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.

Monday, August 19, 2013

Racist Road Trip

This summer we took a road trip to visit family in various states. Actually, it was a planes, trains and automobiles type of road trip, minus the trains and add a shuttle bus around a resort complex.

There were a few interesting things that highlighted our trip proving racism is alive and well in the good 'ole U S of A. And by highlight I don't mean it was on a positive note, it just punctuated the fact that racism exists and everyone is stupid.

Our first encounter was driving through McAlester, Oklahoma en route to the Branson, Missouri area. There was a small motel with a sign out front that read "American Owned and Operated." What the actual fuck? How is this racist? I'll tell you. Why would we care if it was American owned and operated unless there are people that take issue with motels not being American owned and operated. And if they aren't American owned, who are they owned and operated by? So now we must wonder and worry who is owning these local motels and why should we be concerned they aren't American owned.

So what did it mean? An initial thought was that we were driving through an area with a lot of casinos and Native American nations. Surely this sign was not in reference to Native American owned businesses, because who is more motherfucking American than a god damned NATIVE AMERICAN?! Or was it in reference to any other ethnicity who owned businesses in the area? Why should it matter who owns the motel as long as it is clean, comfortable, and they have good customer service. Free wifi and vodka would be a plus, but I'll settle for clean and friendly any day over some chubby, cigarette smoking white man in a wife beater asking me if I need turn-down service. 

Next on our agenda was driving through the highways of Missouri headed to the St. Louis airport where we would catch a plane to visit family in Chicago. As we were enjoying our customary road trip beef jerky and nuts (that's what she said) I read a billboard that said "Man + Woman = Marriage." Yes, I know this isn't quite racist, but it is derogatory to a group of people nonetheless. It led me to wonder who footed the bill for this propaganda? Was it a church or a bored homophobe with deep pockets? If it was a church, couldn't this money have been better spent feeding a few homeless people, ya know, like how Jesus used to (allegedly) do? Because I'm sure everyone who read the sign immediately called their state representative to voice their disapproval for gay marriage rather than just continuing on to the lake or beer store or wherever they were heading. Also, I was quite amused at the amount of Queen played on the local radio stations during our drive through Missouri. It was almost as if there was a secret group of DJ Illuminati conspiring to brainwash the state and turn everyone gay and then legalize gay marriage, because we all know that's how one becomes gay.       

Chicago was enjoyably non-racist and we moved on to Michigan where we visited with some relatives (on Wiener's side) that we have not seen in a long time. One night after dinner, an older Uncle made a few inappropriate comments about Hispanics, particularly insensitive since we have several Hispanics in our family (and obviously not cool in general), which apparently opened the door for another family member to unleash his drunken racist redneck side. I defend my right to call him a redneck, since his neck is in fact red. I won't go into the nitty-gritty details of his comments, so as to not enrage you and cause you to punch the computer screen in anger, but let's just say I was disgusted and planned on giving him a good ass reaming in private- and not the kind some people enjoy.

So long story short, or not so much, one average family's summer vacation on the great American road was polluted by assholes who think they are better than everyone else and emit the sense of self entitlement they accuse other races, creeds, and cultures of doing. And that's calling the kettle black. #notracist

Chief Black Kettle
Black Kettle was a pragmatist who believed that US
 military power and the number of immigrants were overwhelming. 

He was a peacemaker who accepted treaties to protect his people. 

Now that's a real American. 

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Devil Baby Serial Killer Strikes Again

A random smattering of potential Devil Baby serial killer foreshadowing:

~One evening Devil Baby asked if we could have brains for dinner. Then she said she was going to eat her baby brother's brains, and then she said her baby brother said she couldn't eat his brains. She doesn't have a baby brother.

~During a bubble-bath one night she was in the tub eating the bubbles off a spoon and said "Yum! Brains are fantastic!"

~While I was emptying the dishwasher, she grabbed some tongs and said I'm going to cut your brains out.

