funny

Life Goals Achieved This Week

May 11, 2016 — 2 Comments

I actually don’t have that many life goals.

I used to, but I either 1) achieved them already, or 2) gave up on them.

The big one I gave up on was graduate school and becoming a college professor. At one time, it was my only goal; now it’s something I have absolutely zero interest in doing. Every once in a while my mother suggests I go back to school, or asks when I am going back to school. I always respond by blankly staring at her, because really how many times do I have to explain this?

Really I think my absence of life goals at this point in my life has to do with that fortune cookie I got years ago that read: those who expect nothing never find themselves disappointed.

As pathetic as that fortune cookie is, it’s so truthful it stings.

So I don’t have many goals anymore. More I have things I would like to do, because they’d be fun or whatever. But if I don’t end up doing them before my untimely demise (because whenever I kick it, it’ll surely be untimely) – oh well.

Life is too short, and I have too much to value in my life now, to be constantly chasing dreams.

(I realize that this philosophy spits in the face of every pithy inspirational quote you have ever seen.)

This week has been pretty strange, though. I’ve done a lot of things – verifiably dumb things – that were they listed among my life’s goals and dreams, I would have a considerable number of check marks added to that list.

I finally offended someone over the matter of pizza.

I say some really shitty things about pizza in California to people. I mean that I am pretty surprised that I haven’t offended anyone up to this point over the matter of pizza – really, I am surprised.

When my in-laws and I tried a new pizza place in town last year, I told them I would rather lick the inside of my husband’s ear than eat there again.

I have brought my own homemade pizzas to a pizza party where the pizza was already provided because local pizzerias make me queasy.

I’m a jerk, and over a really stupid issue. I know.

But really…is pizza a stupid issue? If you’re from Chicagoland area, like I am, no. No, pizza is not a stupid issue, and never a laughing matter.

So my mother came over for dinner the night before Mother’s Day, for an early celebration. She asked what our plans were the following day, and my kids told her that among our other things, we had special ordered some pizzas from Giordano’s – one of our favorite pizzerias in Chicago, that just happens to ship frozen pies around the country.

Then the kids told her how expensive they were and my mother’s response (and tone) showed how clearly offended she was over the matter:

“Oh, well …I had a slice of pizza the other day for $5 but I guess that isn’t good enough for people who have $60 to drop on frozen food.”

Life goal to offend someone over the matter of pizza? Achieved.

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My Boob Fell Out of My Tank Top At Staples

My body has been pretty weird lately. Awkward, maybe is the right way to put it.

And as a result of this awkwardness, I’ve been especially attached to my yoga pants, hoodies, and bra tank tops lately.

So there I was, picking up my copy and print order at my local Staples office supply store, and I dropped my keys on the floor. I bent down to pick them up and WHOOP – my boob plum fell out of my top.

The offending tank top was pretty small to begin with, and I honestly hadn’t been expecting to go anywhere that day. Fortunately, the guy ringing up my copy and print order didn’t notice as I quickly tucked myself back in while I stood back up.

Or at least he didn’t let on that he had seen anything.

Life goal to give up so much that body parts arbitrarily fall out of my slovenly clothing while out in public? Achieved.

I’ve Learned To Swallow Food Whole

I don’t know if I should be proud or horrified by this, but if I had a life goal to learn how to swallow my food whole – as in no chewing or silverware involved – well, then I have mastered this one. Oh, have I mastered it.

It started Monday night. My husband worked really late, and I was awake at about three o’clock in the morning after he texted me about how late he’d be getting home. Suddenly I realized that the reason I couldn’t get back to sleep was because I was starving – I mean I was so hungry I could have eaten anything… anything…

So I got up and grabbed a couple bananas, but was so tired I just wanted the eating process to be over with. Long story short, I unintentionally engaged in some pseudo-erotic, middle-of-the-night, whole banana consumption. My appetite was immediately satisfied and I was sawing logs within five minutes.

Then tonight it was time to make supper for myself and the kids, and we were all so hungry we could barely stand it. I went to make something quick (a box of some kind of quickie angel hair pasta dish), but it needed milk and we had run out earlier in the day. Feeling uninspired to cook anything but a throw-together box meal, we ended up desperately grabbing my purse and running out the door to go to In N Out.

By the time we got to In N Out, ordered our food, sat in the characteristically never-ending line, and got our food, my stomach was starting to feel queasy from having been so empty. So I took out my grilled cheese sandwich and scarfed it in about one, large bite.

Unlike the banana situation from Monday night, I was still hungry.

So the moral of the story is that were I to set life goals for myself at this particular stage, they would have to be pretty low brow. Don’t expect too much, or anything, because I clearly have little to give.

But it makes for a good story, right?

