustache. Well, not Fucking Mustache, just Mustache, but I am getting agitated with this conversation and it was high time I threw out profanity.

Her head looks like it’s floating and her name is Mustache. Floating Mustache. Let’s move the camera back and pan out on this odd little photo shoot, shall we?

This ridiculous blog post brought to you by the fabulous Mustache and the gals that let me link up to #ippp (ipone photo phun)

******************************************

They started innocent enough.  Only referencing a meat stick and some nuts:

This is how I roadtrip to Vegas.

I love me some meat sticks and nuts

***

Apparently, I had a premonition and thought it’d be wise to place my well being into Sarah Colonna’s hands.  As if she wasn’t busy being all famous:

@sarahcolonna If you don’t hear from me for 24 hours please alert the authorities that I OD’d under a Mandalay craps table.

***

Feeling like a 6 year old on Christmas morning:

There is nothing more exciting than driving up the 15 and getting your first glimpse of THE STRIP. #Vegas

***

I’ve learned my lesson.  I now provide my followers proper disclaimers:

 Warning: the next 48 hours will be tweets from me in #Vegas. Don’t say I never warned you. Rated R.

***

I have two drinks and am already passing the buck on simple arithmetic:

I’m down four dollars and ninety five cents. Anyone wanna keep track of this shit for me? #Vegas

***

This is when the shit show begins.  An unsupervised SurferWife at 2am in Vegas:

 I won $50 at a fucking penny slot machine. Look out Thunder from Down Under. I’m coming to put it in your banana hammocks. #vegas

***

The next morning *sigh*:

What does it mean when you wake up smelling like wax– with a french fry stuck in your cleavage? #Vegas

To which I received this gem from @SarahColonna in response:

@SurferWife that your asshole was too full so the cleavage was the only option.

***

Ok, see?  This is when I rely on you folks to tell me to calm down.  It’s only getting worse:

 My tv is giving me two options: Babar the Elephant cartoon or Superstar Milf porn. Decisions, decisions. #Vegas

***

18 hours in Vegas and I begin arguing with myself in a single tweet.  Nothing a bloody mary couldn’t fix:

It’s amazing the extreme elation AND disgust #Vegas buffets bring out in me. Chow mein and Waffles? On one plate? Yes, please. Wait. No thx.

***

I begin to lose all inhibitions and cleanliness:

 I just brought my Corona into the bathroom stall with me. I hit rock bottom at 1:37pm. #Vegas

***

Awesome.  Now the drunk, inhibition-less asshole has money to spend:

Just when you think #Vegas can eat themselves you win a few hundred on a craps table. #Revival

***

Nearing?  pshhhhhaaa:

 Someone is nearing hot mess drunk at only 8:40. #whoopsie

***

Final Day:

Highlight of my #Vegas trip: the craps table attendant asking if I was old enough to gamble.

and:

Lowlight of my #Vegas trip: Paying the craps table attendant $50 to ask if I was old enough to gamble.

and:

 Attn #WWF opponents: if I played our game this weekend while I was in #Vegas just know it was done from a bathroom stall. You’re welcome.

***

Who’s ready to hit up Bloggy Boot Camp when it’s in Vegas with me?

This crap is currently on my TV and I would rather pull my spleen out through my nose with tweezers than watch this ever again.

Excuse me while I go stab my eyeballs out of my head.

Not today.  Today I had this inner dialogue:

SurferWife:  Hey Brain!  Come up with a blog post, would ya?  The fine folks that read the blog don’t want to be welcomed with my stupid 2012 resolutions anymore.

SurferWife Brain: Fuck off.

SurferWife:  Hey.  Calm down.  Just come up with something stupid that will make people hang their heads in embarrassment about coming over to look at SurferWife dot Com.

SurferWife Brain: Fuck you.

Look, if you know my brain as well as I think you do, you know not to piss it off.  If you force the brain to wake up from vacation, it will be ugly. Think Mel Gibson voicemails kind of ugly.  So, I turned to the handy dandy folk of Twitter to give me a blog topic.  Per usual, they prevailed as the wittier, more creative people and provided me with a slew of shit to write about.  Thank you Mel, A Dramatic Mommy, you rock my face off.

But today, it was Melissa of Miet et Lait that saved my sad, blogging ass.  She gave me this gem of a topic:

Blog this: world will end in 2012 unless a ‘famous for being famous’ person is sacrifed to a volcano. Who dies & why?

You know me.  I thrive on this kind of crap.  Trashy, uneducated people on television?  Sign me the hell up.

Immediately, I had visions of dead behind the eyes Kardashians, coked up Lohans, and chihuahua toting Hiltons.  The usual suspects.  But that’s just too predictable and I don’t like predictable.

So, then I mentally kicked Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag in the balls, poked Scott Disick in the taint and popped the boobs of all Real Housewives everywhere.

It just wasn’t enough.

Until the biggest, most annoying, arrogant, self absorbed bastard came floating across my sleeping brain.  And voila!  The crusty, old, f-bomb throwing brain woke up and cheered to present to you, my ever faithful readers:  the ‘famous for being famous’ person I want to sacrifice in a volcano this year:

Eww. Just Eww.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I LOVE The Jersey Shore.  LOVE with all of my heart.  Jersday is the best night of the week when it’s on. Let me tell you, if I could bowl Snooki into pins made of chocolate covered marshmallow bunnies, I’d be the happiest girl alive.  If I could run away with Pauly D, The Surfer would totally understand and wish me well.  If Sammi Sweetheart would flat iron my hair, Dina would teach me to how to live with myself while flashing my kooka around town and Vinny, Ronnie and JWoww would teach me how to dance properly, my life would be complete.