She is definitely in a zombie brain phase and I swear we haven't watched Walking Dead in months!

~When Devil Baby plays hide and seek she likes to say "Come out, come out wherever you are." It would be cute if it didn't have the same eerie inflection as Robert DeNiro's character in Cape Fear.

~During an afternoon walk we saw a small bunny underneath the bushes quietly nibbling some grass. I pointed it out to Devil Baby and we oohed and ahhhed over it. As we walked home later she said "Mama can we kill the baby bunny and eat it for dinner?" 

~While being babysat at a friend's house, she kept telling them there were "Killer Clowns" lurking about. This was especially awesome because the man of the house is terrified of clowns. Simultaneously creepy and awesome.

~Lately, when Devil Baby gets frustrated she growls "murder." I don't know where she gets it. I usually yell "I'm going to kill you" when I'm enraged, but never murder.                                                                     
~When she gets mad she says "I'm getting very angry" in a hulk voice.

Stay tuned for more Devil Baby antics. Unless I get murdered by it or my brains eaten. #scared  

Saturday, June 22, 2013

A Modest Rant

In order for this post to make any sense, you have to watch this video.

As I first watched the video, I thought it was interesting and some good points were made. But once it was over, I got mad. 

While I don't want to see anyone, including my children, wearing a thong swimsuit with their anuses (ani?) hanging out, nor tiny triangles over their gazongas tempting the nip slip gods, I really have no problem with women wearing bikinis or semi-revealing swimsuits. Women's bodies are beautiful and, yes, they come in all shapes and sizes. Women should be free to wear a swimsuit that they are comfortable and confident in without people like this making us second guess our choices.

If you watched the video, you will have heard how she discusses the evolution of women's swimwear from swim costumes and the quick entry into the water via a horse drawn port-a-potty-like-atrocity, and then to the more form fitting one pieces, then a slightly more revealing tankini, then to the most scandalous bikini. So scandalous, French models wouldn't model them- only strippers. Have you met any modern day French women? They are very confident in their sexuality and with nudity- they're just more classy about it than Honey Boo Boo's mother. 

She talks about modesty and the woman in the song "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" being afraid to show herself in public because her sense of modesty was gnawing at her not to reveal herself like a common whore. Which is entirely possible. Or maybe she was having her monthly visitor and didn't want to risk an embarrassing incident like this one. I don't know. I didn't write the song, so I can't speak for her innermost thoughts and fears.

Personally, I don't care if you're modest or an extrovert- just keep your thong anus out of my view. Wear what you want, whether it be a one piece or two or tankini or string bikini. But what really pissed me off, was the research she discussed about how a man's brain reacts to seeing women in various states of undress.

Her argument supporting modesty in swimwear was because when men see women in revealing bathing suits, it triggers their brain in the areas that acknowledge things as objects rather than relate-able individuals with whom they should interact and engage in meaningful conversation with. Women in revealing swim wear make men think in terms of actions such as "touch" and "grab" rather than in in emotions such as "connect" or "empathize." It makes them see objects rather than humanity.

To me this is sending a mixed message. It seems to me the problem is not with what the women are wearing, it is with the way the male brain works. So, because men cannot control their brainwaves and innate thought patterns, women should cater to male shortcomings and behave in a manner as to not illicit an inappropriate reaction?

Well to this is I say, FUCK THAT! I get that people are wired certain ways, but do we really need to change our lives and feel ashamed of things because we must consider how other people will see us and interpret us? No ma'am. Ain't nobody got time fo that. Life's too short. 