I Might As Well Move To Stepford At This Point

September 21, 2015 — 10 Comments

Did any of you see the Stepford Wives movie? Either the first, or the second – if you didn’t, you really need to.

It’s about a town called Stepford, where everyone acts so stereotypical in their gender roles you’d be crazy to not think something was up. As it turns out in the end (spoiler alert!) the men have basically turned the wives in to robots, or killed them and made robots of them (something like that). In the newer one with Matthew Broderic and Nicole Kidman, the twist at the end is that it’s actually the female founder of the town who turned her husband (Christopher Walken) into a robot, so that he would then go on to turn the remaining and new wives of the town into robots so that everything would go on being very 1950s-honey-here-are-your-slippers-how-was-your-day-I-made-you-an-apple-pie.

So this morning my friend Stacy came over to do this instructional video thing for a class she’s taking. She’s in my craft group, which should be a real red flag for you: that this is Stepford; I am living in Stepford; because where else can you find a craft group but Stepford? We did the video thing (I showed how to make your own homemade foot scrub…….how Stepfordian, I know), and then when we were done I made her a cup of tea. She sat down while I did dishes. And we caught up on local drama and where we buy our cleaning products.

Where. We. Buy. Our. Fucking. Cleaning. Products.

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In the middle of our conversation, she burst into laughter and said “I’m sorry, I just realized we are having a total Stepford moment here.”

We were. And the worst part is this: I am always having a Stepford moment. My life is just one, long Stepford pause.

Just a week ago, we returned from our annual fall vacation to Oregon. As typically happens on vacation, as soon as my head was out of the smog and the sludge of LA, my mind cleared and I asked myself just what in the actual fuck has happened to my life.

I get up in the morning and start doing chores. I make breakfast, I dust and vacuum. I put away the dishes and start the laundry.

After I’ve worked out and showered, I throw on my mom pants (yoga pants) and a tank top and resume the chores while administering homeschooling and making lunch.

Some days I chauffeur to and from tennis. Other days I’m running errands, all of which have to do with cooking, cleaning, and making a home.

Yes, I just said the words “making a home” in complete and utter earnestness.

I make dinner, I do more chores. I fold so much laundry that we recently installed a television and DVD player in the laundry room. More chores. Bedtime routines. More laundry. And so on.

But it isn’t only my daily routine that is insultingly in line with my stereotypical role that is so Stepford.

Funny-Memes-HushIt’s the fact that I cut my husband’s hair for him. Who does that anymore? Seriously. I genuinely believe it’s the right thing to do.

It’s the four course meals on the table, every night.

It’s that I bide away my occasional and rare free time with sewing and knitting projects, instead of pedicures and massages.

There was a day that a pair of socks with holes in them went in the trash. Now, I darn them. I darn socks.

It’s the “oh you’re in the mood for chocolate chip cookies? …well I’ll just whip up a batch right now!”

It’s the fact that when I have an actual conversation with an actual adult, in actual real life, what I actually discuss…

…is where I buy my fucking cleaning products.

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As I said to my friend this morning, the only thing truly sticking between me and truly being a Stepford wife is the fact that I still dress like a slob. I wear yoga pants and tank tops everywhere; I have an at-home hoodie and a  fancy hoodie for “special occasions.” Yesterday I wore jeans to a birthday party, for all of an hour and a half, and was back in yoga pants within a minute of getting home. My hair is essentially a rat’s nest sitting atop my head; and make up – which used to be a regular and celebrated thing – is something I now loathe putting on.

In that sense, I am able to calm myself when my head clears and I question what has become my daily reality – when I am on vacation, or just have an extra amount of down time and an opportunity to sit and really take stock in my life. My life may be set on a permanent, Stepford pause. But at least I’m not in a poodle skirt and buttoned-down pinafore.

Yet.

The other thing I forgot to mention about my morning Stepford tea with my friend Stacy was that she’s a librarian and today she brought me a book. A book we’ll have to delve into next time, because I’m so afraid for my rat’s nest of a hair do and my daily yoga pants habit to even open it…

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My No-Vomit Rule, and Other Assorted Hypochondrias

May 27, 2014 — 5 Comments

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I’ve had writer’s block for going on two months now. Haven’t written a thing; in fact, I haven’t even tried. I just stopped caring, and I’m not sure why. But I knew the urge to write, and to write on this blog, would come swooping back at some point.

Swooping back like a hard and fast case of explosive diarrhea.

I’m a bit of an hypochondriac. By that I mean I sanitize everything – pretty much – every day. I just really don’t like being sick, and more than not liking being sick, I don’t like caring for people that are sick. Because then I get sick, and moreover I’m filled with this overwhelming sense of a) guilt that I cannot do anything, really, to take it away; and, b) there is always that ever looming fear of “what if?” What if this is something worse? I’ve read enough Huffington Post articles about a woman that goes in for a routine check up and dies one week later of some obscure form of melanoma; I’ve heard about MERS making its way around the United States.