You get it.  I love my Jersey Shore.  But I loathe The Situation.  I’m pretty sure if you know who he is, you understand why I loathe him and I don’t need to list his inadequecies again.  He needs to be taken out back, Old Yeller style.  And if you don’t agree with me?  Then just know I am secretly judging you.

So, there you have it.  When I need to save the world by tossing a poser in a volcano?  Mike The Situation Sorrentino, even your abs wont be able to save you this time.  Oh, and for shits and giggles, let’s admire this family photo, shall we?

A Gaggle of Dipshits

Let’s finish this shit storm, shall we?

 

I will, at all times, have no less than 13 Words With Friends games going.  Because, you know.  It’s not like I have eleventy bajillion other things I should be doing instead.  But it makes me feel like I am workin’ the ol’ think muscle and Alzheimer’s wont come on in this decade.

I will NOT fight back tears when my son asks to pitch to me.  You think I’m being a softie about sharing valuable time with my son here, right?  Wrong.  The little man fires those balls and that shit hurts.  I will not cry once over this debacle in 2012.

I will make an extra effort to get my boob smashed in a machine.  I’m going to be 35 this year and I think it’s high time I protect these assets I fondly refer to as my breasticles.

Speaking of asses, I plan to drink more.  I have become pretty weak in the booze department and I’m thinking my liver is getting it’s pink color back.  Unacceptable.  I better get to Vegas immediately.  Which brings us full circle back to asses.  And acting like one.

I will help plan a wedding.  You know who you are, yeah, I’m looking at you.  And whilst planning this wedding I will make sure Keith Sweat’s monster ballads make it onto the play list and I will make sure The Surfer attends wearing a tux 3 sizes too small.

I will quote Long Duck Dong much more frequently.

I will NOT roll my eyes in disgust at the man in front of me at Starbucks who lets his cocknballs protrude from his nylon track pants.  Maybe he DOESN’T know.

And finally, I will continue to pray that Chelsea Handler and her staff of talented comedians insist that I do some freelance writing with them.

I’d like to thank all the little people.  You know, those little wallet rapers that live in my house and beg me for food and attention.  Yeah, I’d like to thank them for being so cute.  I’d also like to thank my readers for putting up with my blogging inadequacies this year.  You guys rip and I wish I could give each and every one of you a surfboard.  But I can’t, so don’t ask.

Happy New Year!

Go read Part I of my New Year’s Resolutions, if you haven’t already.  It’s useless but just go.

Onward:

I will host an 80′s dance party featuring songs by Expose, Stevie B. and The Jets.  Don’t get your hopes up, you’re probably not invited.  If you are actually wondering in your head, right this moment, if you’re invited, then you’re not.

I WILL make Carri Brown’s list for best tweets in 2012.  Within 5 minutes of declaring this resolution, she favorited a tweet.  I think I can knock this one out before 2012 even starts.  I’m an over  achiever today, folks.

Jenny McCarthy asked the internets how they would #BeBold in 2012.  To which I responded:  I plan on saying fuck a whole lot more on both my blog and Twitter.

I will teach our cat, Mustachio Pistachio, how to potty train on a toilet.

I will NOT poke fun at folks that spontaneously combust into flames.

I WILL continue to NOT surf.  I will also keep yelling at people that call me SurferGirl, or SurfingWife, or SurfWoman.  No People. I will tolerate no longer. I am SurferWife.  The wife of a Surfer.  I’m no idiot.  I don’t get in that cold ass water.

Fuck.  (Please refer to Jenny McCarthy resolution.)

I will try to win best looking blog design for the year of 2012.  I don’t know where this contest is for me to enter, so I may just have to create it myself and not let anyone enter but me.  Because I want Kayleen of Booyah’s Momma Digital Art & Design to be properly recognized for her magical design skills.

Ok, come back tomorow for more.  Or don’t.  I don’t give a fuck.  (Thanks Jenny, this whole #BeBold thing is going great so far!)

Starting today and reporting everyday through 2011, I will give you a peeksie into the self enlightenment of SurferWife.  Lucky you.

 

I will no longer eat white rice.  Only brown and quinoa.  I’m fairly certain white rice is the food of the muffin top devil.

I will watch every episode from every season of Magnum PI.  You should, too.

I will not go longer than 3 days without using Eyedews.  I apologize for making you people stare at my ever growing crow’s feet.

I will buy more live plants for the house.  I think this family has a severe lack of oxygen feeding their brains.

On Feb 7th, when my copy of Life As I Blow It, by Sarah Colonna arrives in my mailbox, thanks to my current pre-order, I vow to begin reading it right then and let any and all other responsibilities fall to the wayside until I finish the book. This will be when The Surfer wishes he paid for those speed reading courses.

I will go back to acting like an enormous asshole on Twitter.  I’m sick of you dicks asking if I am depressed and why am I not funny on Twitter anymore.

I will not glare at women that wear size 4 any longer.  I plan to be one of them thanks to The Dailey Method trying to kill me for one hour each day.

Come back tomorrow for more SurferWife New Year’s Resolutions. It’s bound to get ugly.