I know she didn't mention rape, but I am going to stretch things a bit here, since she wasn't suggesting women wear more modest swimwear for the sake of being more mysterious or leaving something to the imagination- which would be a little easier to swallow. Or not. The premise of her presentation was women should dress more modestly because we become things men objectify rather than relate to. No one deserves to be objectified or manhandled or sexually assaulted. Not the modest soccer mom, not the sexy actress, not the Puritan-ish clad young lady, not the teenage girl wearing the trendy shorty shorts, not the stripper, not the pageant toddlers, not the roofied graduate student, not the prostitute. Not the women and girls of India, who dress as modestly as they come, and are assaulted, raped, humiliated, pawed, groped, cat called, murdered and objectified on a horrifyingly regular basis.

When are we going to address the problem instead of band-aiding the trigger? In this day and age we shouldn't be having to teach our girls not to dress a certain way, act a certain way, feel the need to be ashamed of their bodies or hide them because they will get unwanted attention and possibly be assaulted and raped. Now I agree there are a lot of young girls and women that dress in a revealing style and act provocatively and push boundaries and limits. But that does not give someone carte blanche to react in a way that is clearly wrong. You don't see me losing my mind and running off to hump the lifeguards at the community pool just because they have no shirts on their tan, glistening, ripped abs. Jeez.

RISQUE                     MODEST                         WHORE  

Yes, we should teach our girls to have respect for themselves and not be little trollops, but the idea that women need to dress or behave in a way that quells the male's instinct to objectify us to prevent harm or incident is asinine. We instead need to focus on teaching and re-programming the male population that no matter what, women are to be treated with respect, dignity and grace at all times. And if that doesn't work, we need to electroshock therapy those motherfuckers into submission. Or lobotomize. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a new bikini top that I need to try out at the community pool and my favorite lifeguard is on duty today. Oh wait...     

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Father's Day Conversation with Wiener

After a lovely home-cooked Father's Day breakfast of bacon, pancakes and eggs and the opening of cards and hand made gifts from the kids and I, we left for dip at the local community pool. 

Me: So how do you like my new bathing suit top? Does it look ok?

Wiener: Yes, it looks great. You're a beautiful woman.

Me: Aw, thank you. How sweet. And Happy Father's Day to you. You're welcome for the two beautiful children I gave you so you could enjoy this Father's Day.

Wiener: You mean the children I gave you?

Me: Um, no, the children I gave you. 

Wiener: No, you just pushed them out while you were on lots of awesome drugs. I gave them to you.

Me: What? No, I did all the work. You just laid there the whole time we had sex and then I carried them the entire nine months and gave birth to them.

Wiener: Whatever, I'm not even sure if DB is mine. She looks nothing like me.

Round and around and around and around we go...

Happy Father's Day Wiener. You really are a great dad. Even if your idea of helping clean up after dinner is moving the dirty dishes from the right side of the sink to the left and consolidating them. 

Wiener and all his FD goodies. Don't be jelly ladies.
Plus an awesome DB photo bomb. 

Monday, June 10, 2013

Crimson Tidal Wear

Dear People, 

WTF is wrong with you? That's a rhetorical question because I'm pretty sure you don't have the faintest idea what your problem is...

On two separate shopping excursions in the last six months I came across a pair of (oh how shall I put this delicately) sullied ladies undergarments. Or in other words, for those who don't speak gentile southern slang, period bloodied underwear. That is correct. Underwear. With. Period. Blood. On. Them. Hanging on a rack for sale. Technically, one was a bathing suit bottom, but for argument's sake we'll say it is an undergarment of sorts.

So I get that no underwear brand fits the same and sometimes you need a trial run. Not everyone chooses to wear holey underwear from 1996 like me in order to avoid having to find a new brand that is comfortable. But do people (women) really try on underwear while in the throws of their monthly bloody curse? At the most, one should buy the underwear that will be the most likely to fit and take it home and if it doesn't work, return it or use it as a car washing chamois. At the least, one should never, ever, ever and perhaps even NEVER try on under-things while they are on their period unless they double and triple check there is no chance of leakage. And even then, they should probably just not try on undergarments at that time of the month, period.