I know how many of you now don’t vaccinate your kids…

In any event, to curb illness, and my own cases of heebie-jeebies, I have some rules in the house. Relative to my hypochondria, that is.

Rule 1. No vomiting. I know you are all thinking that this is insane, and never works – BUT …this actually works as a rule a fair amount of the time. Everyone knows that Mom can’t handle vomit, so they do their best to keep their nausea down when ill, or at the very least just tell themselves they are fine until it comes out the other end. Too graphic? Well, blowing chunks is too graphic to me and since I’m the one who has to clean everything up around here, they (usually) control it.

Rule 2. Always ALWAYS ALWAYS wash your hands when returning home. From anywhere. I don’t give a flying fig if you just stepped outside to let the dog pee for 30 seconds. You leave the house, you wash your hands. Very simple, works like a charm.

Rule 3. If Mom says you are sick, you are fucking sick. My husband and my father (both of whom live in our home) have this habit of being sick but denying it. “No, I don’t have a cold, it’s just an allergy…” “No I don’t have a stomach bug, my body is just doing its own colon cleanse…”

Bullshit on that noise. If I say you are sick, you are sick and you will act accordingly (as in, stay away from everyone else in the house and DO NOT – whatever you do – go to work/school/playdates/extra-curriculars/etc to just make things worse).

On a related note, I’d say that about 95% of the time, I’m right. Even with the dog – who we just adopted a week ago, and I just knew wasn’t feeling well. Everyone said I was being paranoid, but I insisted and now she’s on antibiotics for suspected pneumonia from kennel cough (a relic of being a shelter dog just over a week ago before we brought her home).

Rule 4. If you are sick, and you know you are sick – you have accepted it into your heart as absolute truth, independent of whatever denial you have put yourself through prior to said acceptance – just let Mom know. Just let her know! Give her a shout out! A text, a Tweet, a trail of snot rags to the end result of a note on the fridge saying “I clearly have a cold…” WHATEVER. Just let me know, because then I can sanitize the shit out of the house, preventing others from getting your plague.

I think we fair pretty well on the iron fist of my glaring, and probably unhealthy, hypochondria.

But it doesn’t go without its problems. By that, I mean that I usually always assume people in the house are sick. Germy. Ready to spew everywhere, or at the very least take an uncontrolled dump on my nicely cleaned carpeting. See, the thing about hypochondria and paranoia about germs is you realize that all those sons of bitches around you don’t think like you do. Suddenly everyone is the enemy – germy, disgusting, unclean enemies just trying to make you ill. Their hands are not riddled with eczema from excessive hand washing. Their lungs are not coated with a thin layer of Clorox solution from daily inhalation of the fumes that waft up from the constant scrubbing of surfaces that would be riddled with germs, had it not been for your daily sanitization routine.

You see? I’m PSYCHOTIC.

Like I said: I’ve read the articles. I’ve seen the bacteria booth at the county fair that shows you how much shit is caked all over your household. It’s disgusting. Really, I think a slash-and-burn style approach to all of our things would be best, but then we’d need to be independently wealthy and have no moral qualms with intentionally destroying all of our things and starting anew, just because I may be slightly a-kilter in the mental health department.

So when my husband pounds down food and beverage in a way that is both unsavory to watch, and unholy to his innards; and subsequently gives himself a case of explosive diarrhea … well, I flip the fuck out. Maybe explosive diarrhea is a bit of an exaggeration – what do I know, he doesn’t share the details with me, and all I have is the mess to clean up (ewwwww, gross, is the only thought you should be having there…), but just imagine this…

In less than twelve hours, you consume: a large cup of coffee, a half a loaf of banana bread, a taco salad layered in salsa and avocado, two Bud Light Limes, a turkey dog, a plate of salted watermelon, two corn on the cobs, baked potato chips with far too much olive oil, a large energy drink, another cup of coffee, and another half a loaf of banana bread… well, if you consume that, your tum tum might be a little achy, seeing as about 3/4 of those things act as natural laxatives. If you consumed all of that in that short period of time, you should be going to bed saying to yourself: “self…tomorrow seems to be a good day for diarrhea.”

But do I just think that my husband having a gut ache and a bad case of “I ate an entire box of Ex-Lax” is your standard fair, and worth nothing more than an “I hope you feel better?” Oh hell no. Even after he told me that at lunchtime he basically resumed porking down food at unprecedented rates, I sat rocking back and forth like the Rainman of disease paranoia, wondering just to what lengths I should go to rid our home of his dreaded germs.

I just – basically – cleaned the entire house, from top to bottom. I sanitized everything IN RUBBER LATEX GLOVES …just to be safe. And I asked him about fifteen times if he was sure he’s better now, which he is (obviously). Then the only thing I could think to do was sit down with my glass of wine – the smell of Clorox fresh in my nose – and write a blog about it.

