RachRiot

The Perfect Trip

2013-05-14T06:57:00.000-07:00

Ah, Springtime. A time of renewal, a time of rebirth. A time to release my piggies from the fleece-lined confines of these nasty Uggs and step outside, tentatively. I shield my eyes like a sparkly vampire; they need a few moments to adjust. Sunlight! It burns! I hear the birds chirping, smell that budding new grass and feel the warm breeze, gently wafting through my leg hair.

Oh SHIT, y'all-- it's SPRING.

But.. but, I'm not done hibernating...

Spring is when I go on my annual girl's trip. And about 10 minutes before Spring is when I start freaking the freak out about this annual girl's trip. The trip is annual. Did I mention that? The funny thing about an annual trip is it happens every year. Annually. I know this, and yet... the adrenaline rush I get from procrastination is just so exhilarating! It's all I've got sometimes, people.

Preparing for this trip is a ~~fucked up~~ fascinating process. Let me walk you through it:

MAYBE FIVE DAYS BEFORE- The first thing I freak about is my wardrobe. It sucks. It's completely unacceptable, we all know that-- but instead of hemorrhaging money I will try my best to make a few things I already own wor.. hahaha oh, I crack myself up! Sigh. (I wrote that for the Current Legal Spouse and the other 4 husbands that might read this blog.) Okay, fine-- I'll have a look-see. I excavate through layers of sweatpants and cable knit and somewhere around the Mesozoic Era of my closet I unearth some shorts. Eureka! I shake off the dust, peel off my yoga pants (which by now have fused to my thighs) and try them on. Holy hell, what asshole shrunk my shorts?! Oh yeah, it was that bastard Chester Cheeto and his flamin' hot deliciousness. Curses!

Do I have time to lose weight? No. Did I already eat those chocolatey laxatives? Probably. You know how I feel about exercise. Not a big fan. During this horrendous trying-on process I get a good look at my bare legs in the full-length mirror. Oof. They haven't seen the light of day in months and it shows. They are creamy white and veiny, much like two meaty drumsticks covered in blue cheese. Great-- now I want some buffalo wings.

I am a big fan of the "If You Can't Tone It, Tan It" motto, so I schedule a spray tan. You know, just for a little color. A pre-beach healthy glow is just what the doctor ordered to kickstart my summer look. Perfect.

So natural. So sexy.

When I get back from my full-body auto paint job and stop dripping on the furniture, I try on a few more hideous outfits that no one in their right mind could possibly pack for a beach trip, and anyway, it's the shit I wore last year. C'mon! Unacceptable. Not to mention everything is now kinda covered in tanning solution... Time to shop!

I used to be hip. I used to wear nice things and get dressed up. Then I had kids and now everything I own is covered in boogers and Nutella. I need to jazz up my wardrobe for this trip, and fast. Also, just the fact that I used the term "jazz up" pretty much confirms that I'm old as fuck. I need the perfect beach attire. Oh, sure, I want to shop in stores like Forever 21, but the place is overwhelming and looks about as organized as downtown Beirut. Ain't nobody got time for that. Also, I live in constant fear of some salesgirl asking me if I'm lost or if I'm looking for my daughter in the dressing room. I might have to cut a bitch if that happened. Instead, I search for something a little more my speed. Age appropriate. My heart says Forever 21 but my driver's license says Ann Taylor Loft. I admit I often fall for the generic style and homogenized safety of the Loft. But I must resist-- I must stay hip! Which reminds me... my hip kinda hurts right now. I limp past Coldwater Creek-- because oh, hell no-- and run smack dab into the front door of a Chico's. I do enjoy those kicky commercials where all the women seem self-assured and accepting of their decaying bodies and vaginal dryness... Look out, world! I'm so Chico's! You go, girl ...er, ma'am! I look around to see if anyone is watching and step inside. I swear I can almost smell the bioidentical hormones they probably pump thru the air system. It lulls you into a false sense of sexiness. I practically feel like a teenager in here. It's nice. Too nice. Let me tell you what else these menopausal marketing geniuses do-- their clothes have a unique sizing system and guess what? I'm a size 0 in Chico's! ZERO! I'm never leaving this place! I am so fucking Chico's! I buy four pairs of size zero shorts faster than you can say "hot flash."

IT'S WHO I AM

I practically skip out of the store, and I don't know what I was thinking-- I must have been snorting the Calgon, because then I decided to try on bathing suits. Maybe it was the combination of the spray tan fumes and buying size zero shorts. I felt invincible. I call it the "Chico's Effect." I think when the sales lady hugged me goodbye she got some hormone cream on my arm. Look out, world!

Ten minutes later I was stifling my sobs in the Dillard's dressing room while wearing a skirted floral tankini. I grab my iPhone and ask SIRI for one of those stupid LOSE TEN POUNDS IN FIVE DAYS! articles online. SIRI answers in her cold, automated tone, I FOUND SOMETHING THAT MIGHT HELP YOU, RACHAEL.

It's an article about decapitation. Bitch.

I turn my phone off and remove the detachable, matronly skirt of the tankini. Skirt? I don't need no stinking skirt! Um, wait, yes I do-- because it seems I've got some "bikini-area issues." It's been a long winter, if ya know what I mean. I've got a 'fro down below. My bush is trying to escape out of all sides of this bathing suit bottom, and I don't blame her; it's scary in there. Horrified, I grab my phone again and call the Pretty Kitty salon for an emergency waxendectomy. The receptionist says they're all booked up so I go ahead and text them a pic of my bikini area. Check. Mate. Thirty minutes later, I'm pants-less on a table with my legs spread, froggy-style. I don't know how many bikini waxes you've had, but I've had a few and it's always a very strange experience. Mainly because you find yourself apologizing for your vagina for one reason or another. But it doesn't even matter because these wax technicians, these angels of mercy, seem to really enjoy their jobs. I don't get it; maybe they are sadists? I don't know, but God love 'em for doing it. While they gleefully slather hot wax on your lady parts, they smile and get real chatty, like this is normal; just two gals having lunch or something. And then right in the middle of the friendly banter comes the searing, white-hot pain. "Oh, blah, blah hahaha"
...R-I-I-P-P

Is it worse than childbirth? Well, no... but they could easily offer epidurals and I would sign right up. I don't go in for the full Brazilian; I don't want to look like a 10 year old. I'm a grown ass woman. (Also, I've heard that middle part hurts like a mofo.) I just want a little off the sides, but she keeps ripping away. "Somewhere between Kojak and QuestLove," I caution her. But the girl is on a mission. She gets a little too into her work, and I end up with a Hitler.

"Heil Kitler!"

After I pay a stranger to rip my pubic hair out, I limp home and instinctively soothe myself with a few Thin Mints. You know what tastes like shit? Thin Mints while you're wearing a Crest Whitestrip. I forgot I had one on. You'd think the minty flavor would compliment, but it doesn't, it really doesn't. I brush my teeth and take a good long, exhausted look in the mirror. What the hell am I doing? I look forward to this trip all year. No husbands, no kids-- just the girls having fun. But this is no fun. Jumping through hoops can really wear a girl out. After the crash diets, the shopping, the mani-pedis, the highlighting, waxing, buffing, tanning, fretting and crying, at the end of the day it doesn't mean shit. Nobody cares! All these girls want is me-- the real me. Unvarnished. And that's how I want them. They don't give a shit if I'm ten pounds heavier and look like Sasquatch. I'm sure they are worrying about their own fat, hairy, yellowing selves. They don't care if I'm wearing plaid goucho pants from 1979. They just want me there as I am, perfectly imperfect, to laugh and reconnect, the way we do every year. They love me as I am; why can't I do the same? It's my own stuff that causes the annual freak-out, but it's just something I go through. We all have stuff, but as I get older I find I have a little less stuff or I just don't give a shit about the stuff anymore. Perfection is overrated. I imagine that's the very best part of aging. Accepting yourself-- flaws and all. I could probably learn a thing or two from those women in Chico's.

Look out, world!

I Just Want To Pee Alone

2013-03-14T11:23:00.001-07:00

ATTENTION, INTERNETS:

Are you a mother? Or a father?
Do you now, or did you once have a mother or father?
Are you now, or were you ever an annoying child?
Do you enjoy solitary evacuation of your bowels?
Do you enjoy the angelic sound of your own laughter??

If you answered YES to any of these questions, please continue reading.

I may have mentioned this once or twice or eleventy times, but ...I'M IN A BOOK! A real book! This book! Available now!

No biggie. Just a best-selling book THAT I AM IN.

The book is called I Just Want To Pee Alone.

When I was first asked to be part of this anthology on motherhood I thought... really? They want me to write about motherhood? Me? Have they read this blog? I mean, I am a mother alright (I didn't preface that with good) but I'm not a "mommy blogger." I talk about my kids, but it seems I spend more time talking about falcons and dildos and whatnot, so I was thinking this may not be the project for me. How wrong I was. This is the REAL book on motherhood. For realzies. The funny one that tells it like it is. Written BY MOMS, FOR MOMS, TO MOMS. Not laughing AT MOMS but WITH MOMS, AROUND MOMS. And all other appropriate prepositions, etc. etc. Not some June Cleaver bullshit. Consider yourself warned. Don't give this book to any fertile newlyweds because these stories are like visual birth control. In fact, you should probably let your teenage daughters read this. They will be scared into abstinence. You're welcome! Also, there is a whole lot of vagina talk in this book, and not in a sexy way. Sorry, guys. I didn't do an official "vagina" count, but somebody's ham-wallet might be mentioned on every page. Also, are you a fan of foul language? You are? Awesome. Me too. Mothers sometimes curse, y'all. There are F-bombs dropping left and right up in these pages. Motherhood is frustrating and F-bomb inducing, but there is a lot of love and heart in the book, too. Which is how I do it. I've found my tribe and I'm very proud of this book.

Please buy it and enjoy it. I beg of you. If you do enjoy it, please write a favorable review for us on Amazon or wherever you purchased? It really helps and we won't let it go to our heads. Much. If you don't enjoy it, you might wanna get that stick up your ass removed. Just kidding-- that was rude. Kindly please keep your non-humor-loving, mother-hating, puppy-kicking opinions to yourself. M'kay? But seriously, I'm worried about your funny bone. This shit is hilarious, I don't care who you are.

Oh, Ry Ry.. let me rub your temples...

You can buy the book by clicking the BUY MY BOOK! up there on the sidebar or from the following links:

Amazon Books, Kindle, iTunes, Wordsmash, Kobo, Sony Reader. Nook/Barnes & Noble is bringing up the rear. I don't know yet about availability there. We will even be in a few bookstores soon and I'll let you know which ones. Hell, I'll probably be hiding behind the stacks to run over and hug whomever I see buying it!

This has all been like a dream. A very good dream. I'm so honored to even be mentioned in the same sentence with some of the heavy-hitters listed below. Wait-- does any woman really want to be known as a "Heavy Hitter"? Scratch that-- we'll call them "Milfalicious Kick-Ass Bloggers". Yeah.

People I Want to Punch in the Throat 

Insane in the Mom Brain 

The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva 

Baby Sideburns 

Rants From Mommyland 

You Know it Happens at Your House Too 

The Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess 

My Life and Kids

 Bad Parenting Moments

 Let Me Start By Saying 

 Binkies and Briefcases

 Naps Happen

 Kelley's Break Room 

Toulouse & Tonic

 HouseTalkN

 Hollow Tree Ventures 

The Fordeville Diaries

 Life on Peanut Layne

 Momaical 

Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine 

Confessions of a Cornfed Girl

 I Love Them Most When They're Sleeping 

Random Handprints

 You're My Favorite Today 

Funny is Family

 My Real Life

I hope you enjoy the book as much as we enjoyed putting it together. If you've read it, let me know what you think! Thank you!

If You Give A Kraken A Hamster

2013-03-06T14:41:00.000-08:00

The Kraken just announced she wants a hamster. I'm not sure where this notion came from; I can only assume some little braggart in her class got one and won't stop talking about it. They probably even brought it in for Show-and-Tell. Thanks, ya little a-hole!

There are so many reasons I think this is a bad, bad idea. First off, The Kraken doesn't really have a stellar track record of pet-keeping. Exhibit A: Fish. She is basically the Jack Kevorkian of the goldfish world. After about the fifth belly-up goldfish, Petco put up a picture of her with a line through it. "Stop Her Before She Kills Again." Henry is only slightly better. Neither of them fed the damn fish or cleaned the bowl, ever. Guess who got to do that? No, not me-- are you high? I made Current Legal Spouse do it. Duh. You can bet your ass it will be the same for a hamster.

Also, we already have a toybox full of those annoying Zhu Zhu Pets, which are fake hamsters if you're not familiar. Ten minutes after she got one of those, she had the wheels stuck in her hair. Doesn't bode well for a live animal with live teeth. Hopefully a real hamster would be slightly less annoying than those damn Zhu Zhu pets. All that chirping, squeaking and clicking-- how the fuck do you get them to shut up?! The only way I've found is to chuck them out of a moving car. Although it could be fun to put a Zhu Zhu pet in with a real live hamster. Kind of a cage match/Thunderdome situation...