And then what if it does happen? You are stealthily trying on unmentionables during the visit from your monthly flow. (My god, people, it only lasts a few days- can't the panty shopping wait?) You feel confident that your super- plus absorbent tampon is fresh and ready to keep absorbing the flow for a few more hours. Then you look down and WHAM! There's a splotch of blood on the white granny panties you just tried on. Oh. Snap. What do you do? You take a deep breath and think "It's cool, I got this." As you gingerly slip the panty back onto its delicate plastic hanger, you wait for the person in the next stall to leave so you can exit the dressing room un-noticed. You quickly glance around the store as you exit the stall and make a graceful beeline back to the underwear rack and casually hang it a few items back. There! Operation Avoid Embarrassing Bloody Mess successfully executed.

I get that confessing and taking the item you ruined to the front and sheepishly paying for it is something reserved for those of us with steel ladyballs. But actually going through the motions of placing the item on a hanger and displaying it back on the rack in all of its crimson glory is just beyond all measure of comprehension. Do you think someone will actually want to buy it? Maybe they'll get an extra discount since it's a damaged item. Actually, you probably did the next customer a favor and saved them a few bucks. How thoughtful of you.  

While I haven't done extensive or even any research at all on this (I'm simply pulling these figures out of my ass) I would say 4 out of 5 women who encountered this situation would leave the item balled up on the floor under a pile of other items and high tail it directly out of the store without making eye contact or conversation with another human being for the next several hours. But then again, these 4 women would also probably not being trying on undergarments during the menses in the first place. It's pretty much gotta be that 1 woman going from store to store every month trying on undies. 

Bloody Granny Panties front and center. 
I was not shopping for these underwear.
The blood on the white undies caught my eye. Swear.
Oh maybe they won't notice the blood
since the bathing suit is red. Not.
Clean up on aisle five.

And while bleeding on new underwear in a department store is pretty gross, it is not lost on me that I was the person taking pictures of other people's blood on undergarments in a department store. I never said I wasn't crazy.

Monday, April 15, 2013

More Devil Baby Serial Killer

It's been a while since I've shared any children fodder so I thought I'd update you on a few of Devil Baby's recent antics.

Devil Baby's handy work.
One night, she had a group of four small Disney characters in the bathtub with her. Mickey, Minnie, Goofy and Pete. I'm sitting in there with her, minding my own business, when I look over and she has them all submerged in a tupperware dish full of water and bubbles trapped under something heavy to hold them down. As I watched her "play" she was talking to them and I swear to God she growled "you'll never get out again, mwahahaha." Poor Mickey and the gang. 

When picking Devil Baby up from school one afternoon the teacher told me an interesting story. She said a boy in her class slept past the end of nap time and the teacher gently tried to coax him awake with no luck. Devil Baby then said to the teacher "he's dead." I of course, found this hilarious though somewhat disturbing, but I had to keep my composure in class as she tells me she then had to explain to Devil Baby "no honey, he's not dead, just super tired." Oops.

You better sleep with one eye open, Timmy...
One afternoon while helping me put away dishes, and by helping me, I mean helping her sister because ain't no-one got time for dishes, Devil Baby grabbed some tongs and walked up to me and said "I'm going to cut your brains out."

Which brings me to one night while putting her to bed and snugging while singing goodnight songs like you are my sunshine and itsy bitsy spider, Devil Baby leaned over and said "I'm going to eat your brains." Too much Walking Dead perhaps?

Shut your wine hole mom,
I'm fucking cleaning! 

And finally, this is less about Devil Baby becoming a serial killer and more of a cautionary tale about using profanities around your kids so often they begin to think swear words are every day adjectives. I caught Devil Baby in the bathroom with a bottle of windex and paper towels. I asked her what she was doing and she said as clear as day "I'm fucking cleaning." Excellent. Apparently, as everyone messes things up around the house after I have cleaned, I have the tendency to yell "What are you doing?! I just fucking cleaned that!" Or "Stop throwing water all over the bathroom Wiener, I was in here all day fucking cleaning." Well, as long as they're helping I guess I don't care what they fucking call it! 