So that – ladies and gentlemen – are the illness-related rules in our house, the public proof of my clear psychosis, and the story of how my husband’s bowels ended my terrible bout of writer’s block.

Thanks honey.

Countdown to Christmas… How To Wrap Gifts

December 17, 2013 — 3 Comments

I hate the holidays.

I mean, I think we’ve established that I hate pretty much everything. And everyone. And myself.

But I really fucking hate the holidays.

Some of you may or may not have been around here long enough to know all the fun details of my relationship with my mother. In a nutshell: it’s dysfunctional. It’s mom abandoned dad and I when I was only 10 to move across the country and have an elicit affair with a married man, which turned into 20+ years of bad relationships, childhood traumas, and other assorted maladies.

What is making this holiday season particularly horrid is that my mother is around. Her new husband lives in New Mexico, so I’m not sure why she is here. To compound things, I didn’t ask her to help plan my daughter’s birthday party, so she was a bitch to everyone there (for which I had to spend the entire following day making apologetic phone calls); then today she screamed at me about how this was the equivalent to me stabbing her in the back with a knife, and destroying her sense of place in the world. And by the way how dare you go shopping for Christmas gifts with your mother in law so she gets what you guys actually need, instead of shit that will just get wasted or donated. And my God you are such a bitch why aren’t you buying me more dinners and inviting me over for more free lunches, and what the fuck with your not coming to visit me two or three times a week to play puzzles and color with grandma.

Other. Assorted. Maladies.

This is making me really fucking hate the holidays even more so than usual. It’s adding another layer of shit to my plate that I don’t want to deal with, and quite frankly – after 20+ years of this shit – I’ve essentially had it.

It’s very complicated.

In any event, I am counting down to Christmas. In a big way, because (obviously) I just want the damn holiday to be over with.

This year Thanksgiving and Christmas were closer in days to each other than they have been in years. Decades maybe – what the fuck do I know on the length of time it’s been since the two holidays ran this closely together. I just know that’s the case because (a) my mother in law told me so, and (b) it seems like Thanksgiving was just over a week ago, because it was.

This compacted time, along with compounded stress, means even more fuck it all I hate my life God why are you doing this to me-feelings are rising to the surface.

Are any of you feeling the same way?

So this is how I wrap gifts.

(Sound insane, I know.)

First I take all the bullshit that my mother, and other assorted family or friends throw at me, and I crumple it up and shove it in a bag. A gift bag of anger and hostility, you might say. Then I cram as much of the stress and the strain and the holiday nonsense bullshit bake cookies decorate a tree clean for relatives fuck this I’m getting drunk and wrap it in paper with a pretty bow.

What I’m saying is that I take out my aggression on two, maybe three, nicely wrapped gifts. You can tell I’m extra stressed out if I do shit like make my own wrapping (which I did this year).

This looks so pretty because all my rage and hostility and crazy is being channeled into something – GASP – productive (versus my usual channeling, which involves alcohol, cupcakes, and Netflix).

After a couple of nicely wrapped gifts, I take a break to eat lunch. By that I mean emotionally eat.

Does anyone remember that scene in the beginning of The Bell Jar when she’s sort of losing it and she cracks an egg into a bowl of raw red meat and stirs it up and eats it? Because she’s suicidal, so why the fuck not?

When I took my break from this pristine wrapping today, I ate three turkey and cheese sandwiches. And I thought it would be just yummy to cover them in red pepper.

Not sure why. Made me think of that scene from The Bell Jar, minus the suicidal tendency.

At this point in the game, my channeling of anger has all been spent and I then turn to letting go of all life’s stressors through gift wrap. Because none of this really is in my control – holiday stress, family problems, psychotic and likely histrionic mother hellbent on giving me an ulcer… these are not things I can control.

So I let go. I let go of being so upset. I let go of being stressed out. I let go of feeling the expectations weighing down on me like an anchor attached to the very top of my skull.

(This isn’t entirely true, I don’t let go of anything I just symbolically do it through gift wrap.)

And I no longer give a fuck about the way the wrapping appears.

I mean I really really no longer give a fuck. Here are two gems from this evening.

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And then, by the time it’s all over and the last CVS bag has been adorned with bows (because fuck you, I ran out of paper and fancy bags)…I feel better.

I don’t really feel better. I do, however, have everything wrapped and ready to go under the tree.

Countdown to Christmas. There’s like a week or some shit left. Are you ready? Show me your worst wrapping job…it may be featured in the next step of this most horrific of countdowns.

Chicagoland Bloggie Friend Frolic

July 2, 2013 — 3 Comments

I’m super duper sorry that I’ve been so minimal on the blog these last few weeks, you guys. It’s just that life got crazy a few days before we left for vacation, and it’s only now calming down as we go into the second week of our month-long stay in the Chicagoland area.

