Saturday, September 7, 2013

Fifi Turns Ten and I'm Still Probably Going to Hell

Happy Birthday to Fifi, who turns 10 today! And without further adieu, here is an inappropriate and likely offensive letter to her:

Dear Fifi,

You're 10! I cannot believe how times flies, or more importantly, how extra extremely old I feel to have a child who is ten years old. #damnshithell. It's all about me.

Thank you for not driving me too bat shit crazy last night at your first official sleepover, although we only had 3 girls over, and two went home at 11 PM. You weren't too obnoxious, only mildly, and I didn't once have to tell you to turn that music down. Because you didn't play any, thank god, but you did watch some annoying teenie bopper shows at a louder than normal level, but since you were all sitting nicely on the couch rather than running around like savages, I let it go.

I was kind of concerned when I overheard you all playing truth or dare, and the dare was having the person make out with the giant stuffed giraffe in the living room. You're welcome for me posting that for all the world to see, and it will probably cost you a very lucrative career as a CEO or Presidential nomination, or at the very least a date with the football quarterback in high school, unless he's into things like bestiality, then you're really welcome.There may even be footage of said making out with giant stuffed giraffe, but I'll save that for a particularly important blackmail event like when you try to extort me to pay for your wedding or when you threaten to tattoo the bestiality loving quarterback's face on your buttocks.

I am very proud of the amazing young lady you have become. Smart, beautiful, intelligent, mature, loving, kind and generous. (I did not steal that from the Natalie Merchant song. Swear.) Even though I still question your choice of tights to wear on the first day of school that slightly resembled stripper pantyhose. Please do not become a stripper. Not that I'm knocking the profession, I know those girls can make an insane amount of money. I just have bigger ideas in mind for you like lawyer, hostage negotiator, united nations representative, preeminent news anchor, or you know, international burlesque show superstar. Aim high.



Friday, September 6, 2013

Nightmare On My Street

So I've been trying to get the house ready for Fifi's sleepover party tonight to celebrate her birthday and I may have to toss back some opiate based pills to make it through the evening, if I can get my hands on any. Wiener had a hydrocodone prescription earlier this year for his kidney stones that he gobbled down within a week (the pills not the kidney stones were gobbled, weirdo), because he and his prissy male urologist decided kidney stones hurt worse than child birth. What. The. Fuck. Ever. Idiots. Call me after you squeeze a watermelon through a cheese cloth and have an undisclosed amount of stitches threaded between your bits, then we'll talk pain. Amateurs.

Already the grocery store called to inform me that they can't make the top tier of the cake I ordered marble flavor because they can't do marble in a round pan. Really? Um, ok I really don't give a shit what dry ass cake flavor you want to give me, but I'm pretty sure you just throw some motherfucking marble batter in a round pan, then bake, and voila! The god damn frosting better be butter cream, though, or there will be a rumble.

I just can't wait to have four screeching pre-teen banshees frolicking around the house talking about their distaste for Justin Bieber and singing at the top of their lungs to whatever mind numbing pop tunes they decide to blast on the radio. Yes, I am the fun police. Let's all pray to the vodka gods that they just want to have a quiet evening and settle down to watch a movie then drift softly off to dreamland.  

And in classic Wiener form, instead of helping me around the inside of the house to prepare by like, oh I don't know, vacuuming or putting away Devil Baby's toys or picking up his underwear off the living room floor, he decided he will help by pulling weeds on the back patio. We are having no part of the party outside since it is still one billion degrees in Texas. Thanks, but maybe you can move the dirty dishes from one side of the sink to the other and "consolidate" or bitch about me not taking out the trash as you leave various wrappers strewn about the counter tops. That would be much more helpful and it also gives me material for my posts.

Wish me luck, peeps of the Interwebs. I will need it. Mama's all out of opiates, and I can't drink the vodka yet since I still have to drive and pick up the cake with a mysterious flavor.


Wednesday, August 28, 2013

In Defense of Miley at the VMA's

Because who the fuck cares? 

Really. Do you really have time to care? The internets and Facebook are all in a tizzy over this? You're shocked a young, overpaid celebrity put on a horrible, scandalous performance?

Oops she did it again.

Have you forgotten about Brittney spears showcasing her vagina to the world? Or Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton's vials of blood around their necks? Or Hugh Grant's arrest for soliciting a hooker? Or Governor Schwarzenegger knocking up his housekeeper and having a love child? And... do I really need to go on? Everyone is stupid and most celebrities are no exception.

Aw shucks.
The world is a vampire.

Full disclosure- I haven't seen the whole performance. Who has time to watch that crap? I have seen images and memes and blog posts and letters to daughters and scathing reviews of the alleged atrocity. And yes, I agree, it looked horrific. I don't know what compelled her to act that way.

But what do I know is this- isn't it a celebrity's or entertainer's job to shock and awe and get publicity? You know the old saying, "There's no such thing as bad publicity." And if you disagree, that's fine- but the point is everyone is talking about this and making a big deal out of it. If you don't want your kids to act that way, why are you talking about it and letting them see it or making them want to see it? Why give them any ideas? They hear everyone talking about it, and they see all the attention it's getting, and next thing you know they're in their bedroom with your favorite sports team's foam finger doing unmentionable things and your football watching season is officially ruined.  

Some want to blame Miley's parents. Yes, and we all know it is just as easy to stop a maniacal toddler from having a full blown meltdown in the middle of Walmart as it is to control a 20 year old former regimented Disney star, with millions of dollars at her disposal, who lives on her own, to do what we deem appropriate. And if you had been forced to sing cheesy teenie-bopper songs in a horrendous bleach blonde wig for years, you might be up on stage freaking the fuck out with her.