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Happy Anniversary Wiener- Unless You're Gay, Then We Can't Be Married...

If you oppose same sex marriage, this
video may change your mind.
Wiener and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary a few weeks ago. Damn I feel old. It happened right around the time the Supreme Court was discussing same sex marriage. In light of that, I felt compelled to share my thoughts...

We have been married 17 years, been together for 20, and it is FUCKING HARD. During the course of our marriage there have been the good and bad times. We have been blissfully happy, wanted to murder each other and wanted to throw in the towel. But we made it this far.

We don't need a piece of paper to tell us we are married or to let others know we are committed and love each other.

But apparently you DO need a piece of paper to be treated equally in the eyes of the law. For example- regarding filing taxes jointly, covering one another on health insurance, addressing parental issues and even visiting a sick or dying partner in the hospital.

There are some that say marriage is between a man and a woman and God. To that I say- not anymore. And we made it that way. We as a nation have evolved to a place where marriage is more about different withholding rates, child income credits and astronomical health insurance premiums than the original intention of merging families for a dowry and procreating. If two people love each other and are dedicated to spending their lives together through the good, bad, ugly and fucking hard times, who are we to say no? No, you aren't good enough to reap these benefits. How dare we?

Why is it ok for men and women to marry and divorce and treat marriage like a disposable novelty, reaping benefits of marriage only to turn around and destroy each other in divorce with hate and child custody battles and evading child support? To be fair, many marriages are successful, but why are so many allowed to make mockery of it with divorce and spiteful antics while other dedicated, loving couples aren't given a chance simply because they share the same anatomy?

If your child wanted to try out for a team and was told no because she is a girl, you would scream sexism. Not equal. If you thought your ethnicity prevented you from accomplishing something, you would scream racism. Not equal.  If you were told you couldn't vote because you are a woman, marry because you are white and your fiance is black, sit in a diner with people of other races and ethnicities or sit where you please on a freaking bus, you would say---> N O T   E Q U A L!!!   How can we claim liberty and justice for all while intentionally excluding a group of citizens from being allowed to participate in and benefit from the laws of our nation?

Fortunately, history is on the side of people fighting in support of same sex marriage. It is the natural progression of things. It is the right thing to do. Allowing same sex couples to marry will not impact my marriage in any way. If anything, I feel a sense of shame that I am privy to rights that my fellow humans are not.

Word to your mother.
Still, some oppose it and mostly cite religious beliefs. And if that's how they feel and they think same sex marriage is wrong, or being gay altogether is wrong, that's their right to believe. But let's not forget this country was founded by people who wanted to practice religion as they wished- so why is it not ok to persecute them for their religious beliefs, but it is ok to persecute people for their feelings and deny them their inalienable human and civil rights? IT'S NOT OK. You can't have it both ways. Perhaps there needs to be biblical marriage for all those who view marriage as a religious union between man, woman and God and legal marriage for those who want government recognition and equality in tax filings and insurance coverage, etc. Those choosing a biblical marriage can keep their godly union, but pay the higher single tax rate and not reap any lawful benefits.

There is separation of church and state specifically so these types of issues don't arise. So religious rules and beliefs do not guide lawful and government decisions to negatively impact our citizens. And that's something traditional marriage proponents don't understand. They don't have a say in the matter. The constitution provides them with freedom of religion and to believe as they choose- it does not provide them with the right to define marriage to our lawmakers.

Making this point even more- churches do not pay any taxes. No federal or local taxes on their income. No property taxes on their churches or fellowship halls. All these mega-churches building huge, obnoxious buildings on vast amounts of land, filling them with state of the art electronics and technologies, paying celebrities and the like to speak and entice more followers into the church.... pay no taxes. Yes, pastors and church employees pay income tax on any salaries they receive, but as an organization, income received or properties owned are not taxable. So why then are church organizations allowed to lobby and dictate to our government what laws and rights its citizens are entitled to? Last time I checked, citizens paid income and property taxes to the government so shouldn't they be entitled to the same rights as the rest of the nation's residents?