So before blathering on in blog posts later this week about all this crazy shiz that’s gone down while here, I wanted to first let everyone know about the Chicagoland Bloggie Friend Frolic that is in the works of organization for Sunday, July 14th at 4 pm in the suburb of Glen Ellyn.

It’s nothing fancy. Just people meeting up in a bar-ish type of casual setting. There’s a Facebook event for it you can check out. And above all, please share with people you think might be interested!

Whether you are a mom blogger, a tech blogger, a something-else blogger, an “I don’t blog but I read blogs” person, or someone that just enjoys laughter, come on by!!

Click the photograph to get the Facebook event invite. And make sure to RSVP so we have an idea of who to look for!

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Buy My Book Now, Or Else My Next One Will Be About You

June 3, 2013 — 8 Comments

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Kidding. (Not kidding.)

Okay you guys, my book was set to come out on Tuesday, June 4th. Tomorrow for me. Today at this point for some of you. Then I got an email today saying it would be delayed because of some bullshit on Amazon. I was so devastated. I threw myself around for about an hour. I asked tons of people for advice (because the Kindle and independent publisher DID have it available, so it would only be the Amazon thing holding up the BIG ANNOUNCEMENT). I emotionally ate probably ten times more calories than I should have.

Then I got home from running a bunch of stupid errands (because of course, on a “me” day when the MIL has the Pookies, the only natural thing to do is run errands rather than doing something actually for … me …); I got home from running those errands and I was like you know I’m going to look up the Kindle version of the book to make sure that is indexed properly too. If there was a screw up with one, there might be a screw up with the other right?

And then it happened. I saw that the snafu had been resolved. My book is available in Paperback on Amazon, as well as for a Kindle device or Kindle App.

OH MY GOD. MY BOOK IS AVAILABLE ON PAPERBACK ON AMAZON, AS WELL AS FOR A KINDLE DEVICE OR KINDLE APP.

… have you all regained consciousness?

MWABBUTTONSFor those of you relatively new around the block, I wrote a compilation book of never-before-seen tirades about being an adult, being a mom, and how I think men and husbands are absolutely horrifying. It isn’t just for moms or wives or women. Quite frankly, I think men could consider it a manual of what not to do (in spite of the fact that it is probably going to be considered by many as the most emasculating, man-hating book on the planet….).

To be clear: I am not a man-hater. I am just honest.

But because of this honesty, I thought it best to dub this one an investigation of sorts. Is it OK to be a bitch? Is there something true about anything I say – in my books, as well as on my blog? Am I insane, or do I really actually say things a lot of people think?

All questions answered in the book.

So here’s the deal. You are all going to watch the trailer for My Wife’s a Bitch. Right here! On this very blog post!

Then you are going to click on the picture below that best describes how you prefer to read your books. And you are going to buy the book.

Or else my next one will be about you.

You think I’m kidding? I mean I am (not really). But once you read the book, maybe you will take me more seriously. (Or not.) Only time will tell.

The last thing you are going to do (or suffer my wrath) is post a review on Amazon, like the book on Amazon, post your comments about it on Goodreads, and MORE THAN ANYTHING – share this motherfucker into the ground. SHARE SHARE SHARE!

You remember in health class in high school when they did that glitter thing to prove how fast STDs spread? One person got some glitter on her hand and had to move around the classroom, suddenly there was glitter everywhere and we were all cowering in fear that this might have meant we somehow caught some weird form of chlamydia. I want you to share this bitch right now like you shared that glitter chlamydia in high school health class.

So without further ado, My Wife’s A Bitch. Because I am.

To buy for download on your Kindle, Kindle Fire, or Kindle APP ($4.99)

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To buy an unsigned paperback from Amazon.com ($9.99 – marked down to $9.24)

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To buy a signed paperback directly from the author ($24.99 – free shipping in the United States)

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My Hypochondriosis

December 18, 2012 — 11 Comments

I am sick right now, which means I’ve been pacing around for the seven days that I’ve been sick worrying that something very serious is wrong with me. Of course everyone in my family has been sick, and I clearly just have a cold; but in the past few days I’ve self-diagnosed myself with tuberculosis, pneumonia, bronchitis, and lung cancer.

I’m sure all of you are like “well if you are so concerned, why not go to the doctor?” The truth is that I have fallen down that trap before, only to be laughed out of the office for being so stupid. Finally I forced myself into a “wait and see” approach – if it goes longer than two weeks, whatever it is, then I’ll go. I also have a great disdain for people that overuse their physicians, and I really dislike putting medications into my body. So wait and see it is, and while I wait I pace.