Dear God, make it stop.

And don't even get me started on Mudge (our dog. Our HUNTING dog). He probably won't rest until he has the damn thing in his mouth and disembowels it. I guess it's a good thing we don't have a cat. That might be worse.

And then there's The Kraken's little friend down the street; I'll call her Abbey. Yes.. now that I think about it, this is all her fault.

IT WAS YOU, ABBEY.

Abbey has a hamster. She juggles that thing like an orange, then she puts tiny, slutty outfits on him, shoves him in her Barbie Dream Car and launches him across the room. Wheeee! It's dangerous, humiliating and emasculating. So of course my daughter is all over that. The last time we were over at Abbey's, I'm pretty sure the hamster was trying to signal me. I can't be sure but I think he spelled out HELP ME in sunflower seeds. Poor thing. But what can I do? I'm powerless to help. Maybe I'll make some anonymous calls to the SPCA.

(Yeah, I know that's a chipmunk above but that's kind of the look I get from Abbey's tortured hamster. Disturbing.)

The Kraken's birthday is coming up so this hamster thing is probably happening. *sigh* I guess this is better than another afternoon with the animatronic rat at THE CHUCK.

In Other News: I'm in a book! Oh, you heard? It's now available on Amazon and Kindle, and soon iTunes, Nook, Sony etc. As you can see on my sidebar, the Amazon link is up. All versions should be available by mid-March and I will be shouting from the rooftops when that happens. Go "like" my RachRiot fan page on Facebook for updates! The link is up top. Exciting, right? There are so many talented bloggers in this book. Here are a few more links to their blogs to get to know them:

Anna at My Life and Kids.
http://mylifeandkids.com/vasshole/

Bethany at Bad Parenting Moments
http://badparentingmoments.blogspot.com/2013/02/check-please.html

Kristen at Life On Peanut Layne
http://www.peanutlayne.com/2012/11/what-date-night-looks-like-when-you.html

Stacey at Nurse Mommy Laughs
http://nursemommylaughs.com/2012/04/09/life-lessons-from-roller-skating-camp/

Johi at Confessions Of A Corn Fed Girl
http://confessionsofacornfedgirl.blogspot.com/2011/08/how-to-guide-for-play-dates.html

I'd love to hear about your hamster and see pictures, too. Wait, that sounds dirty.

I'm In A Book! And It's Not Penthouse! If That's What You're Thinking!!

2013-02-22T07:34:00.000-08:00

Okay, get this-- so, last year I got a few very exciting emails. One was from a Nigerian Prince who is my cousin, and he couldn't get back into the country without $10,000 so naturally I'm going to help him because he has endless legal fees and I'm very helpful like that. He's family, after all. But the other very exciting email was from a well-known blogger-- I'll call her Jen. She likes to punch people. In this email she claimed she had been following my blog and thought I was funny and basically invited me to contribute a story to a book she is working on.

Heh. YEAH, RIGHT. Do I look like I was born yesterday? I'm not gullible so I checked this book deal out with Prince Ohuwanawadacash and he said it's totally legit! He said I should do it; I should reach for my dreams (and my wallet..) He is so funny sometimes, y'all! Anyway, I submitted a story and basically thought that was the end of that. But then Jen contacted me and said my story made it into the book!! I'm going to be a published author. In a book! I didn't even have to sleep with anyone!

Like Sue, I'm so freaking excited.

GIFSoup

The book is called I JUST WANT TO PEE ALONE. (You love it already!) It's an anthology of humorous essays on motherhood by some of the funniest women on the web. How I got into this group I do not know; I'm as baffled as you are. Baffled but excited. The book comes out this spring, and will be sold on Amazon.com and in bookstores and everything, like a real book. It will also be available on Kindle, Nook and iPad. My story is super embarrassing, of course, so get ready. Throughout this process I've gotten to know many of the writers that are involved with this book-- blogs that I've read for years and now I am friends with these bitches!! Some are already published authors so they are not freaking out like I am. I'm pretty new to all of this so the support from these ladies has been incredible. They took me by the hand, wiped the dirt off my blog with their mama spittle fingers and took care of me. I'm so grateful to each and every one and will be sharing some of their blogs here on my page so you can get to know them, too. Here are just a few ladies that I love:

www.peopleiwanttopunchinthethroat.com

www.insanemombrain.com

www.kelleysbreakroomblog.com

I will be giving updates and details on the book release, where to buy, etc. oh, probably every ten minutes or so, don't worry. I will also have an Amazon linky-dink on my page that you can click to buy. I'm going to make it so easy for you to give me your money!

Because as Prince Ohuwanawadacash will tell you, I'm very helpful like that.

You're Welcome, Manuel

2013-01-18T19:47:00.001-08:00

Hi, Manuel- Let's not make this any more awkward than it already is. You just saw me naked.

I know- you just came over to trim the trees with your crew. I wasn't really aware of the extent of the trimming about to take place, because, well, I don't give a shit about tree trimming- that is Current Legal Spouse's department. He set it up. So, I was inside, oblivious as usual. That's how I like it. I heard the chainsaws while I was showering but didn't think much of it. I heard voices while I was toweling off but I hear a lot of voices. (Take that how you want.) Then it happened. You were there, high up in a tree on a cherry picker and you saw me. Through the top of the big Palladian window. Naked. I saw you seeing me. Awkward.

Peepers gonna peep.

Then I dropped to the ground and belly crawled, ninja-style out of the bathroom. Now that I've located my robe and maybe a shred of dignity, I'd like to go over a few things with you, Manuel:

- I'm 43. I've had two children and my children are young. This last baby was pretty recent, and maybe I haven't lost all the baby weight.

Okay, fine- she's 6 years old, but still.

- I was putting lotion on my legs when you saw me and I'm guessing it wasn't really the most flattering position. My leg was hiked up on the tub like a Sears underwear model. Even Kate Effing Moss has a fat roll when she's hunched over, okay? A few seconds before that I was stretched out, arms above my head, perky-breastedly drying my hair. In that position I bet my stomach was incredibly... non lumpy. Did you see that? Of course not. I feel I need a do-over, as that was not a true representation of my assets.

Just slatherin' on the body butter.

- Also, for the record, I wasn't singing "My Sharona". I don't care what you think you heard. You are probably partially deaf from that chainsaw.

- I know I need to clean my windows. And/or get some better blinds. You need to put your eyes back in your fucking head and concentrate on your job before you lop your arm off, creeper! How dare you?!?

-I'm sorry I lashed out at you just now. I'm feeling vulnerable, Manuel.

And lastly, not that I care... but, um, I'd just like to know your overall impressions about what you saw in that window. Were you overcome with desire? Or maybe the desire to hurl?

Hot?

GIFSoup

Or not?

GIFSoup
I mean, out of all the accidental nudity I'm sure you see, where would you rank me? Sometimes a gal just needs to know that the day laborers still find her attractive, ya know? You get it.

Finally, I hope my little gift to you will be reflected favorably on the bill. Unless you want me to cry. Totally your call.

Okay. Good talk, Manuel. I'm going to hit the gym now. See you next year.

Wow, You're Still Here?

2013-01-02T10:47:00.001-08:00

So, it's 2013. A new year. A time to reflect and get all introspective-like. Maybe reevaluate some life choices. Ask the big questions. Am I happy? Am I living up to my potential? Have I been the best mom to m...

HOLY SHITSNACKS, Y'ALL-- do you know what this week is?! It's the anniversary of my blog! Yes! My bloggiversary! I know you love it when I make up words. I started one year ago on this date. Remember my first post? You should probably go back and read that literary masterpiece to refresh your memory. Then go ahead and read the rest of them, too, while you're at it. Good stuff. (Okay, mediocre stuff with hints of brilliance.) I'll wait here.

Anyhoo, Happy New Year! No resolutions for me, thanks. I don't really make them anymore because they were always about losing weight, having one glass of red wine and being a "kinder, gentler soul", blah, blah... Yeah, we see how well that worked out. Birds gotta swim, fish gotta fly, or something like that.

Not to worry.

I'll never change and why would I? I'm awesome. But I guess I have learned a thing or two in the past 365 days. I would hope so. Maybe a few nuggets of worldly wisdom I can pass on to you poor saps. Some of these nuggets won't apply to you. Some will, but you'll pretend they don't. Some are just my random observations from these past blogs. Take them or leave them; tattoo them on your ass or get them needlepointed on a pillow for your family room. You're welcome.

Here's a smattering of what I've learned this year:

I like the word "smattering."

I talk about my boobs a lot.

Being a mother is, um... challenging.

I'm not what you would call "a trooper" about most things. I'm a bit of a cynic.

Glitter: Herpes of the crafting world.

I will never ever make any of the shit I pinned on Pinterest.

Bitches love tablecloths.

I still haven't been back to Chuck. E Cheese. Therefore, I win.

Don't ever put me on speaker phone with your family in the car. Can't stress this enough.

I don't like falcons landing on me.

Or people sniffing my ass.

Or bugs.

I do love maple syrup. And Joe Manganiello. And I would especially love Joe Manganiello covered in maple syrup-- AMIRIGHT, LAYDAZZ?? sorry.

The catchphrase "Sexual Alpo" is sweeping the nation! Get on board!

My daughter has perfected the Prosti-tot homeless midget look.

Moving Carlos the Elf around each and every night was a pain in my ass.

Blogging is a lot harder than it looks if you're doing it right.

Sometimes the only taste of success someone feels is when they take a bite out of you. Bless their hearts.

Thanks for laughing with me (and at me) this year. I'll keep writing if you'll keep reading. Deal?

Terror On The High Shelf

2012-12-07T06:53:00.000-08:00

I just received the first Christmas card of the year in the mail.

I'm gonna need a minute.

I know, I know-- some people are on the ball. Some people run right out Thanksgiving night to shop the sales, mail the cards, and get the tree. They crank up the Mannheim Steamroller and wrap the presents they started buying three months ago. They are all ready for Christmas right now.

Those people are assholes.

Me, I work a little differently. I'm more of a last-minute gal and work best under pressure. That's not always possible with kids around. They, too, are ready in October. To them, Thanksgiving is just a gravy-covered speed bump on the road between Candyween and Toyland. So it was no surprise when mine started penning their letters to Santa well before Thanksgiving.

What was surprising was The Kraken's announcement: That she was ready for Carlos to come back.

"Carlos" is our Elf on the Shelf. If you don't know what Elf on the Shelf is, clearly you don't have small children or leave the house ever, because this felt bastard is everywhere now. When we got ours the kids immediately named him Carlos. Yes, Carlos. Even though he is Casper-white with brown hair and blue eyes, that is the name they came up with. M'kay. Fantastico.

Si. Mi nombre es Carlos

My son, Henry (you know, "The Good One"- I bet you forgot that I have two kids) was excited. Of course he was, because he's always pretty well behaved. The thought of Carlos being able to tell Santa directly how good he is meant MORE toys for him! Camille (The Kraken) on the other hand, wasn't so sure this was a good thing, having an ~~narc~~ Elf in the house. She had a lot of questions about Carlos and his powers. Does he come in my room? Do his eyes ever move? Why doesn't he have feet? By the third day she started to say she didn't like him-- he scared her. She wanted him to go away. But I think she just really didn't like the idea of some tiny drone spy watching her every move. She didn't want Carlos filling Santa's head with lies. He could really mess her shit up. Because she is a nightmare and she knows she is a nightmare. "Scared her"? My ass. She ain't scared o' nuthin'.

I mean, he was kinda creepy with that waxen, pixie-like gaze of his. Every morning he was in a different place in the house. Smiling. Watching. Judging. Tracking her every move.
I figured this would be good practice for when she is finally fitted with that ankle-monitoring device.

I find all elves (and dolls in general) a little creepy. Some more than others. The Elf on the Shelf was right up there, as beautifully illustrated in this handy chart by my friend, Salty Dad.

Anyhoo, she was freaked out so we eventually had to "ask him to leave" last year. Sigh. So much for new holiday traditions. Henry was bummed. I was secretly okay with it because guess who has to move this annoying bastard to a new location every night? Sometimes I would forget and wake up in a cold sweat, crawl out of bed at 3 a.m. and move it. Or kick the Current Legal Spouse awake and croak, "Uugh the fucking Elf.." Or, more likely, make up some story the next morning about why he didn't move. "Um... you were bad, and he didn't want to fly back and tell Santa that." Some people actually set their Elf up in cute little scenarios, or make him do naughty things in the house like make a mess or take ornaments off the tree. What? Who does that?? Fuck that-- just more shit for me to clean up. No, thank you. There are whole websites and Pinterest boards devoted to the crazy shit the Elf does. Some people have too much time on their hands. The same assholes that are ready for Christmas, I guess.

This year, being older and wiser (and thinking she's possibly missing out on extra toys), Camille decided she was ready for Carlos to come back. I told her I didn't know if he would come back... she would have to write him a letter and ask him. He might be working in a sweatshop in Tijuana by now.