And while we are on the subject of taxes- income tax was not implemented until 1913, so really before then one could argue marriage was primarily a religious union. But fast forward 100 years to 2013 and we now have more people marrying in civil ceremonies such as at the Justice of the Peace and by non-religious affiliated individuals certified by law to marry couples, with no mention of God or religion whatsoever. So with this information alone (people marrying in non religious-civil ceremonies) the argument can no longer be made that marriage is solely a godly union.

And I know it sounds like I'm raging on religion and churches. That's not my intention- my intention is to use satire and sarcasm to show how hypocritical and ridiculous the fact that two people who want to marry (and receive lawful recognition and benefits) cannot marry primarily because a large group says it is against their beliefs. God forbid the Atheists start trying to get rid of churches and religion stating it is against their beliefs.

So here's hoping the near future will bring true equality to all citizens and humanity. Because I'm all for equal rights and I love the idea of more people joining my personal hell also known as marriage. Suckers! 

Our Anniversary Cake. Run Wiener, run! 

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Random Wiener

So this isn't a real post. I have many things I am working on but haven't found the time to fine tune them. And who can blame me with my wine drinking and avoiding laundry schedule? It's madness.

But I wanted to post something just for the hell of it so it doesn't look like I've abandoned the blog entirely. I promise to be back with some lengthier posts soon. 

That said, I am always entertained by Wiener (not that he's trying, I just contort everything he says and does into something amusing with my sick, twisted sense of humor) so I thought I would pick on him a bit more. If he doesn't like it, he needs to stop saying such overtly gay and entertaining things.

During the Superbowl there was an ad featuring super hot shirtless guys with ripped abs. Wiener said, "Dayum! - Calvin Klein ALWAYS gets the sexy guys." okayyyy???

Wiener's random thought: "I'd love to be a jewelry designer." Maybe not gay, but certainly not macho.

One chilly February day Wiener announced: "It's freezing in here. My balls just went up my ass." Wow.

And finally, here are some interesting texts from Wiener regarding our back to back ER visits in January. Me for my back and him for the flu. He just might be starting to catch on to this whole sense of humor thing. And of course I will be taking full credit.

Well played, Wiener. The student may
soon become the master. 

Way to rub it in. Let's see how fast
I share my pain meds next time your
kidney stones flare up.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Bloody Valentine

Sometimes Valentine's Day needs to FUCK OFF. And that title is not a hint about my monthly cycle, although the rage I am in could be due to estrogen build up of an impending time of the month episode.

I usually treat Valentine's Day like most others. Nothing special and I don't have any high expectations for sweeping romantic gestures or picture perfect plans. But sometimes shit just happens on Valentine's Day that makes me want to scream WHAT. THE. FUCK.

For instance a few years ago... Wait. Belay that. More like 10 years ago since Fifi wasn't born yet. I had made reservations for Wiener and I to enjoy a romantic Italian dinner then go home and open cards and have chocolate and snuggle time. When I got home from work in the late afternoon before him, I was greeted by a flood of water pouring out of the garage as I opened the door. Long story short, our water heater had overflown and was flooding water from the ceiling in the attic down to the hall and out the garage. Because who DOESN'T keep their hot water heater in the attic of a one story house so it can nearly fall through the ceiling and flood the entire house ruining every single shred of flooring and requiring its replacement? Everyone should experience this because it is such fun!

Fast forward several years later and I can't really think of any major Valentine's Day issues, but I do recall a few being just sucky in general for no particular reason. And today is no exception. I swear I didn't have any high hopes or even really care that it was Valentine's Day. Maybe the day I was born the February 14 gods were just like " for this one, every February 14 will be a shitastic day from henceforth." I did not get that memo.