After the fact, I always get great entertainment out of the bizarre things I agonize over in my head. Typically it isn’t as cut and dry as “I have a cough, I must have pneumonia.” No, no faithful blog followers – my paranoias run very close to my impending psychosis. In fact, I’m sure once you read all of them, you’ll be starting a petition of some sort to get me to the psych ward.

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I Have a Headache

Most people get a headache and think they had a hard day at work, or they have been sitting in a room full of screaming kids for too long. Some people are a little more paranoid and assume they are developing a brain tumor.

I worry that I’m going to learn that I have a twin conjoined to the back of my neck that I am only now learning about.

I Have an Itchy Chest

Usually my chest gets itchy if one of two things is going on: either I’ve gotten sunburned on my upper chest (around my collar bone); or, I’ve dropped too many crumbs down my bra and my boobs are tickled.

Regardless, I never go to find the crumbs first, or check for aloe vera in the medicine cabinet. Well, at least I never used to – up until recently, I thought that an itchy chest meant I was growing another nipple.

I Have a Stomach Ache

I assume I’m pregnant.

I Feel Like I’m Going to Throw Up

I assume I’m pregnant.

I’m Having Mood Swings

I assume I’m pregnant.

I Have Cramps

I assume I’m pregnant and that shit’s gone ectopic.

I Have a Bad Taste In My Mouth After Eating Garlic-y Food

Completely forgetting about what I’ve eaten in the course of the same day, after eating garlic-y, onion-y, or any other mouth-tasting-of-nightmare food, I get a taste in my mouth that is horrid and just assume this means my taste buds are all dying in some rare, dramatic taste bud death disease.

I Straighten My Hair and Find Two or Three Strands on the Floor

Ignoring my incredibly thick head of hair; hair that has been described as “three times the amount a normal person has;” when I find a few strands on the floor after pulling hairs out with my hair straightener, I then obsess over whether or not I’m going bald.

And then there was that one time I thought I was developing crotch rot…

By “crotch rot” I can only assume that I’m talking about bacterial vagi-whatever-it’s-called; or maybe a yeast infection. I don’t know, I’ve never had either. Sure, I’ve had my share of bladder infections where flames shot out of my urethra and burned the ground beneath me, but the problems that inspire ladies to shove yogurt up their hoo-has have never been an issue for me.

At least not yet.

But there was that one time that I got two bladder infections in the course of three months. It ended up being all about using the wrong antibiotic the first time, and what my doctor so eloquently referred to as “honeymooner cystitis.” But I was so freaked out about the fact that the two infections were so close together that I ran the whole gamut of vaginal doomsday scenarios through my head.

“I must be getting crotch rot!” I thought to myself. That morphed into “oh my God, my cooter is going to smell like musty, old lady.” Then I spent almost an entire week trying to figure out if I could have caught chlamydia or some other venereal disease from a public toilet – that’s right, faithful blog followers, I thought that I had contracted a sexually transmitted infection through four layers of toilet seat coverings.

Because yes, I do place four toilet seat covers on the top of a public toilet. Sometimes I layer the seat at home too, depending on how many people have been hanging out around my house without me cleaning it. Don’t you?

So you can see that I’m a little paranoid on matters of health. Well, I’m not really paranoid, so much as I am a hypochondriac. And maybe I’m not even so much of a hypochondriac either as I am just insane.

Now I have to get back to nursing my cold-slash-TB-slash-double pneumonia-slash-insert lung disease here. Because now my conjoined twin is starting to make the back of my head hurt again and I need to go Google that shit to find out how to get it removed.

STFU Fridays: Did you know I’m 25 again?

December 6, 2012 — 18 Comments

Hah! I fucking wish! If I were 25 I’d be young, spry, and free of my four gray hairs. I would slap the shit out of myself for being so naive and idealistic about the world and politics and how great society is too. (And I’d probably save myself the trouble that turned out to be all for naught, and leave grad school before incurring all that extra debt…)

So what I should be in the realm of “25,” though, is in the Top 25 Mom Blogger Authors on Circle of Moms. And yet I am not (yet). Why you ask? Probably because rather than log on and vote for me daily, my husband has spent his time scrolling through apps on his smartphone, and looking for new pornography downloads. And you faithful blog followers haven’t S’d the F up and voted for me. Again, yet.

Thus, in an effort to garner more votes and excitement and “fuck yeah, you are one of the top 25 mom blogger authors out there”s, I decided that I’d let you all know you should vote. And in exchange for your vote, I will share a few of my own current Shut the Fuck Up facts.

Because you faithful blog followers haven’t heard enough of my vulgarities, have you?

Here’s the link (just click the picture, scroll until you see the B(itch)log and hit the ol’ “vote” button)…

Vote-for-Mom-at-Last-on-Moms-Circle

… and here goes my STFU Facts:

1. Vaginas horrify me. I know, I know: shut the fuck up, Heather. Right? Since I have a vagina I should probably think the thing is better than Barbara Streisand in “Hello, Dolly!”