"p.s. Don't come in my room"

So, Carlos is back. Hurray! I wised up and have a reminder set on my phone to move this pain-in-my-ass every night at 10 p.m. So far, he seems to be keeping both kids in line. Kinda. The Kraken still has her moments. If she starts any shit I'm going to pull out this photo:

"HOLA, LITTLE GIRL!"

Merry Creepmas, everybody!

30 Days Of Attitude... I mean, Gratitude

2012-11-13T13:33:00.000-08:00

So, here it is already November. I know, right? When in hell did that happen? But yes, it's here. So you know what that means. Turkey coma and carbo-loading? Yes. Poorly grown-in facial hair for "Movember"? (Google it, I can't do everything) That, too-- but I'm talking about gratitude. Yes, gratitude.

There is a thing going around called "30 Days Of Gratitude Challenge" meaning every day of November you write down something you are grateful for. Some people are posting these daily proclamations on Facebook. For the most part I think it's a lovely idea, and I've enjoyed reading them. Scientist are finding that an attitude of gratitude is a powerful contributor to a happy life. Amen to that.

You know what else contributes to a happy life? Laughing your ass off. The cynical bitch in me just can't help but question some of these platitudes of gratitude. The people that are posting how thankful they are for all they have on Thursday are the same greedy twats that will step on your face Black Friday morning to get the last Furby at Toys R Us. So it gives me a chuckle. Anyone that knows me well knows that underneath the smart ass attitude I am a pretty positive person. Being grateful comes naturally to me, I just don't go around announcing it. I'm a good southern girl and know how to pen a nice thank-you note. So, in the spirit of Thanksgiving and the 30 Days, I thought I'd share some... thankful thoughts. My way. My sincere gratitude about some everyday things, beautifully wrapped in a snarky foil package. 'Cause that's how's I roll. Thankyouverymuch.

Today I am grateful the election is over, although your passionate political rants really made me stop and ~~vomit~~ think. Thanks for your help in making up my mind. I couldn't have done it without you.

I am grateful for donuts and stretchy pants. Today. Tomorrow. Forever.

And thank you, American Girl catalog, for showing up every effing time the Kraken wants to check the mail with me. If she's not around that shit goes directly in the recycle bin. How can a damn doll have a more extensive wardrobe than me? She can, but she won't. Bitch.

I am grateful to my hairdresser, who always talks me out of fringy bangs. Even though I could totally pull it off.

I am grateful for noise-cancelling headphones when sitting next to your little angel on the plane. Yes, him singing "Wheels On The Bus" was adorable. The first 15 fucking times.

Thank you, Hoarders and Honey Boo Boo, for making me feel organized and normal. I truly redneckognize all that I have. And don't have (namely, something called "forklift foot").

Sexy

Speaking of sexy...

Thank you, inappropriate MILF who wears her nightie in the morning drop-off car line at school. Your braless jubblies really give the Current Legal Spouse a reason to walk the kids all the way up to the building, especially on cold mornings. The poor bastard has so little to look forward to. Kudos on the gravity-defying fake yabos. Really.

I am grateful to Nordstrom department store for this sign every year. Nordies, you effing rock. Hard.

What a novel concept.

Thank you, Coffee ice cream, for justifying my eating dessert for breakfast. Because it's basically iced coffee. Everybody knows that.

I'm eternally grateful for Caller I.D. Still one of life's greatest inventions. But not when you call, of course. You, I want to talk to. Tell me more about your cat's bad knee.

Thank you, glitter glue, for combining two of the most reviled products of motherhood into one beautiful, permanent nightmare. It really is the herpes of the crafting world.

I'm grateful for Daylight Savings Time. My kids have been going to bed an hour early for weeks. I may never change the clocks upstairs. Genius!

I'm really grateful I've never been smacked down by the Etiquette Ninjas. But I'd like to join their cause. I think my grandmother was a founding member. True story. She wore a lot of black.

And I'm thankful for you, dear reader. Who always encourage me to keep writing. No snark-- nothing but love and thanks in this last one. No attitude-- just gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Boo Ya!

2012-10-12T20:22:00.000-07:00

Can you feel it? That crisp snap in the air? No? Me neither... because we live in Houston. We don't experience actual "seasons," but technically, it's fall, y'all. That means Halloween! Hooray! That magical time of year for kids and drunken adults of all ages. Halloween is now the second most popular holiday in the U.S. with annual costume sales topping one billion dollars. Billion! And let me tell you, I believe it, because people take their costumes and decor very seriously around here. The horror starts early and hits hard. In August, you'll begin to see the pumpkins. You ignore that because you're still wearing your star spangled tube top. The very next week some overachieving neighbor is putting out their yard cemetery complete with fog machine. Suddenly it's everywhere. By late September you can't even browse Walgreens without an animatronic witch reaching out to touch you in aisle 3. You just wanted some tampons and now you have to pry your screaming child off of your leg because she's terrified. Good times.

Don't forget your Xanax from the pharmacy, my pretty!

The search for the perfect costume is always a challenge. With so many choices it can be overwhelming and expensive. My kids tend to change their minds quite a lot, so I don't like to start too early. Of course then you run the risk of missing all the good stuff, and you find yourself on October 30th, poking arm holes in a black Hefty trash bag and telling your kid that he's a California Raisin. Not cool, mom. Not. Cool.

"Ooh, I heard it thru the grapevine...
this was all yo mama could find..."

I'm not what you would call "crafty" (not in the Hobby Lobby sense of the word) so I won't be crafting any homemade costumes. Nobody wants to see me with a glue gun. No, I will be purchasing something made by a faraway sweatshop. It's the American way.

Sure, you can look online, but sometimes it's important to actually see the costume before purchase. Especially for girls. Is it just me or are the girl's costumes getting skimpier? They are making these sexy costumes in children's sizes! What is up with that? My daughter is six-- she doesn't need to wear fishnets and patent leather lace-up boots. I don't even have patent leather lace-up boots! I swear! Hey, if you are a grown woman and want to dress up like Skankenstein, knock yourself out, but they shouldn't be marketing "sexy kitty" or sexy ANYTHING for kids. Just my opinion. Of course my daughter Camille (aka The Kraken) is inexplicably drawn to the tacky as I've explained in earlier posts, but I ~~bribed~~ gently steered her away from that and we finally agreed on "Catarina" which is some kind of weird cat/ballerina mash-up. Whatever, she doesn't look like a total streetwalker, so I'm happy. Sold! Henry's costume choice kind of made me sad because he used to choose cute superheroes, video game characters and cowboys. This year? Bloody Ghost Face or something like that "with actual squirting blood! Cool!" Lovely. My boy is growing up and getting gross. I better get used to it.

Didn't I just change your diaper?

So, we're all set for the big fright night. The house is decorated and relatively spooky, (built-in cobwebs because I don't dust. Bonus! ) the Current Legal Spouse will be on Trick-or-Treat walking duty with the little monsters and I'll be at home ~~eating~~ handing out candy while drinking wine. This is my favorite job because we always have a big turnout and I love seeing the parade of costumes. And okay, eating the candy. And drinking the wine.

Which wine pairs well with Twix??

Happy Halloween!

Tickle me, Manganiello

2012-09-14T08:46:00.001-07:00

I just had the best dream so naturally I woke up and did what I always do-- punched my husband.

I dreamt Joe Manganiello and I were in a tickle fight and he was winning. He held me down with my hands over my head with one of his powerful paws. Then with the other hand, he ran his thick, manly fingers slowly all the way down my upstretched arm, past my perfectly shaved, baby soft and deodorized armpit and toward my tanned, svelt rib area. It's my dream, people-- just go with it. Normally I dislike being tickled and I might kick you if you try but it was different with Joe. Yes, it was. I liked it. A LOT.

But then in the dream my Current Legal Spouse walked in during our tickle-play and broke up the fun. What a cock-blocking killjoy he is. Dream over.

When I woke up I was so mad. "Thanks a lot-- Joe Mantegna and I were having a moment and you ruined it." I muttered, half-asleep. Current Legal Spouse just looked at me, confused (this is the way he looks at me 90% of the time, so no big). "Joe Mantegna?" "The actor dude from Godfather III??"
What? Maybe I have his name wrong... I ran to Google.

"Okay, no, no-- not this Joe."

I mean no offense to you, sir. I'm sure you're a lovely man.

THIS. HERE.

Oh, yes. YOU. C'mere, you.

Joe Manganiello. Not Joe Mantegna. My mistake. You ladies know who I meant. Duh. They both have beards but that's where the similarities end.

It's the dude from True Blood and Magic Mike. I don't watch True Blood but I may have to start so I can have more dreams.

'Cause that was a good 'un.

It's probably for the best that we were interrupted, because in the dream we were laughing and staring into each other's eyes. Something was about to happen to take it to the next level but let's face it-- I probably would've blown the moment by nervously laughing too hard, forcing a small snot rocket to shoot out of my nose and land on his face. That is the kind of stuff that inevitably happens when you tickle-fight a celebrity. A snot rocket is a real mood-killer. I don't even really *like* Joe Manga-whatshisface. He wasn't even on my radar, on my "list." You know that list-- the "Freebie List". We all have them. Or some people call it their "Get Outta Jail Free" list, meaning, if at any time you encountered this celebrity your spouse HAS to let you sleep with them because you will never ever have this opportunity again. I just call it my Fucket List. Sort of like a Bucket List but with genitals. And it has to be a real celebrity-- not that dude down at Auto Zone with the nice ass or the traffic girl on Channel 2 that you want to nail. Celebrities only.

Basically there were only two names on my Fucket List at the moment. George Clooney and Daniel Craig. Maybe Russell Crowe but only Russell from Gladiator, not Russell from the Insider or even Russell in real life. Don't talk, Russell. You're ruining it.

No, but I am aroused.

I guess I'll just scratch Russell and add Joe. The Manganiello one.

I'm going back to bed.

You Just Got Schooled, Mama!

2012-09-08T08:39:00.001-07:00

So, this week the kids went back to school and ~~thank the sweet baby Jesus they did~~ I sure will miss them.

It was a long, hot, action-packed summer of beach-going, goggle-snapping, flip-flopping, sticky-grape-popsicle-eating, SPF 50 fun. And that was just the first two weeks. The rest of the summer was spent hanging upside down off the edge of the couch, watching Spongebob and hearing a lot of this:

CHILD 1: I'm booored...
ME: Go outside.
CHILD 1: But it's hooot.
ME: *sigh*
CHILD 2: I'm huungrry...
ME: Go look in the pantry.
CHILD: But there's nothing in theeeere...
ME: *sigh*

You get it.

I was so ready for it to be over. I love summer, we all do at first, don't we? By August I am positively claustrophobic. Mid-summer, trudging through Tarjay in a sweaty, pit-stained funk, I suddenly felt a glimmer of hope when I spied an employee putting up the new backpacks. Was this some cruel mirage? I suppressed the urge to run over and sniff them. That would be weird. Also, some other moms were already doing it. Weirdos! Weeks later, I got another little twinge of excitement as we shopped for new school clothes and supplies. I would throw each item in the basket and yell, "SUPPLIES!" while my kids stared at me stone-faced. It never got old. I was positively giddy by the time the teacher assignments were posted online. It's happening! It's really happening!

This video pretty much sums it up nicely.

Staples Dude-- I feel you.

My kids were also less than thrilled at my countdown on the calendar. "Gotta be prepared! Only 12 more days 'til school starts!" "TWELVE!" I would announce to no one in particular.

Then it was here- it was finally here. No more whining, no more "stop touching me!" No more wet bathing suits on the floor, no more 4-kid sleepovers (where NO one sleeps anyway). It was time for school. The Current Legal Spouse and I got up early and made smiley-faced pancakes with blueberry eyes and bacon mouths. Because we're awesome like that! The kids seemed to be in a daze. Henry was grumbling but compliant. Very typical. Camille, not so much. (Also typical.) She had several mini-meltdowns about various things, including, but not limited to: Her "scratchy" shirt, her hair, the seam on her socks, her brand new shoes (which she picked out!?!), the strap on her backpack, her snack... Shall I go on? I'll answer that for you-- No.

After wrestling both kids into their clothes, I tried to document this momentous occasion for the beautifully organized scrapbook (which I have yet to start), but it's very hard to snap pictures of happy, first day back-to-schoolers when one is scowling and the other is howling. I took pictures anyway! I'm making memories here, people-- act happy, g*d@#*%!!

They look so happy, right?

We finally made it into the building and settled both kids in their classrooms. A few more pictures, a few more kisses, then I made a break for it-- FREEDOM!

Sing it with me! "It's the most won-der-ful tiiime of the yeearrr.."