So here we are today and I'm in an especially pissy mood due to some personal family stuff, which I shan't go into and whine about, but the icing on the cake is this: Transferring the kids laundry from the washer to the dryer, I come across some slimy gelatinous material which I quickly realize is the remnants of an old pull-up that must have gotten left in the hamper and thrown in the wash. Good times. NOT. So here I am spending Valentine's Day elbow deep in slimy goo that I can only hope will easily clean out of the washer and wash off the clothes, but I'm not holding my breath.

And when I'm done there, I guess I'll start slaving over the Valentine's Day dinner for my loving family who I'm sure will scarf it all down before I have nary a bite then begin demanding dessert. Ungrateful bastards.

Happy Fucking Valentine's Day, y'all!

Aw Yeah...

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

The Vegas Curse

I have spent the last week in a narcotic induced haze and I am just now piecing together all the details to share with you. I fear some parts may be true, while other memories a product of my hallucinatory imagination. But before you get all judgy and call Dr. Drew, you should know that the narcotics were legit and prescribed to me. For the most part.

January 11, 2013- a handful of friends and I were to depart on a weekend of debauchery in Las Vegas to celebrate multiple 40th birthdays. Not mine, of course, as I am the youngest of the gang. (I will be mentioning this a lot. Get used to it.) I was to leave with everyone Friday and Wiener was to join us Saturday for one night.

A week prior to our departure I slightly hurt my back while doing some minor housework- vacuuming etc. Now you know why my general rule of thumb is to never do housework and to stick to the bon bons and champagne. I had a week to recover and by the time the 11th rolled around I was good to go.

We made it to the airport on time. Wiener took us all in Lola's giant black XL SUV. Because that's how she likes things. Baby D, Lola, Pepe and I met Raquel and her husband Jake at the airport. I promptly tossed back a Valium with a vodka-cranberry chaser, 9:30 am be damned. I hate to fly. Despite statistics, I'm pretty sure it's still a 50/50 chance you'll make it alive to your destination.

Cheating death, we arrived and tried to check into the hotel. We had to wait until 3 pm so we wandered around. Once in our suite that we were sharing frat-house style, we relaxed until it was time to get ready to go to da club. Yes, I said da club. I'm not forty yet so I can say that. Lola had a local friend who got us the hookup with VIP entry, a table and bottle service. Da club did not open until 10:30, so we had plenty of time to get ready. As the hours passed, we began to question why it opened so late and if we could stay awake until then and considered calling it off. 

But that night was Lola's 40th so we had to soldier on. We got to the the hotel where the club was a bit early and enjoyed some gambling and cocktails while we waited for it to open. This gave the cigar chain smoking Asian next to us (I can say Asian- Wiener's got some Asian in him) the opportunity to send me over a drink that was most assuredly roofied and stop by to say, "That drink is for you because you're my Vegas girl." Okaaay? I frantically spent the next ten minutes trying to dispose of the roofied concoction without looking like an ungrateful bitch. Sticking it on the floor under the table was the perfect solution. As we left, he blew me a kiss and by the time I saw him heading towards us again standing near the bathroom I was in full Taken  panic mode convinced he was seeing if the roofie kicked in and he was ready to whisk me away to be sold into sex slavery to his Sheik boss. Why does this always happen to me? More on the Sheik another time. But I foiled his villainous plan and we made our way to the club.