And where are the people freaking out about Robin Thicke? Wasn't he the one humping the young lady from behind? And was his song about fairy tale romance and chastity or about "you know you want it" and "you the hottest bitch in this place?" Don't get me wrong, that's my jam. No pun intended. But seriously- hypocritical much? And what is so bad about her being on Robin Thicke's jock anyway? He is an attractive and successful man. She could do much worse than Robin Thicke's wiener.  

It was a show. A performance. It was stupid and ugly and ridonk. But you watched it. And you talked about it. And you shared blog posts and letters from parents to their kids online about it.

At the end of the day, I'm not saying what she did was great or appropriate. I'm saying who the fuck cares. It got so much media hype that it sounds like more of an evil genius plan than a desperate skank vying for people's attention to me. So whatever to the whole thing... I don't care. I'm less Team Miley and more pro Robin Thicke's wiener anyway.  

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

To Devil Baby on Her 4th Birthday

On two separate occasions today, Devil Baby has thrown herself to the ground and wailed "you woo-end my life!" This after I took it to Chuck E Cheese for two hours today to celebrate her birthday afternoon. #ungratefulbeotch

This could be due to over tiredness or the all-sugar meal program she has been following strictly today- ice pops, cotton candy, cake- aka. "all three food groups." OR it could simply be because she is generally an evil spawn and is practicing her defense for court after she eats my face. I can hear it now: "But judge, my mom woo-end my life and all that sugar gave me dia-weeah, so I had to eat her face!" Case dismissed. 

Well played, Devil Baby, well played.

Here's a quick note to her so when she's grown and I'm gone, she can look back at these little nuggets and feel some joy in her cold, methodical heart:

Dear Devil Baby,

You are four now and totally awesome! Never lose your spunk and fearlessness. I could do without you running around the house singing your mash up version of "All the Single Ladies~Last Frwiday Night~I Don't Care" then running up to me with a ball up your shirt saying you have a baby in your tummy. What the fuck Devil Baby? 

Additionally, I'm glad you have decided all the boys in your pre-school are going to marry you. But you should probably give them a chance to get out of pull-ups before committing yourself to them, because some of them never stop needing pull-ups. 

I love your signing voice and your appreciation for animals, except when you want to kill them and eat them for dinner. Also, you freak me out a bit with all these "freaking ghosts" you keep mentioning are around the house. Tell them to leave us alone or make your head spin or something so they'll vacate the premises. 

Please be nice to your sister. You constantly beating her ass is not helping her self esteem and one day she may unleash the fury and lay you out. Then you'll have to eat her face and you need to save that get out of jail free card for when you do that to me.   

I love you. Continue to live, laugh, love, sing, dance, freak people the fuck out and swear to your heart's content. Never trust someone who doesn't swear or occasionally drink. You are already proficient at both. #proudmama Oh, and stop feeding your baby brother vodka. It's not medicine. 

Relax "baby brother" is an imaginary friend/doll/ghost.
Slow your CPS calling roll. It was empty. It's a joke, man.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Walmart and F-Bombs

Today, I was totally the white trash person of Walmart. Wiener had a conference call, so I had to get the screaming demons out of the house for a bit and decided a quick trip to the store for milk and eggs was in order. They do not sell vodka at our Walmart. Bastards. My outfit was perfection. No shower, dirty yoga pants, a neon orange Corona t-shirt, hat, no make-up. Devil Baby had un-brushed hair and was wearing a sparkly skin tight stripper dress. Fifi looked cute, except for the stringy beach hair.

We looked only one step up from the fluffy, frazzled mom of five we saw yesterday back to school shoe shopping with her brood who was walking through a strip mall pushing a newborn baby in a car seat plopped in a Target shopping cart smoking a cigarette. We weren't at Target. Classy.  

We made our rounds through the store uneventfully. Which is a pretty big feat considering Devil Baby usually asks for things the whole time and she and her sister fight and hit each other. Thank Baby Jesus in a tux for small mercies none of this happened during today's trip. As we were checking out, however, the natives began to get restless asking for candy and pinatas. No clue where pinata came from. Then they were messing with the child seat in the front of the cart, and also hitting each other, and I knew a finger pinch was in the foreseeable future.

By the time we got to the car and Fifi sighed heavily when I asked her to put the cart away for me, I had reached my limit. So, when I asked her to put up the middle seat on her side and sit there instead of the far back where I had to put the groceries, and she began arguing- I lost my shit. The clincher was when I responded to her protest with a loud "everything is not a motherfucking debate" just as I see the old man entering the car next to us. Oops. 

I was given dirty looks, but he knew what was good for him and kept his trap shut. Otherwise, I may have unleashed the hounds of PMS on him. Or not. I feel bad if I offended his delicate sensibilities, but I'm sure he has not known the insanity that is motherhood and the witching hour in the days before school starts. Kids become howler monkeys with ADD on meth. And if he is familiar with this, I'm sure he has either forgotten or has lost his cool at one time or another. So don't judge me, crotchety old man wearing a bucket hat. You need to get off my lawn.

And don't judge me, dear reader, for occasionally always using profanity around my evils. I'm just trying to prepare them for a life on the mean streets of suburbia and it isn't all rainbows and unicorns. Also, studies have shown it is good to swear in front of your kids. I want to marry her. 

Ma ma ma my Corona...

Sounds about right.