I practically moonwalked home, into the quiet house and breathed a sigh of relief. Total silence, oh, how I've missed you! I finished off the smiley-faced pancakes (because who the hell leaves bacon on a plate??) and cleared the dishes, humming to myself. I checked Facebook, talked on the phone and answered emails, all without interruption! Miracle! I went to the bathroom by myself! No one barged in while my pants were down! Bliss! They were finally out of my unkempt hair. On my way upstairs to make the beds, I notice one of Camille's many drawings taped to the stair railing. It is a riot of warm yellow sun and cerulean blue crayon waves. A little blonde stick figure stands on the beach next to a large sand castle. (At least I think that's a sand castle... it could be a very large beige person. Wait a minute, is that me?!? I really gotta hit the gym.) On the bottom of the drawing she has scribbled the words "hello summer!" The drawing made me smile and I wanted to tell her so. I started to yell for her down the stairs, (because I'm always yelling down the stairs or up the stairs at someone) "I just love your drawing, bab--" then I realize I'm yelling at no one. They are both gone. "Out of my hair." This is what I wished for, remember? I stand in the total silence until the A.C. kicks on, chilling my shoulders and snapping me out of my reverie. I carried the drawing up to the playroom and tape it to the wall. It's quiet in here. Too quiet. I turn on the playroom television.

Spongebob is on. I leave it on and make the beds.

Housewife Hoedown!

2012-07-26T11:21:00.000-07:00

I realize my last blog post was very personal, heartfelt and touching and that probably confused the hell out of you, so how's about I regale you with the time I bought a dildo from my neighbor?

Alrighty then!

There is a little known secret of the suburbs you city-dwellers may not be aware of. Out here in the land of manicured lawns, soccer clinics and exemplary schools are where the freaky freaks are. I had no idea, y'all. That woman on the PTA? Out planting begonias in her garden? She's also into planting ben-wa balls. In her lady-garden. I know this because I watched her buy some.

I was invited to one of those sex-toy parties they frequently have out here. It's similar to a Tupperware party in that a "hostess" hosts the event at her house and a "consultant" in a Talbot's twinset shows the products to a bunch of housewives. Except in this instance, the "consultant" walked around not with a colorful plastic lid that "burps" but a colorful plastic penis that vibrates. Often, she too is wearing a Talbot's twinset, but she is probably sporting nipple clamps underneath. These parties are coyly called "Fun Parties", "Passion Parties" or like this one, "Slumber Parties" but I just kept calling it the "Dildo Hoedown." After I received my super sexy e-vite, whenever I ran into my neighbor outside, in the grocery or in church* she would whisper, "Hey! Are you coming to the... you know..." and I would say, "Oh, the Dildo Hoedown? Yeah, yeah I'll be there... what time again?"

*That church thing never happened-- we both know that.

Come with me, won't you?

So on the night in question I met up with another ~~freak~~ mom, I'll call her Stephanie, and we walked on down the cul-de-sac to see what all the buzz was about. The Current Legal Spouse was home with the kids. Usually whenever I go to a thing in the neighborhood where someone is selling something-- scented scrapbooks, funky jewelry, $30 culinary spice rubs, he grumbles, "Don't buy a bunch of shit that you're never going to use..." Oh, but not this time. He was totally on board for the Dildo Hoedown. Before I left he sweetly offered, "Do you need some cash? Is that enough? Here take some more... Maybe you should take the checkbook?"

Totally. On. Board.

On the way over we noticed several other husbands peering out of their front windows, noses pressed up against the glass like dogs to see which wives were attending this hussy shindig. Or maybe they were just drooling, anticipating their wives' return with a long-awaited can of sexual Alpo. By the way, "Sexual Alpo" will be the name of my heavy metal band. Sometimes I even gross myself out.

One of the most important ingredients in a successful sex-toy party is not dildos, as you might guess-- it's drinks. Lots and lots of drinks! As soon as we hit the hoedown we were handed a cocktail. Literally a COCKtail, because it had penis-shaped ice cubes in it. In fact, all of the drinks and food were phallic in some way, I noticed. I admired the two nut-covered cheese balls with a giant cucumber centerpiece. I deep-throated a couple of uncircumcised penis-in-blankets and eyed the creamy white dip... skeptically. All the ladies were getting good and liquored-up, and considering the entire room, nay-- the entire nation is gripped with Fifty Shades of Magic Mike fever, this party was pretty much the perfect horny housewife storm. Fish in a boozed-up barrel.

The perky hostess introduced herself as the ladies grabbed a seat, giggling and forming a circle around her. She warmed up the room by introducing some sensual bubble bath, massage oils and sparkly edible powders. Then she took it to the next level with the lingerie and velvet hand cuffs. Then, bam! She brought out the big guns-- no really-- she brought the girly goods in a gun case (only in Texas, y'all). Yee Haw!

You thought I made that up, didn't you?

I consider myself to be pretty darn sexually savvy, but I swear some of this shit looked like it belonged in the leaf-blower section of Home Depot. I honestly would need a detailed manual with drawings to know what to do with some of these contraptions. But hey, whatever blows your skirt up. As we sat in rapt attention, she passed around each item like a naughty show and tell. The twelve year old boy in me would immediately turn each device on all the way up to "jackhammer" and pass it to the woman to my right. If she wasn't paying attention or still fascinated with the last item passed around, I would graze her cheek ever so slightly with the gyrating dildo and say, "Here ya go, take it, baby! Ya like that? Huh?" It never got old. We were all pretty silly and you really get to know your neighbor after you help her pick out a sex swing and some anal beads. Good times.

Each lady had a chance to discreetly pick and purchase her items in a separate room with only the consultant. Each came out with a smile and a nondescript black bag. Some bags were bigger than others, but we're not here to judge. Some bags were small, like you get at the jewelry store. Some bags were a bit larger-- like you get when you buy two king-sized comforters at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Again, no judgement.

And yes, I myself made a purchase or two, but I'm not telling you perverts what I bought. I'll just say my black bag was not too big and not too small. It was juuust right! Call me "Goldicocks."

So we stumbled home, giggling and buzzing (literally) and I immediately hid my little black bag. Then a few days later I moved it and hid it again. Then I forgot where I hid it. That is the last thing you want to explain to your nosey kids. If they do happen to find it, I'll just tell them it's Muno from that show "Yo Gabba Gabba."

"Mamma, why does Muno have 4 speeds??"

Generally I think these parties are a good idea. They are fun, educational and a great way for women to make friends and spice up their sexy-time with a partner or alone. Self knowledge is always a good thing because it leads to greater self respect, in my opinion. There is nothing to be embarrassed about. Hell, lady-- you've got five kids! Something's going on over there. Might as well make it interesting, Amiright??

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Girl Crazy

2012-06-29T15:19:00.000-07:00

I just got back from my high school reunion so I'm feeling rather reflective and introspective and a lot of other big words that end in "ive".

Indulge-ive me, won't you? Thanks.

My high school was a private college preparatory for girls. That's right-- girls only. I remember entering as a freshman, thinking it was so lame. The uniforms, the rules, the Nazi-penguin mustachioed nuns. Lame, lame, lame. I just knew I would hate it. It was the '80's-- the time of big hair and power ballads. I wanted to express myself through eyeliner and a totally bitchin' loose perm, which I achieved by washing it the second day after instead of waiting the required three full days. More of a body wave, really. I had it down to a science. But what was the point if no fine dudes were around to admire the perfection of my feathered mullet? I needed to be around boys. Even the staff was all female-- not a penis in sight, unless you count Clarence, the 60 year old janitor. As I stated in an earlier post, there was a whole lotta estrogen swirling around inside those ivy-covered walls.

My older sister graduated the year I entered high school. She was a quiet, obedient nerd who made straight A's. She graduated with honors. "A peerless example of Saint Joseph's Academy" they would say. So the nuns were a little dumbfounded when I came careening down the halls. The girls of the Academy were held to high expectations and I certainly was a disappointment. I was a solid C+ student except in math where I truly excelled at sucking. Still do.

Here's the weird part I never saw coming: I hated school but I loved being at school. I loved the Academy. Being in that environment freed me from my preening self and the distraction of boys. Wondering what they thought of me, trying so hard to be liked, trying to be pretty and demure. Worrying about my hair, my makeup, my breath. Worrying about farting in gym class. Nobody cared. It was just us girls, and it was fantastic. Contrary to popular Catholic school-girl myth, there was no drama, no hair-pulling girl fights or catty cliques (that I was aware of). Maybe I was oblivious but I don't recall any of that. Just girls becoming highly educated women. Me notwithstanding. Instead of being boy crazy I became girl crazy. And they were crazy for me. I was becoming more myself, my authentic self every day I was there. That might not have happened in the presence of boys, at least until I was much older. In fact I'm sure of it.

They thought I was this girl

But I was really this girl

I was in trouble a lot, but at a school like this it didn't take much. I remember being told I had a little too much "joie de vivre." Um, what? How can anyone have too much joie de vivre?? That's like having too much... joy for life... or something. I dunno-- I never took Spanish. I think this was right after I grabbed the tongs out of the lunchroom salad bar and, holding them like castanets, twirled around the lunch tables to delirious applause in what was from that day forward deemed "The Dance Of The Salad Tongs." It was a crowd pleaser, if not a very creatively named dance.

Do you think I would have danced The Dance Of The Salad Tongs around boys? No way. I would just eat a salad in the cutest way possible. Because boys don't like funny girls. Well, they might like them as friends, or maybe if they were gay, but everybody knows pretty girls don't need to be funny. They just need to be pretty and shut up when the boy is talking. He can be funny. You can't. You definitely can't be funnier than him. Right?

Fuck that.

Thank you, Madelyn Kahn. Thank you, Kristen Wiig. Thank you, Chelsea Handler.

I remember once writing a very descriptive three-page note in class, complete with illustrations detailing my date that weekend. Unfortunately it was intercepted by a teacher and I was sent to the disciplinarian's office. She lectured me about how lucky I was to be at the school and I seemed to be wasting everyone's time there. Then she said something surprising. She read the note and admitted other than the gross grammatical errors and occasional profanity, the story was funny. Very funny. She wondered if I had ever thought of becoming a writer. I argued I wasn't sure how writing was going to fit in with my dream of becoming a back-up dancer in a Robert Palmer video.

She sent me back to class.

Besides, writers were usually men, or unattractive alcoholic broads named Fran with split ends who never married. Right? I wasn't going to be a writer. I could never allow split ends. Right?

Thank you, Tina Fey. Thank you, Nora Ephron. Thank you, Ellen DeGeneres. Thank you, Mindy Kaling.

I never really believed that being attractive and being funny were mutually exclusive, but I knew a few boys that did. I say boys, not men. A real man would never be threatened by a woman one-upping him in the joke department (or any other department.) What I find funny, I think you will find funny. Why can't I tell penis jokes too? I can-- and probably deliver the line better than you. I don't need you to like me or think I'm attractive first.

The Academy reunion was held in conjunction with the boy's school (right down the street) graduating class of the same year. I knew some of the guys and have reconnected with a lot more on Facebook. One of the nicest things was hearing several times, "I never knew you were so funny" and "I love your blog". That actually means more to me now than "You were/are so pretty". Who'd a thunk that funny would trump pretty? But it does. Every time. These men get it-- they are not threatened.

I'm so glad I went to my reunion and thanked all these great girls who became great women in my life-- for their friendship, encouragement and helping me grow and do what I love to do-- make people laugh.

And most of all I'd like to thank the Academy for helping me tell penis jokes. Probably not their intention, but there you have it.

Doggie Style

2012-05-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

We have a dog. For years I was just fine without a pet in the house, especially when my kids were little. I was focused on baby-making and nothing else. But now I'm done with birthing babies. No more. I have two kids, a boy and a girl and that is plenty. My baby factory has shut down; closed for business-- I guess now it's just an amusement park. A downtown attraction way past it's prime. Some of the rides don't work and it needs constant maintenance. It might need some W-D 40 on certain rusty areas. *sigh* Sorry, what were we talking about? Oh yeah- we have a dog.

I'm a "big dog" person. I've never really had a small dog, but I just don't think I would like it. They seem so nervous and bitey and I would always be afraid of accidentally punting it across the floor while half-asleep on my way to wee in the wee hours. If you have a small dog, we can be friends... but I will always know in my heart that we are from two different worlds. If you don't like dogs at all, then something is seriously wrong with you. I bet your therapist already told you that, so I'll leave it alone.

So our dog is my new baby. Our 60 lb. bundle of fur is named Mudge. He is a German Shorthaired Pointer. A bird dog. To say he has a lot of energy is like saying Keith Richards enjoys a cocktail now and again. Mudge is a quivering, miniature thoroughbred on crack. The dog is loco, so every day I have to take him to the dog park to expend some of this craziness. We are lucky to have a beautiful park near our house dedicated just for dogs. It's a six acre fenced-in grassy retreat that includes a lake and shaded areas with benches. We are regulars at the dog park. When we walk through the gates, the other regulars greet us with a "Mudge!" It's very much like Cheers, where everybody knows your name, except we really only know each other by our dog's names. Also there is no bar, which is a damn shame.

Bird? Bird? Bird?

Some of the other regulars include Yoda, a wirey little bat-eared mutt that lives up to his moniker and his crotchety owner. Yoda's dad is like my own personal Ed Asner and I love him. There is the standard poodle named Chatzy, the pit bull Maximus, the mutt Harley, the lab Briggs, and Sir Humps-a-lot. I don't know his real name, but he is a horny motherfucker. Literally. Mudge doesn't really play with any of them, because they are not birds. He is there to hunt birds. That's his job and he must do it. If there are no birds, he is hunting dragonflies.