Not the case. The thought of vaginal birth makes me feel faint. I know I should be all “power to women” and “the vag is a beautiful flower that blossoms to puke out a baby” or whatever, but I just can’t take that shit. Maybe it was my dysfunctional childhood. Maybe it’s the fact that every time I think of one I remember the time I saw my mom dry humping the back porch and was worried she’d get slivers on her hoo-ha. Then I wondered what it would be like to have slivers on my own hoo-ha, and well … let’s just leave it there. The female underworld bugs me a bit.

2. I think about the New Kids on the Block at least once a day. Sometimes twice. I dance to The Right Stuff in the shower. Every time I talk about NKOTB, someone in my family tells me to shut the fuck up already.

3. I hate California Italians. I hate California Italian food. I know, most of you are like “shut the fuck up, B(itch)!” For one, I’ve talked about it before – way to recycle material. But I actually mentioned that I hate all Italians. Now I’ve realized that it’s really California Italians.

For one, California Italians can’t cook to save their goddamned lives. For two, they’re arrogant, pompous assholes. I was at a party a few weeks ago and this dillhole told me that Chicagoans can’t cook pizza, or really any Italian-style dish, worth shit. STFU doucenoodle.

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4. On the note of food, I get tired of eating. It’s boring to me. After about five bites, I start to get really bored with my food. It isn’t that there’s no flavor or that it’s gross or anything; it’s really just the chewing. Chewing is perhaps my least favorite activity.

I know. I for real need to shut the fuck up. Whine much about stupid shit?

5. One last comment on food (it’s on my mind because I just got bored out of my fucking mind eating tortellinis that I – a Chicagoan – made): slimy things gross me out. This kind of goes beyond food, though, because it’s really anything slimy is nasty to me. So I don’t like mushrooms or brocolli, because they both have high slime potential. I don’t like slugs. When the dishwasher broke the other day, I puked in my mouth over the bits of slime that came out of the thing.

There is one slimy thing I’m totally OK with, though; probably because it is ever-present as a result of my horrible allergy and sinus problems: snot. So I don’t like mushrooms but I’m totally cool with boogers.

Should I give myself a shut the fuck up punch in the boob now, or later?

6. I’m a total hypocrite. Every time I bitch and complain about kid’s Christmas movies, you are all given pre-approval to tell me to shut my lilly-livered ass the fuck up.

Why you ask? Oh, because I’ve encouraged the viewing of these hackneyed, poorly done Christmas kid’s movies for about three weeks now. I added maybe 180 of them to the Netflix que and it keeps it quiet in here (because kids are suckers for bad acting and puppies).

So those are a few of my current shut the fuck up facts. Now please – PLEASE – shut yourselves the fuck up and vote for me on Circle of Moms. You literally have only a few hours left to get your vote in.

Here’s the link again, just in case you forgot with all my talk about vaginas and slimy things. Good thing I didn’t talk about slimy vaginas though, eh?

Vote-for-Mom-at-Last-on-Moms-Circle

My Thoughts on Blogger Awards and Facebook Shout Outs

December 3, 2012 — 48 Comments

Quite frankly, I think they’re fucking stupid.

Please don’t take this the wrong way if you do the blogger award thing, or if you do that daily list of tagging all the people you think are just fantastic on Facebook. I don’t think you are stupid. And I very much appreciate when people have thought of me in either event. I just think that the whole concept behind it all is a little dumb.

Allow me to elaborate.

So there are all these blogger awards. It’s pretty chic in the blogging world to get one, post about it, pass it on; but in the process refer to it as a chain letter. Basically say that I am too cool for it, but allow me to lower myself to this anyway. That is essentially what I think of them as too (chain letters); although, I will repeat that it is pretty fucking amazing when someone I probably have never even met takes the time to recognize me for whatever reason they have recognized me.

Again, that, in and of itself, is fucking rad.

What isn’t rad though is that they all have these stupid rules. You have to pass them on to X number of people. Then you pass them on to those people and half of them never even thank you, or acknowledge that you thought of them. You are supposed to share X number of things about yourself too. I have blue eyes. I used to dream obsessively about donkey schlongs. Yada yada yada. Chances are you people could give two shits about any of the facts I have shared in the past when I got those awards. Chances are you people could give two shits about any of the facts I would share now.

Then there is the fact that a lot of your readers may not even be bloggers. This means there are a lot of people that want good content, not bullshit posts about the cleverness of chain letters.

Onto Facebook shout outs. Again, these are great in the sense that it is awesome when someone thinks about you, and feels like they should share you and maybe even your content. It’s rarely your content, though. Usually it’s a list of people – always the same. Often it becomes an unreciprocated activity, as well. And sometimes you share someone on Facebook and the dillhole doesn’t even say “thanks.”