And then there's Maintenance Dude. Yeah...me and Maintenance Dude-- we got a thing... goin' on. I see Maintenance Dude at least once a week. He comes around to ah, check the sprinklers, fix the fence and generally maintain the park. But he always has time to chat me up. Oh, he makes time- He enjoys my yoga pants (and who doesn't, really?) Yoga pants have magical powers, everybody knows that. I'm getting the idea that Maintenance Dude really believes our witty banter will someday lead to a letter in the Penthouse Forum. Poor sap.

Sometimes Current Legal Spouse comes with me to the dog park and it can get really awkward, y'all. I had to warn him last time. I said, "There's Maintenance Dude-- promise me you won't fight him!" Current Legal Spouse leans in and says something chivalrous like, "Ha! He can have you!" while rolling his eyes so far back in his head he looks like he's stroking-out. "Maintenance Dude doesn't have a clue about high maintenance wife!" he sputters. Because he doesn't understand our love. Then my maintenance dude strolls by us, giving a nod. He'll pretend to mess with the sprinkler head and leave with a wounded look. I like to imagine he goes back to his truck and eats his bologna sandwich while listening to Adele. I call to him, "I'm no good for you, Maintenance Dude!" Current Legal Spouse calls after him, too- "Please for the love of God, take her!" Uh huh. Jealousy-- it's so unbecoming.

Current Legal Spouse also thinks I "baby" Mudge too much. "He's not even a hunting dog anymore!" he laments. And to that I say, "Could you close the door? We are cold," because Mudge and I were taking a bubble bath at the time. Again, I chalk it up to the hub's jealousy, because nobody is taking bubble baths with him and scrubbing his muddy undercarriage.

"Ahhm... jour wife? Chee is ah, ruining thees dog."

Anyway I figure this is a lot easier than having another baby. And I don't baby him anyway! I mean I don't dress him up or paint his nails and stuff. He is just a dog, I know that.

That is not me.

We treat him like a dog, not a person and he knows his place. He does NOT sleep in our bed. Gross.

That is not our bed.

Ok, so he is basically my third child. Not a real child, but a very important member of our family nonetheless. And he seems to prefer me, so he's obviously very smart. He follows me around and seems genuinely interested in my daily activities. Yes, a lot of times I do smell like bacon but even when I don't, he still likes me best. Ask him- he'll tell you.

"Don't you, Mudgie?" "You love mama best? Yes! yes ..woo do, mama's wittle stinky face is sooo cute!" Ahem...

It's time for Mudge's nap- you'll have to go now.

¡Eye Caramba!

2012-04-10T06:18:00.001-07:00

If you know anything about me, you know that diet and exercise are paramount in my life. I treat my body like a temple. A temple that hosts a donut and vodka festival every weekend. But every once in a while even I reach a saturation point. I look at my ass (or worse- a picture of my ass) and realize I gotta do something, and fast. Summer's coming. Everyone knows the quickest way to drop the pounds is running. Now, I normally don't run anywhere-- unless you count running late. This is mainly because, hmm... let's see... how shall I put it? I have what equates to two squirmy newborns growing out of my chest. I'm stacked. I can't run with these ta-ta's-- just not built for it. But I see other people doing it and it looks so effortless! I want to be a runner. I decide to do a walk/run thingy which involves running for 3 minutes followed by a "recovery period". A painful, bent-over dry-heaving ten minute limp and repeat. Yes-- I can do this!

So there I am- fired up, limbered up, geared up in all my poly/cotton moisture-wicking glory. I've got my iPod loaded with ma jams and I am looking good. I am DOIN' IT, people! I'm running! In the zone! Feeling the breeze! Tasting the rainbow!

Oh... *cough* that wasn't the rainbow I just tasted... *ppththtptooie!* That was a gnat! I just ate a gnat. I downshifted into my walk/limp phase and took a few gnat-cleansing breaths. That's when it happened...

THWACK! I took a bug to the eye. Holy fuckballs, that smarts!

I don't mean a bug grazed me and flew off-- I mean it entered my ocular cavity, dove down, squirmed around, threw up, took a shit and lost a leg up in there. Inside my eye. I danced around Watusi-style, furiously rubbing and blinking and cursing. Like an agitator in a washing machine, this basically drove the bug down deeper into my socket. I didn't really get a good look at it, (because I was blind, goddammit!) but I think it was a rogue spider or something akin to this:

Okay, maybe an exaggeration but that's what it felt like. Finally I extracted the creature and declared my workout done for the day. At least my heart rate was up! Walking home I could feel it starting to swell. At home I assessed the eye trauma and decided I would be fine after some Visine. To rehydrate, I had some wine with a Benadryl chaser. I felt better almost instantly, mainly because I soon arrived at something I call "Benadrunk." My favorite kind of drunk. Then I passed out.

In the morning I opened my eye- my one good eye because the other eye was puffy and sealed shut with a crusty outer coating. I touched my face, gingerly feeling the lid. It was hot and it had it's own heart beat. That can't be good. I ran to the mirror and ZOMG! I looked like a prize fighter. Or that kid in MASK, if that kid got punched in the eye. By a bug.
Okay, FINE-- I'll show you:

I know, right?

Thirty minutes later the Current Legal Spouse was driving me to the opthamologist (and may I add, he seemed a little "put out" by the whole thing). That's because he had the luxury of sight. I reached out and felt around for his face while he drove. I whispered, "This is just like Ice Castles!" He pushed my hands away. Something about "trying to drive.." I shot him a look with the one good eye but it wasn't effective. I turned forward, dejected. "Robbie Benson would never do that," I huffed. He had no idea what I was referring to (as usual) so I hummed the Ice Castles theme song to him. It didn't help. I hummed louder.

"The roses! We forgot about the roses..."

Even the eye doc seemed impressed with my disfigurement! It gave me an odd sense of pride.
She examined my eye with that giant light swingy contraption.

Eye Doc: Well, I don't see anything in there.. no corneal abrasion...
Me: I think there's an egg sac in there. I feel it hatching. Spider babies, hatching in my eyes... *sob*
Eye Doc: Um, no.
Me: A thorax? It feels like a thorax. Or a leg of something. It hurts.
Eye Doc: I think you just got stung on the lid, and are having a massive allergic reaction.
Me: Are you sure? Don't sugar-coat it, Doc!
Doc: Either that, or you are developing Bacterial Keratitismastenosistcryptomum, *something like that, I'm not sure what she said, it was the longest word ever* ...which causes swelling, fever, vomiting and eventual loss of sight...
Me: Will I need a patch? A seeing eye dog? Should I learn to ice skate? I have weak ankles...
Eye Doc: What? Just take these drops and put some ice on it- you'll be fine.

Sigh.
I didn't even want to go to lunch afterwards- and that's when you know something is really wrong with me, if I turn down a meal. I think Current Legal Spouse felt bad after that. As he should. Bastard.

I'm fine now, thanks for asking. I have regained sight and normal shape to my eye and face. I think the big take-away from all of this is that exercise is dangerous and it is to be avoided at all costs, if you enjoy seeing out of both eyes. Either that, or invest in some Kareem Abdul-Jabbar-style goggles. Which is a sexy, sexy look for any lady. It's a jungle out there. Meanwhile, I'll be safe indoors, in my crumb-filled but bug-free barcalounger.

Good luck!

Cluster Chuck

2012-03-27T07:01:00.002-07:00

About a month before Camille's birthday, we had this exchange:

Me: "Hey, what should we do for your birthday? We'll do anything you want!"
Camille: "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."
Me: "We could have a little party here ...maybe a bouncy castle?"
Camille: "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."
Me: "What about that place, 'Sweet and Sassy' salon? Princess makeovers!"
Camille: "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."
Me: "Hey, I know- swim party! Petting zoo? Tea party? Remember our tea party?? Fancy!"

Desperation was setting in, but it was no use- she was like a blonde broken record.
She stopped what she was doing (putting her galoshes on the dog) and stood up.

"CHUCK E. CHEESE! I TOLD YOU! CHUCK E. CHEESE!" The Kraken screeched.

And an adult can be wallet-raped by a rat!

Crapola.
I knew it was coming. Until now, I had managed to avoid the mind-numbing, snot-slimed, sticky ball-pitted, pizza sauce-coated petri dish that is "Chuck." I wanted to upchuck. I heard the stories, and that was enough for me. Throughout my older child Henry's toddlerhood, I feigned ignorance. Anytime he saw the commercials, got a birthday invitation or drove by the place I changed the channel, rsvp'd "no" or said it was, "Uh oh! Closed that day... darny."

Yeah, I know- terrible. I'm a terrible, horrible person. Mother Of The Year. Have we not covered this in the other posts? If this offends, then you obviously don't have kids.
To you I say, Eff off, Judgey McJudgerson!

Now, where was I...

Henry, "The Good One," takes everything I say at face value. Bless his heart, he believed me and quickly forgot about Chuck. Camille, not so much. She is a different animal. Very inquisitive and relentless in her pursuit of the obnoxiously advertised, she pays attention, that one. She saw the commercials and could smell a rat. A giant animatronic rat. Also somehow, somewhere she got a healthy dose of the tacky gene, making her irresistibly drawn to any gaudy, swirling candy-colored carny-style of fun. I detest it. This is one of God's little jokes on me.
But when the lip quivers, the heart quivers. Even mine. Surprised? Yeah.. me too. There was no way around it. So I gave in, reluctantly. Camille was having a party at Chuck E. Cheese.

Even almighty Brangelina is powerless against the CHUCK.

We live in the suburbs of Houston which means it's just like the big city, but with all that icky culture, originality and diversity taken out. The many Houston locations of Chuck E. Cheese probably have actual rats performing ...so in this one instance, I was glad to be in the Stepford-ized, sanitized, homogenized new world of the 'burbs. We sent the invites and I gotta give the Current Legal Spouse credit- it was his idea to have the party in the earliest time slot available, 9:30 a.m. His theory being the place would be empty (and clean?...ish?) and this nightmare would be over by noon. He does have fleeting moments of brilliance. Fleeting. Who cares if kids would be eating pizza and cake for breakfast? Not our problem and let's face it- probably not the first time.

We arrived that Saturday bright and early and truly had the place to ourselves. Score! Kids started to arrive, then more kids... plus a few... siblings. M'kay. As part of the package we pre-purchased 16 tokens for each child. Each child that was invited, that is. As soon as they hit the door, they snatched their token cups and ran. Five minutes later they were back asking for more tokens. A couple of kids I didn't recognize showed up and soon the place was swarming with screaming, running, token-crazed midgets. Because of the recent news stories of children actually being left at Chuck E. Cheese, (yes, wtf!?!) I was relieved to see several parents that stayed behind and pretended to help. Mostly they just sat in a booth, sighed heavily and drooled into their smart phones. Some just dumped and ran. Did I blame them? No, I did not. Did I envy them? Yes, yes I did.

"Please, sir.. may I have more tokens??

Other, non-party patrons were filing in and I was a tad stressed. I tried to keep track of our guests but they scattered like roaches, only returning to the table to demand more tokens like little beggars on the streets of India. Even Henry got caught up in the mob mentality and darted from one game to the next. At last count we had 17 kids in our charge. I invited 12 kids. Nine had rsvp'd. Really?? We ordered more tokens, pizza, ice cream and more goody bags. The Current Legal Spouse would run one way, I would run the other. Occasionally we would meet by the skee-ball machines and have this clenched-jaw exchange:

Me: "I cannot believe the nerve of these people! That one chick? She brought all her kids and then hauled ass!! This is not a free babysitting service!"
CLS: "Ssshhh! Lower your voice! Do you want them to hear you?"
Me: "No one can hear me! I can't even hear my own goddamn thoughts! My ears are bleeding- I may never hear normally again! I have an eye twitch!"
CLS: "Holy shit, we are never doing this again. This is costing a goddamn fortune. These kids- they're wild... they're everywhere." <looks around, frightened> "How much longer til the pizza comes out?"
Me: "I don't know! Stop handing out tokens like the fucking pied piper! You just want them to think you're cool- they are six years old! They will keep asking until you say no, dumbass."
CLS: "I am cool, and don't worry about it, dumbass! I want them to have fun!"
Me: "Oh ok.. I can't wait til you get the final bill, Mr. Moneybags!"

And then we would storm off in different directions and repeat that every twenty minutes. Good times.

"Dude...I'm out of tokens. This party blows."

Finally we corralled most of the kids for pizza and cake. Guess who ate the most? That's right- the little shits who weren't even invited. Then Chuck E. Cheese himself [stoned teenager in stinky costume] came out, posed for pictures, danced and high-fived Camille. She was in heaven. We were in hell.

The rest of the kids sprang from the table and mauled Chuck. I'm hoping one of them gave him a swift kick in the mozzarella balls, because after fighting them off, he stumbled behind the curtain and disappeared.

"Mama, why does Chuck E. smell like cigarettes? And failure?"

Then the mini-mob turned on us and again demanded more tokens. This time Current Legal Spouse, aka "Cool Dad" decided he was done being cool and said, "No, the party is almost over, you can go turn in your tickets for prizes at the counter." They stared at him collectively, then ran off.
By the time they finished carefully selecting their plastic fifty-cent crap prizes, over two excruciating hours had passed and parents started trickling in. It was over- we had survived. The hubs and I held each other and wept softly.

Camille wanted to open her gifts there but we told her HELLZ NO, we would do that at home. It was high noon and the place had reached full hysteria. I made a final sweep of the perimeter while the hubs loaded the gifts and the kids.

We drove home in silence physically, emotionally and spiritually spent. Camille was asleep before we left the parking lot. Henry stared vacantly out of the window. When we got home I made everyone take a Silkwood-style shower. You can't be too careful.

I've done my tour of duty. I've seen the face of hell. Been up close to it, smelled it. It's a giant rat that reeks of Pop Rocks and B.O. That's it. I'm sure one day we will look back on this experience wistfully but not today, friends. Not yet. The ears, they still ring. The eye- it still twitches. I'm still washing my hands obsessively.

The pain is too fresh.

Never again, Chuck. Never again.

Brallelujah!

2012-03-09T09:51:00.001-08:00

Sorry I've been away so long. Recently I experienced the sudden loss of a friend that I'm just now able to speak about. My breast friend. That's right- I'm talking about my favorite bra. The underwire broke and "Old Beige" had to be put down... *quiet sob.* To you, this may seem like no biggie. You might be a dude in which case this post might bore you, as there won't be any pics or video of my bra-less jubblies (or anyone else's). Move along, pervy.

If you have breasts of any significance you know that a woman's relationship with her bra collection is a special one. One bra style cannot serve every need. Much like a cherished group of friends, they have different personalities and strengths. You might have the "good girl", the "beautiful one", the "slutty one", the "exercise buddy" and the "BFF". And everybody should have at least one "sassy black one". Diversity, y'all! It's a beautiful thang!

"We're gonna need a bigger bra..."

They are all important but there is always one bra you keep coming back to, day in and day out. Your go-to gal. The BFF, which of course stands for Breast Friend Forever. It can be very difficult to find a great bra for the outrageously endowed. Once you find a style you like, you're a lifer. This bra is working overtime for those bodacious ta-tas. It's usually not the prettiest bra, but the most comfy and dependable. It's your heavy-duty, industrial strength workhorse. The Borax of bras. It never lets you down, except when it does- when the fabric is threadbare, your cups runneth over and the underwire fails... you know it's time.

To get to this point I had to go through the five stages of grief:

Denial: Several months ago I was out running errands and as usual I was locked and loaded in my favorite bra. It was lifting and separating dutifully when something struck a nerve- and that nerve was right under my armpit. It was a little bit of the underwire poking through. I pulled at it, readjusted and powered through my day. It was fine.

Anger: When I got home I took my bra off and inspected it. Sure enough, a tiny hole had formed and the underwire was just peeking through the opening. This goddamn bra was $85.!! Arrgh! I don't have time for this bullshit. I pushed the wire back in and hastily put it back on. I had shit to do. I went about my day in a foul mood. Two hours later, half the wire was coming up, practically out of my shirt and stabbing me repeatedly. Fucksticks.

Bargaining: I washed the bra and carefully hung it up to dry. I was sorry that occasionally I had dried it in the dryer. That's a no-no. I'll never ever do that again. Ever. Maybe I could just stitch the little hole? I can't sew for shit... Gorilla Glue? Duct tape? I guess I'll just pin it.

Depression: This isn't working. Now the pin is bothering me. And these straps are shot. I never really noticed that before. I can see my nipples through this threadbare fabric and it's not cute, even though when Current Legal Spouse sees it he says, "Oh, hellooo nipples!" and dances toward me. Um, no I don't think so. It's over. I can't believe this is the end. How can you do this to me, Beigee? After everything we've been through? Remember that weekend in San Francisco? Good times... *sniff*

Acceptance: My friend was gone. Gone to that ladies lounge in the sky. I had a small, private ceremony by the trash can while Josh Groban played softly in the background. The song was a fitting tribute and it really did raise me up, so high. Also, I may have been drunk. Josh knows a little something about love, loss and I bet, boobs. Strange, random middle-aged stalker boobs coming at him in his dressing room nightly- but I digress. I had to get out there and find a new breast friend and fast.

You cannot wear those lacy numbers in the back of your dresser on a daily basis. You guys can think what you want, but no woman in her right mind is running around Kroger in her sexy $200 Le Mystere lingerie. Or as my friend Steve calls it, "LINGER-REE!" It's too damn itchy. I think I wore my jog bra for three days straight, if you must know. But then I got tired of uni-boob. I've heard when you lose a leg or arm, you often have "phantom pains" of the lost limb still being there. I had that, too. OMG, y'all- I was a BRAMPUTEE! I would open my drawer and reach for Old Beige, but she was not there. She left a hole in my heart (and my armpit.) So when I felt ready, I went online and checked out a few prospects first. Then I met with Jean over in the "Intimates" department. Jean was matronly, cheerful and amply endowed herself. She understood my pain and loved me through it. She took me by the breast as only a woman groping another woman (in a strictly professional bra-fitting manner) could. I was measured, cupped, fastened-in and fascinated. I fell into a new relationship that fits perfectly. With several new friends in tow, I emerged from Intimates, triumphant. My heart (and my bra) will go on...

My new BFF, Nudie has not disappointed. That Jean was a bra JEANIOUS. I have a song in my heart and a spring in my chest. Not too much spring, just the appropriate amount. Let's just say things are really looking up!

Thank you for taking this journey with me.

Can I get a Brallelujah!

Double Tea Cups

2012-02-25T09:25:00.002-08:00

Relationships between a mother and daughter are complicated. My daughter Camille, aka "The Kraken" and I have been on the outs lately. Actually we've been on the outs since her birth. As a newborn she was colicky and clingy. She's what the discipline books would call a "high-need" child. She's what I would call "bat-shit crazy." I like to think I run a tight ship around here and everyone is usually on board the SS Bossy Mom, except Camille. There is always some pushback from The Kraken. It's a daily battle of wills and I refuse to back down to a 5 year old. She is whiny, spoiled and prone to tantrums. Punishments don't help. She usually has the Current Legal Spouse wrapped around her finger. We don't know WHERE she gets it. (Shut up, Mom!) But she's not a discipline problem at school (like I was.) In fact her kindergarten teacher has described her as "smart, quiet, and helpful..." Are we still talking about my daughter? The blonde one? Camille? "Oh, yes! She's a model student.." the teacher continues. "Excellent self control, listens attentively, no problems." ... Huh... alrighty then. Super. It's pretty obvious she saves up all her crazy just for me. Don't get me wrong- I love my daughter and wouldn't trade her for anything. (And you can't anyway, because apparently that's illegal.) What I've come to realize is it's a constant power struggle when you have more than one vagina in the house. Some days it feels like this:

I don't want to end up choking her on the living room floor (and then her writing a book about me.) I really need to make more of an effort to connect with her instead of just yelling all the time. That weekend the boys were going to do some boring boy stuff like an outing to Bass Pro Shops or Home Depot or something you only enjoy if you have a penis. No, thank you. I decided Camille and I needed a "Mommy and Me" day, and I knew just the place. A girly tea room for ladies who lunch. I ran upstairs and found The Kraken dismantling the playroom. "Hey, how about you and I go to a tea party, just the two of us?" Her grimy little face lit up. "Yea!" She squeals. "But first I have to change!" She runs past me into her bedroom and closes the door. I know what this means- she is going to dress herself. Oh sweet baby Jesus, help me. She is really into dressing herself lately, and I know what you're thinking- "Let her express herself!" "Pick your battles!" "Don't be such a controlling bitch!" And I agree with all of that. I need to let it go.

My little fashionista has two favorite looks; "Nonna From The Old Country" and "Prosti-Tot." Camille has a closet full of beautiful clothes, but left to her own devices this child can put together the most heinous combinations that only Lady Gaga herself could conjure. It's really quite extraordinary. The "Nonna" look usually involves way too many layers. There's usually a turtleneck, a skirt over pants, rain boots and a babushka or some type of head covering. All in the same color family. "Because it matches!" she tells me.
The "Prosti-Tot/Gaga" is just what it sounds like. Some fucked-up hooker-from-outer space combo that never involves pants. Because it's totally acceptable to play outside in just a bathing suit top and thick cotton argyle tights.

"See, this matches 'cause it all has polka dots. Duh."

She's been in there a while. I brace myself for the reveal as she comes out of her bedroom. Good God. I crack out a smile and manage to say, "Wow.. look at you! That is... quite an ensemble..." She looks like a homeless midget. But- today is all about fun, so I let it go.

Let. It. Go.

We head out and she is beyond excited, jabbering in the backseat. Usually she is just giving me the evil eye from the rear-view mirror. Awesome- we are bonding already!

We arrive at the tea house and wait to be seated. The place is just what you would expect- a floral nightmare. This must be where all Laura Ashley circa 1983 goes to die. Camille takes it all in and swoons, "Oh! how boooteeful!" The waitress smiles and motions to a pile of tattered hats in a basket. "Pick out a hat if you'd like and I'll seat you," she chirps.
Camille tears into the pile, inspecting each choice. I reluctantly choose a beribboned relic and silently ponder the lifespan of nits on a hatband. "Put it on, Mama!" Camille insists, and reaches up to force the dusty hat on my head. My scalp immediately starts to crawl. I make a mental note to Purell my forehead in the bathroom later.

At a corner table sat a group of older ladies, all hatted up. These were obviously the serious tea-baggers because they had their own gorgeous, lice-free hats from home. As we pass, they admire my daughter and I wistfully. I give them a smile which I hope conveys, "I didn't dress her like that." I think they get it.

Our hats are awesome. Your hat sucks. Bless your heart.

We look over the selections and decide we need to order the traditional English afternoon tea. The full-on tea lady lunch experience. Tea, of course, in a real teapot with china teacups with saucers! Fancy schmancy finger sandwiches! Scones with lemon curd and clotted cream! I remind Camille to place her napkin on her lap, like a lady. We put our pinkies up and sip the tea, like ladies. Camille looks at her cup and says, "This tastes like dirt water." I tell her to put more sugar in. She spoons several giant scoops into her teacup. It's mostly sugar now. Let it go, I tell myself again. A beautiful medley of goodies arrive on a tiered server. Camille grabs a sandwich and takes a bite. A slimy ribbon of cucumber slides out. "Yuck" she mutters and throws the sandwich down. She does that 3 more times. I end up eating four slightly mangled, twelve dollar saliva sandwiches. She liked the desserts and scones a little better, but when she licked the clotted cream she recoiled. "This isn't Cool Whip!" and flung the cream from her finger. It shot across the room and landed in a glob on the floor, dangerously close to an old ladies sensible pump. We hide behind our hideous hats and laugh.

I guess the thing about my relationship with Camille is not so much her behavior, but how it makes me feel about myself. If she is so crazy/unhappy, I must be inadequate as a mother. Some need is not being met. It is a deficiency of mine. But then I read an interesting article about children that throw tantrums, mostly at home. It explained that the child feels secure with you and expresses their emotions with the people they trust most. Wow. She definitely feels secure enough with me to act like a real asshole sometimes. And sometimes I act like an asshole. She is five. What's my excuse?

But we are both on our best behavior today. I pay for the overpriced lunch and we begin to walk out. She squeezes my hand. "Mama this was my best day ever..."

"Mine too, Camille." I'll never let it go.

How to get V.D. I'm here to help.

2012-02-14T08:04:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about V.D.

No, not that kind. I can't help you there. Valentine's Day is here, guys. If you haven't done anything yet you are pretty much screwed. Which means you won't be getting screwed. We can't have that can we? Nobody likes blue balls (except maybe Papa Smurf.) I'm here to help. Here are some universal truths about what (and what not) to do on the day of AMORE.

Valentine's Day is important to your lady. Any woman that tells you different is a lying liar. Just get over it and get into it! It doesn't have to be expensive. Did I just write that? We are not married so yes, I said it. It doesn't have to be expensive! Don't tell me you "don't believe in Valentine's Day.." If it's important to her (and it is) it should be important to you. Do you believe in blow jobs? Uh huh. That's what I thought. Keep reading.

Let's go over the basics.

Flowers- Always good. We'll even take carnations, which are the Wal-Mart of flowers. Bonus points for roses, delivered (sans baby's breath- are you taking her to Prom?) Double bonus points for any color other than red. Do NOT show up with fake plastic flowers because, "they last forever!" Or because, "these are genuine silk!" Just don't buy anything for her from the effing gas station, except gas, ever- ok? *sigh*

Chocolates- The only way you can go wrong is the seriously waxy, cheap "chocolate flavored candies" with a gooey cherry center. Who the hell likes that? Maybe your Grandma? Blech. Get the good stuff (which is also not at the gas station or by the register where you get your various ointments.) Insider tip: The gift of pricey calories also means, "No, I don't think you're fat- eat this!" That's a panty-dropping sentiment right there. Bravo.