So I’m pretty on the anti-side of blogger awards and Facebook shouts outs. I will repeat one more time so you assfaces don’t get all facehurt by my saying this: every goddamned blogger award and Facebook shout out that has been done for me has brought a tear to my eye. That complete strangers could develop a relationship such as I have with some of my bloggie friends, and take the time to try and promote me (each other) is fucking awesome.

Now all of that aside, I realized recently that I need to do some spreading of the love, so to speak, for all the blogger awards, Facebook shout outs, Twitter #FFs, and otherwise mentions, with a little roasting. I have a much different way of showing my love, though. If you know me personally, you know that you know how many oodles I love you if I make fun of you a lot. Teasing is my hugging. Poking fun at are my smooches. My affection comes in the form of giving people crap – it’s really fun if you live with me. Well, at least for me. There are a few rules of my game, that I made up in my own mind. Just now.

1. If you are a blogger or not, read these with a grain of salt. Consider checking out these blogs because they really are fabulous writings by smacktabulous people.

2. If I left you out, don’t be hurt. Chances are I will be making fun of you too in the near future. Just you wait…

3. Please still love me when this is all done.

Words for Worms

I’ve already shown her this, but really she deserves to have it plastered all over the fucking Internets with her home address attached to it. Then we’ll all show up and egg her fucking house until she fixes this photo. If you are into books and book reviews and witty musings on all things bookworms, and otherwise, check out Words for Worms. Just ignore the fucking Ayn Rand cover she has on her homepage and Facebook cover. Puke, Katie.

KatieSTFU

Quirky Chrissy

So Words for Worms and Quirky Chrissy are real life friends. They really pulled the wool over our eyes, that’s for sure. I mean they were pretty sneaky when they mentioned all the time that they were talking to each other; or that Katie almost poisoned Chrissy with a chicken or some shit. Yeah, joke’s on me fuckers, but I finally put two and two together and realized that what Katie lacks in common sense on the issue of Ayn Rand, Chrissy makes up for in total klutziness and – as the title goes – quirky, yet fucking awesome, blog posts.

One thing that has recently harried my brain, though, (also more than my mom’s balls) was when Chrissy made some comment about Justin Bieber on my Facebook. I asked her if she was a Belieber (hoping she would understand that I punch my own self in the boob out of anger every time I hear about the underage Canadian), and she fucking responded by quoting a Bieber song. Thanks, bitch. Thanks a fucking lot.

Frugalista Blog

Oh, I do love her. Fruggie is a mom blogger and, so I assumed by the title, a frugal living blogger. But every time she posts a picture or a video blog, the first thing I think to myself is “shit, this bitch has got a nice house!” Fucking china on the walls and shit. And she’s constantly talking about drinking tea and eating crumpets, and toasting jubilees and other nonsense with champagne.

Now there have been a few posts about doing shit for cheap. Like that rad pizza post, which I promptly ignored because I’m from Chicago (which means I’m way too good – in my own mind – to take pizza-making advice from anyone). But champagne? Tea and crumpets? Fuck that. Frugal champagne comes in a can. And the only fucking tea and crumpets cheap deal-getters eat are the ones made from dust off the floor and dirty sink water. Bring me some fucking deals like that, bitch!

Meat Me

Sean – a professional photographer – writes Meat Me. I really enjoy his blog, simply because he does a wonderful job of putting together video blogging, amazing photographs, and awesome stories behind his favorite thing: meat.

But seriously, man – one more fucking grease-filled photo of beef and pork covered in lard and saturated fats, and my goddamned arteries are going to completely clog in sympathy of yours.

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Alien Red Queen

I really love Alien Red Queen. She’s a talented writer; she has pretty thought-provoking ideas on her blog; and every other thing out of her mouth to me is “fuck that.”

I tried to send her some pumpkin bread about a month ago, though, and the post office called it a threat to the security of our nation. After some hefty thinking about this, I wondered if it had anything to do with her blog. Why you ask? Take a look at her home page.

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Well that’s a start on sharing my own version of love. Please don’t hate me, especially if I roast you too in the coming days. Stop the blogger awards already, people. And the Facebook tagging bullshit. #FF is really nice, but as First Time Mom and Dad and Ashley at Sorry Kid, Your Mom Doesn’t Play Well With Others mentioned just today, a lot of a-holes Tweet it without actually following you. Just what in the fuck is the point of that?

Really, what in the fuck is the point of any of it? That’s what we should be asking ourselves. For me, it’s about having fun. And clearly, making fun of people. Love you?

UPDATE 9:33 PM: First Time Mom and Dad did the post on Tweetholes … a similar issue. Check it here http://www.firsttimemomanddad.com/2012/12/the-politics-of-blogging.html