You romantic, you.

Restaurant- Good in theory but let's clarify: If, God forbid you are picking the place, just make sure of a few things. Get a babysitter, and a reservation. Which means this place better not have a drive thru, (really?!?) or a menu that is posted on a wall. No "endless bucket o' wings" please. Anything that features a "bucket o'.." is a no-go. In fact, anywhere that does not have a children's menu is a great start. Bonus points if the place has tablecloths. Bitches love tablecloths.
If you are low on funds, cook for her. We love this! You also have to clean up. We love this even more!

Don't take her to the Golden Corral because "you heard it's classy" and they now have a "chocolate fountain." Personally, I have never darkened the door of that fine establishment but if you're ever worried about finding a chocolate-covered Band-Aid or ciggie butt in your dessert, I'd rethink this. No. Just no.

Massage/Pampering- This is a favorite but get it from a spa-type salon. Bonus if it's a salon she likes. Don't try to pass off one of your homemade coupon books for "1 free foot rub" or some bullshit like that. That is basically your idea of foreplay. Nice try.

Weekend Away/Hotel Stay- Aww yeah.. now we're talking, but again let's clarify; Yes, you get an 'A' for effort but many men don't realize that the "star" rating system for hotels is directly related to the quality/quantity of sex you will be having later in said hotel. Let me break it down:

✭✭✭✭ Four Seasons Resort- Mind-blowing sexy-time involving multiple positions, locations, trashy lingerie/costume changes, etc. Best night of your life.
½✭ Motel 6 by the airport- Possible half-hearted hand job during Letterman.

Your call.

This is of course subjective, but I'm also not a fan of anyone in a g-string and tube socks doing a sexy dance in the bathroom while I remove my make-up. Unless you are Justin Timberlake.

One: Cut a hole in a box.

Other very slippery areas include but are not limited to:

A stuffed bear that says I WUV U- I'm not 7 years old and I spend a lot of time now picking up fuzzy entrails of the kid's toys that our dog disembowels.

Clothes or lingerie- wrong size either way is a minefield.

Jewelry- unless she picked it out or a female friend helped. In other words, if Jane Seymore designed it, chances are I don't want it. I'm not into the "medicine woman" look. (If your special lady is, super. I'm not here to judge.)

Kitchen/Exercise equipment- even if she asked for it. I know.. cuckoo. I can't explain it, just trust.

I fully acknowledge this is a very specific and very bitchy list. Have we met? I guess I'm still a little bitter because even though we finally became engaged on Valentine's Day many moons ago, the Current Legal Spouse took his sweet time about it. I can't tell you how many years he would push a pretty box toward me and mutter, "Here ya go- it's not a ring if that's what you're thinking.." Wow. Way to sweep me off my feet, Casanova. He finally got it right, put a ring on it and has been making it up to me ever since. He is now a seasoned veteran, combining several items from the above list, further securing his spot as DILF Of The Year.

If you have a low maintenance gal that doesn't care about all this, consider yourself VERY lucky. I don't know any hetero women like this- I believe it's an urban myth. Maybe at the very least get a funny card to cover your ass. Some women, single OR married just go out and buy their own Valentine's gifts. I love it! Go, girl! Self love and all that.

And guys, if you're stumped just ASK HER! But be prepared for the answer. If she says, "Surprise me!" refer to this list. If you ask her and she pulls out a 3 page itemized list of her own, pretend to read it but run for the hills. She is high maintenance and will torture you for life. Just ask Current Legal Spouse. (We can hardly feel sorry for him because he had plenty of warning and still proposed, amiright??) He knew damn well what he was getting. He's never been happier. Just ask him. Go ahead.

In summary, yes- V.D. is a tricky, sticky subject that most men try to avoid but if you want to get it right, I am here to help.

You're welcome. Happy V.D.!!!

Pervert Magnet

2012-02-02T21:54:00.000-08:00

Oh- hello there, perverts! I bet you were expecting some really juicy stuff to pop up on this page because you were trolling the interwebs for something dirty. Sorry suckas! It's just my blog. But now that you're here let's talk about you and your problem. Why you do that "eeww" do that you do so well. Why don't you have a seat over there? I'm about to get all Chris Hanson on your ass. I'm talking about perverts. Sickos. Creeps. Deviant behavior. Now, I've known and loved a lot of "pervs" in my life. Hell, I count myself among them. I love inappropriate humor. I tell dirty jokes. If you've been lucky enough to spend any time with me, you would know the things I say and do sometimes would make Ron Jeremy blush. But that is for a laugh. I'm not talking about joking around with people you know and trust. I'm talking about actual "paraphilia" as the doctor-types call it. Go look it up, dumb fuck.

The first incident happened near my childhood friend's house. I'll call her Channin. It was a long, hot Louisiana summer in the late 70's. I was wearing my totally far-out rainbow swimsuit with the matching terry-cloth romper. Channin was probably wearing the exact same thing, or maybe a Bicentennial ensemble. You know- "Spirit of '76" and all that. Remember when that was a major fashion moment? I digress. As we walked along the sidewalk guzzling Pixie Stix, a car pulled up with the passenger window down. The man inside leaned over and asked for directions. We stepped forward onto the grass and tried to assist him. While Channin struggled to remember the names of the nearby streets, the man looked at me intently. It was probably a full minute more before I noticed the nasty magazine open there on the seat and the fact that his penis was completely exposed. Channin stood there, staring, cemented to the spot. Backing away, I grabbed her hand and quickly began walking in the opposite direction. He drove away slowly. We ran back to her house screaming, "Gross!... Oh barf! Gross!" We found Channin's mother in the kitchen with her carton of Benson and Hedges, cutoffs and a towel wrapped around her wet hair. As we breathlessly recalled what just happened, her mother took a long drag from her cigarette and muttered, "Goddamn perverts." and walked out of the room. That was it. I don't remember ever talking about it again. That was the 70's.

Fast forward ten years and I'm sitting at a stop light in my dad's totally bitchin' 300 ZX. No doubt looking at myself in the vanity mirror. Slathering on a top coat of my Merle Norman teal eyeliner, I notice the car next to me rolling down his window. Hey, he's kinda cute. But.. what..is he.. doing?? Yep. He was masturbating. He had a smug smile on his face while he whacked. Thankfully the light turned green and I punched the gas. Relieved to get away from him, I just started laughing. He quickly caught up to me and pulled along side. My laughter seemed to enrage him. He beat it angrily and stayed right beside me, glaring and whacking. I flipped the Furious Fapper the bird and made a sharp left. I drove straight home while Janet Jackson's "Nasty" played in the tapedeck. I never told anyone. That was the 80's.

There were others. Flasher in the mall parking lot, construction workers cat-calling, a random boob-grabber on the streets of New Orleans, etc. Ask any woman and I bet she'll tell you a similar tale. Some much worse. Some that can never be laughed about. I've been lucky.

But here is the Perv de Resistance:

There was a beautiful old Art Deco-style movie theater near our first house in Houston. Sadly it shut down, but was later converted into a book store. (No- not a dirty bookstore, you pervs!) I could spend hours there. One weekday night, Current Legal Spouse and his latest bromance were going to a Rockets game. I was working late anyway and decided to stop by the bookstore on my way home. It was after 7 and not many people were around. Because this was originally a theater, this bookstore was fantastic in that it had several levels, a balcony and strange little aisles. I made my way upstairs to browse. I was in an aisle alone flipping through a book. I noticed someone pass out of the corner of my eye but I didn't look up. I was reading. I don't know how much time passed because I was so engrossed in the book. Suddenly I felt a strange sensation on the bottom of my ass. Something touching me, between my legs from behind. I immediately thought it was a toddler so I turned slowly. No. It wasn't a toddler. It was a grown man, Hispanic-looking with a sturdy build, on all fours with his nose jammed in between my ass cheeks. He was sniffing my ass. On all fours. In a bookstore. Grown-ass man. Sniffing me.

Something in me snapped. I was so enraged, so violated- I did not hesitate. I knocked him upside the head with the book I was holding. Hard. I forgot to mention this was a weighty, twelve inch, hard bound 500 page tome (about etiquette, of all things. ETIQUETTE!) He fell over like a tipped cow and covered his head. I stood over him, shaking. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" I screeched, and hit him again. Harder. He started crawling away from me down the aisle whispering repeatedly, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I took a step forward and kicked him in the stomach.

First he was all Then he was like

He then got up and ran. I threw the book down and stood there for a moment. I looked over the balcony and a few people were looking up. No one came to inquire what the ruckus was. And it was a ruckus. Did they think that was a lovers quarrel? I didn't care. I didn't even want to talk to anyone, let alone report it, I just wanted out of there. I drove home to an empty house and remembered that Current Legal Spouse was at the basketball game. I called him anyway. This is all I could hear.

This must be why I hate sports! I can't hear that song without clenching my butt cheeks. I hung up the phone and locked the doors. In the safety of my bedroom I took off my pants and considered burning them. But they were a really nice, silk lined gabardine. I decided to just have them dry cleaned. If I burn them, the pervert wins. Thank the Lord I was wearing pants that day and not a skirt. That fucker could have been on all fours sniffing my ass for a full five minutes! I don't know how long he was back there. The more I thought about it the madder I got. I was glad I hit him. It felt good. I called some friends and after a few awkward minutes we began to laugh. I could laugh about it. He sniffed the wrong ass that night. I doled out some Perverted Justice. Thelma and Louise style.

Granted, my ass probably does smell terrific. I can't be sure because I'm not that limber but I've never had any complaints. I like to imagine the scent is a heady mixture of roses and bundt cake. But that doesn't give some stranger the right to sniff it. You have to earn that right.
I was proud of myself because I figure creeps like that must get off on the typical horrified reaction. That's part of the thrill. You know- scream, look terrified, run away. Sorry to disappoint, muthafucka- but here comes a book to your brain!!

I went to work the next day and told my story. I was a hero. I think I retold it ten times that day. We all wondered if that bookstore had captured the event on security cameras. They probably watch it every year at the annual Christmas party. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Now that I have children of my own it's hard to know how much information to give without scaring them into never leaving the house. The things I described above would be on the evening news these days. Even though no one actually ever hurt me (physically) just the thought of someone exposing themselves to my children sends me into a white-hot rage. My main message is if someone is near you (stranger or not) and something doesn't feel right, walk away. Fast if you can, and if you can't... FIGHT. Fight back with every ounce of strength you've got. Kick, bite, scratch, pee, poop or pummel 'em with a book.

I'm not sure I will ever understand the mind of a true pervert but I like to believe that because of me, there is one less at the old bookstore tonight.

See ya later, masturbator!

Vermont is for Lesbians

2012-01-26T13:16:00.000-08:00

So, I went to Vermont recently. I went with a friend. I'll call her Sherry. Sherry just loves Vermont because she is rich. Rich people just love Vermont. I guess it's because the whole state is like a little postcard of white bread patrician wholesomeness. It's so clean and everyone there looks outdoorsy and freshly scrubbed like they just came from an L.L. Bean photo shoot. Anyhoo, she wanted to go (and I'm a vacation whore) so of course I said, "Vermont? Hells yes!"

If you don't know, a "vacation whore" is that person/friend/paid escort who is willing to go anywhere, anytime at the drop of a hat. That is me. If you called me right now and said, "Hey, wanna go to..." I'd be packing a bag and leaving skidmarks on the driveway before we hung up. My kids know how to order a pizza and the Current Legal Spouse can pick up the slack, so I'm your gal.

I live in Texas where we don't experience the seasons. But oh! Vermont in October! Crisp Autumn days! Leaf peeping! Maple tapping! Cheese tours! I was pretty jacked up. As I packed I knew this wouldn't be our "typical" girl's trip. There have been a few wild ones... this would be more like "Girls Gone Mild." Still, I was excited. I started to realize how few flat boots and shoes I owned. I assumed Vermonters pretty much frownie-face on the fuck-me pumps.

Sherry made the travel plans but I picked all the restaurants because she knows I'm a level 10 foodie freak fatty. An eatomaniac, if you will. I care way too much about food. Some would call it an eating disorder. I call it a discriminating palate. A bad meal can ruin me for the day. So, I gathered my laptop and notebook along with my food-porn trifecta: Conde Nast, Bon Appetit and Zagat.

This is probably Martha Stewart's maid's house.

We flew into New York and rented a car. Just driving through Vermont is stunning. A quilted patchwork of farms and freshly starched little towns painted white and green. Quiet, dappled sunlit back roads that stretch on for miles. No fast food joints. Not a billboard in sight. And the trees! The colors! It's like an acid trip! It's like God ate too many Fruity Pebbles and hurled up this technicolor masterpiece. The tourism board should really contact me to write their brochure.

Fruity Pebbles!

The hotel was in the heart of historic Manchester Village and did not disappoint. Our room was luxurious and romantic. We decided the bellhop had us pegged as lipstick lesbians. (Or just plain old lesbians- it had been a long day of travel and I didn't have any lipstick on.) Maybe I shouldn't have held Sherry's hand in the lobby? I'm very affectionate... sue me! In any event, the hotel was perfect for me and my life partner. We spent that first afternoon out exploring the shops, sampling cheeses and sipping hot cider. That night we lingered over a maple-glazed porkfest and many glasses of wine by a roaring fire. I told the waiter it was my wife Portia's birthday and to bring something special for dessert. We were so exhausted, fat and happy to be there, anywhere, without our children or husbands. Nobody jumping on our beds or trying to have sex with us while we're bloated. Perfection.

Vermont's main claim to fame is maple syrup. There are several types of maple trees that they tap this liquid gold from. You've got your grade A, your grade B and your "fancy." You didn't know you were going to learn so much did you!? I make learning fun! Another fun thing to do is to walk up to a maple tree in front of random strangers, start stroking the bark and say, "Aww yeah.. I'd tap that!" It never gets old. I don't care what Sherry says.

There was also a lot of cheese making going on. And a shit-ton of samples everywhere. You could not go anywhere without someone shoving some maple-flavored goat gouda in your pie hole. It was awesome! We could not stop sampling. There is an actual "cheese trail" through Vermont. It was a whole lotta dairy churning in the belly. Cholesterol rising by the minute. By the end of the day I could feel my organs shutting down one by one, so we limped back to the hotel. Then it was time for dinner! Holy crap- literally. Let me just sum up our "gastrointestinal adventures" this way: That toilet saw more ass than Charlie Sheen at a porn convention. Sherry and I took our friendship to another level. Enough said. Let's never speak of it again.

The next morning Sherry had arranged for us to do something called "falconry." I didn't really question it, thinking maybe it was going to be a historical reenactment of the 1980's television show Falcon Crest with Lorenzo Lamas. Which would be totally kick ass!
But no, that wasn't it at all. Turns out falconry is the ancient art of hunting wild quarry by means of a trained bird of prey. A falcon. Huh. In layman's terms you basically walk around with hunks of meat in a fanny pack until a huge-ass bird swoops down out of nowhere and plucks it from your gloved arm.

What. The. Fuck.

Um. Saywhatnow, Sherry? How in hell did I become friends with this crazy bitch? I was totally ready to break up with her. Oh, Lord it was too late- we pulled up to the place and were greeted by Brenda, the 6 foot flannel-clad falcon mistress. She did kinda look like Lorenzo Lamas. You know how earlier I said everyone in Vermont was outdoorsy and freshly scrubbed? Well upon closer inspection all that cold, bracing outdoorsy-ness can really do a number on your skin. Brenda's face had all the suppleness and texture of a Chicken McNugget. Maybe she didn't have access or knowledge of a decent moisture regimen. Maybe she had a run-in with an uppity falcon, I don't know. I was too afraid to ask. I wondered if falcons could smell fear. I asked Brenda if falcons had nostrils. She ignored me while she and Sherry waxed poetic about the majestic beauty of giant killer birds.

This is Brenda and her faithful companion.

We spent an hour learning more than I ever wanted to know about falcons, all the while this feathered assassin kept eyeballing me. And by that I mean Big Bird clearly wanted to pluck my eyeballs out and fly away with them. I'm so glad Brenda made us sign and initial the five page disclaimer saying that *might* happen, but hardly ever does. Good times.

Sherry seriously had to make it up to me the next day with a trip to the spa and a drive to the original Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream factory. I must have lacto-amnesia because I was stoked! It was a fun tour and- you guessed it- more samples! By this time I was like a conditioned eating machine. Nothing could stop me. I just needed to.. maybe.. lay.. down...

We headed back towards town through the winding country roads, aflame in autumnal splendor. Occasionally I would urge Sherry to pull over so I could get out and take a picture of some of that splendor. Also, I needed to fart and I'm very considerate like that.

On one of our little "detours" for "pictures" [farts] we became lost but weren't too concerned because hey! We had our phones with directions, maps etc. and hey! Adventure! Then it got dark. I'm not talking about dark like where you live, looking outside and it's dusky because you've got street lights, maybe a Burger King in the distance. No. I'm talking the inky-black-country-dark-can't-see-jack-shit. We were driving and driving and our phones weren't working. I started to get a little uneasy when we passed the same spooky farm several times. We'd look at the map then turn back around. Vermont has some fucked-up back roads, not to mention several *key* bridges were washed away in the flood earlier that year. Super. That detail wasn't on the map. We were experiencing the little-known underbelly of Vermont. Banjo's and shit. I was starting to sweat and it smelled a little like maple syrup. Hours later we finally made it back to the hotel alive and soothed ourselves with room service and a Ryan Gosling movie.

All in all, it was a fabulous trip and like all experiences, I learned some things that will stay with me:

1. Sherry is weird
2. Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize
3. Falcons can smell fear
4. My cheese threshold isn't what it once was
5. Vermont has an underbelly

I'm so happy to impart the wisdom of our carpet-munching capers onto you, Dear Reader.

Happy Cheese Trails!

The Girl With The Press-On Tattoo

2012-01-22T12:27:00.000-08:00

I saw The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo a few weeks ago and can't stop thinking about it. Of course I've never seen a movie that was better than the book but I think they did an excellent job considering Mr. Larsson was not able to provide his two cents.

The opening credits feature a reworked version of Led Zeppelin's classic, "Immigrant Song" which I've always loved because like all Led, it reminds me of riding around in my brother's truck in high school. He would crank it to 11 and drum the steering wheel, desperately trying to drive the Kajagoogoo out of my brain.

I still prefer the original, but my Current Legal Spouse likes Trent Reznor's take.

Compare. Contrast. Discuss.

http://youtu.be/L0bD4ts8eWY

Also, I can't stop listening to it because it makes me want to be an invincible, ass-kicking bisexual tattooed and pierced-up computer hacking ninja. (Except without the anal rape. No, thank you.)

And yes, even though my only tattoo is a press-on Spongebob and even though I'm probably standing in line at Gymboree right now, exchanging children's socks, I'm still a bad ass.

In my mind.

THREE. (It's a magic number)

2012-01-13T16:15:00.000-08:00

So apparently I'm supposed to write something here every week? Sometimes more? Is there someone I should speak to? This is getting serious. I mean I like you and all, I just think we should go slow, get to know each other first before we rush into the third post. It's like 3rd base. It's *kind of* a big deal. So put your pants back on and I'll go first.

Really. Put them back on. Now.

Fun Facts About Me:

I was born and raised in Louisiana. While you conjure images of a pig-tailed gal in overalls me-oh-my-oh rowin' my pirogue down de bayou, then jumping on an alligator's back, I should tell you that hardly ever happened. I was queen of two Mardi Gras balls, one of which I was dressed as a giant, bedazzled crawfish. Yes, The Crawfish Queen. It's amazing what a teenage girl will do for a car.

I attended an all-girls Catholic high school. Again, I know what you're thinking. Snobby white girls, short skirts, knee high socks, tickle fights in the gym locker room while mannish, repressed nuns watched thru peep-holes.
You guys are filthy pervs.
Nope. It was more like, "hairy leg" contests and 300 girls on the same "cycle." Yeah. Think on that for a moment. Sorry to crush your boner.

I attended Art Institute of Houston. I was way too cool for Baton Rouge and had to leave there PRONTO. You people could never understand me! I was so alternative! I immediately started wearing all black, (which I purchased at Ann Taylor) doing Ecstasy, and hanging with drag queens. It was here I learned my Special Purpose: Emulating Madonna in every way and becoming a major-league fruit fly to countless homosexuals.
I was one of the original "Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys." That show is about me. That's a whole 'nother post.

I met my husband in art school. He was (and still is) a very serious and talented artist. Unlike me, who really was there because I didn't want to do any more math, ever. And we got to draw naked people. Good times, from what I can remember.
We graduated, lived in sin for many, many MANY years until we got married. He is very private and doesn't really want to be mentioned in "this little blog thing I'm doing." He works very hard at ignoring my shenanigans by sighing heavily and rolling his eyes. Most of my friends refer to him as "that poor man!" For the purposes of this blog, we shall refer to him as "Current Legal Spouse."

I worked in Advertising for years, blah blah.. creative department, blah, meetings, buzzwords, team building bullshit, blah, corporate downsizing, sexual harassment, blah, crying in the bathroom etc. and so on. Then I worked in Interior Design for years, again blah, crazy designers, rug drama, fancy parties, high maintenance millionaires, blah, Enron, blah.

I'm boring myself.

I rocked my whole pregnancy in heels and feeling fab, totally thinking I was going to hire a nanny, poot out this baby and continue working. I'm every woman! It's all in me!

Two months after my son was born I quit my job, traded in my Mercedes for a used SUV and we moved to the 'burbs. Everyone was in shock. No one more than me. Still a little bit in shock- not gonna lie.

The next few years were truly a blur, all I know is I have TWO kids now. For the purposes of this blog, I'll be referring to them as "The Kraken and The Good One." The Kraken is 5 years old, and The Good One is 9.

My son Henry is 9. He sprang from my loins smiling. Always happy, sleeping through the night earlier than all my friend's stupid babies. He walked early, talked early and generally was a delight. So I decided to have another baby...

My daughter Camille, THE KRAKEN is 5. She feeds on chocolate milk, Goldfish Crackers (Kraken crackers) and little else. Like the real Kraken, she is multi-tentacled and generally pissed-off. She leaves a whirlpool of plastic princess dress-up shoes and glitter-glue in her wake.

The pitch and tenacity of her whine will hijack your amygdala and render you powerless. You must bend to her will. FEAR HER.

I'm exaggerating of course. Sometimes Henry is bad. Sometimes Camille is sweet. True, it's mostly when she is at school or unconscious. But still.

So that's it! Sorry that was a lot of info but if we're going to move forward I thought it was important.

Now take off those pants.

Blog Ambition

2012-01-03T21:18:00.000-08:00

When starting a blog there are so many things to think about: What will I call this masterpiece? Who will be my audience? Who will play me in the rom-com when Hollywood inevitably comes a-knockin'?? Stuff like that.

If you're starting out late like me, it can be difficult to even find a name for your little blog 'cause all the good ones are taken!! You'd be surprised how many people want to be "Milfapalooza."

That was my first setback. I had to really think about this, y'all. Who am I? What really represents me? Here are some name/ideas I kicked around for my baby:

Flabulous
Bitch Said What?!
Big Boob Bloggin'
Tits On A Platter
More On Me
Moron Me

Then I remembered something my good friend Donald Trump told me. He said, "Rach, (we are close) always use a cream rinse to tame split ends, and always put your name on your blog." "It's douchey, but it works."

Wait, did he say "blog" or "buildings"? The details don't really matter. I needed my name in the name. That much I knew, you know? I started brainstorming again.

Rachael Slurs- This one I love because it sounds like "racial slurs." !! Get it? Effing hilarious, right? Because I drink a lot! Oh.. ok, so it might anger some minorities (or majorities, depending on where you live) and that would lead to..

Rachael Tension- Can I fucking help it if my name sounds like "racial"?? Damn. Lighten up. Jeeze.

Anyhoo, I had to move on to something positive, something feel-good. Let's see..

Rachaelicious
Rach For The Stars! (that will definitely be the name of my variety show)
Rach For The Sky! (what am I, a damn cowgirl now?)
Rach For The Motherfuckin' Win! (or RFMFW! for short)

and so on...

In the end, I chose "RachRiot" because it connotes several things that appeal to me. Webster defines the term "riot" this way:
"A wild and turbulent public disturbance" (Um, yes I'm a fan of that.)
"A lavish display or enjoyment" (Have you seen me eat?)
"A very amusing thing or person" (Meh. Two out of three ain't bad)

Also because it's a noun and a verb AND a colloquialism! And who doesn't love a colloquialism?!

No one, that's who.

Hey! I'm Bloggin' Here!

2012-01-01T19:19:00.000-08:00

Oh, hello there and welcome! Can you believe it? I started this blog because I made a promise to myself on New Year's eve that I would finally pursue my dream of writing. So here it is, January 1st, 2012. I gotta tell ya, it feels pretty good! I mean yes, I made that promise in 2009 but the point is I'm doing it now, so let's just drop it, m'kay?

It's always hard to find the time to begin something like this, especially between the major philanthropic work and volunteering at the shelter, etc. Luckily I don't do either of those things so I've got a lot of free time. I spend a lot of time on Facebook and if you're reading this, we're probably Facebook friends, real life friends or you're my mother. I have started this blog upon your urging. So many people have said to me, "Rachael, we LOVE your daily postings, witticisms and bon mots but we need more!" "We demand more lolz!" "Please! Expound!"

Well, here you go. You're welcome.

P.S. If you are easily offended, this may not be the blog for you. I say "motherfucker" quite a bit. I can't clean it up for you. I would be compromising my true craft and I can't do that for you motherfuckers, understand?

Happy New Year!