In the club there was some wildly inappropriate and awesome behavior that I cannot share because of some bullshit rule about what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I can report that lap dances were involved. It was not a strip club. There was a shit ton of vodka. Raquel could not feel her teeth. Some 50 year old lady was solo Elaine dancing near us. (Foreshadowing the future us perhaps?) There were gay Germans dirty dancing with a member of our party. And let's just say that this happened: 

Just some innocent table dancing.
On the way out we met a merry band of brothers with British accents and somehow we began to refer to them as The Hobbits. To their faces. I'm pretty sure this was racist. It was a drunken nightmare. Raquel told them they should come to Dallas to visit because we shot JFK. I had to remind her we weren't alive when this happened, so technically we did not shoot him. Jake told them incorrectly to meet us the next night at the show we were seeing called Abstinence. Who would want to see that? It was called Absinthe. One Hobbit kept trying to kidnap Baby D and diversion tactics were employed to make our escape. We thought we made a clean getaway, but we ran into a Hobbit outside. Finally, the valet brought our car and as we drove off Raquel told the Hobbit to say hello to Gandalf for us. I'm pretty sure we're going to hell.

And did I mention that by 'on the way out' I meant on the way out at 3:30 am? And if you add the two hour time difference coming from Texas it was 5:30 am, so we'd been up 24 hours? Aw yeaaah- take that Vegas and fuck you 40! (I'm still 39) 

Not 40 yet, bitches!

So the next morning we were happily hung over and lounged in the room most of the day. I casually bent over to pick something up from my suit case and felt a sharp pain in my back. The last time I traveled to Vegas I was pregnant with Fifi and had a horrible case of sciatica right before that trip. And here I was again, never usually having back issues, in Vegas, the youngest of the group, (I'm milking it for all I can) with a thrown out back. Vegas hates me.

We had plans that evening for a nice birthday dinner and a show. Wiener was arriving at 2 pm so I sucked it up and slammed some wine and an erroneous hydrocodone. Dinner was great and the show was even better, especially after a double Malibu and cranberry. Malibu was substituted for Belvedere vodka after being told the vodka was $27 per shot. No thanks. I can buy a few entire bottles for that much. I was in excruciating pain and had to kill it somehow. We saw Absinthe at Caesar's and it was fucking hilarious. Completely raunchy and politically incorrect and right up our alley. 

Afterwards we roamed the Caesar's Palace casino where I have a vague recollection of talking to some Canadians about the show who wanted to know if there was nudity or visible side boob and I involuntarily said AY a lot. I'm also told that I kept demanding a hover round and at one point yelled at a legless man on a hover round "Hey! I need that!" Not my finest moment.

I'm sure this happened.
I also have foggy memories of playing blackjack with Lola and Wiener and discussing Cuban-American relations with our 24 year old newlywed dealer who was Cuban and has dual citizenship. I did this so no one noticed me counting on my fingers under the table to add up my cards. But somehow chips kept appearing so I must not have done too bad. Or Lola and Wiener kept putting them there for me. Or maybe it was the (gasp) Asian!!! Eventually we left and headed to Bellagio where we had some breakfast then back to our hotel.

By the next morning I was completely unable to move and in the worst pain of my life since childbirth. I tried relaxing and taking Advil and after feeling nauseous all day and still in pain I decided to throw in the towel and book a flight back home that night with Wiener. After a trip to the ER, where plenty of heavenly narcotics were dispensed, the doctor sent me to get an MRI which showed a herniated disc.

So although I may be the youngest in age, I'm certainly the oldest in body. How lame. Throwing my back out getting something out of my suitcase in Vegas. And that may be the true story known to you, dear reader, but in my real life the tale I shall tell is "I got a little out of control with my mad dance moves on the stripper pole during my encore performance."

You're welcome for that image. You cannot un-read that. 

Monday, January 7, 2013

Resolutions for Everyone and Stupid People

Why write my own resolutions for New Years that I'm just going to give up on in a New York minute?

Instead, it would be more advantageous of me to write a list of resolutions expected of others. Because if they take action and execute these resolutions, my life would be better and happier! So why waste time making my own when this way I get the same great results of New Year's resolutions without actually having to do any of the work? Genius, right?

So, without further adieu: 

10. Drive friendly. Use your signal. Let people over when they want and don't speed up. Get off the ass of the car in front of you. Drive the speed limit. Stop texting and weaving.

9. Please move your shopping cart to the side of the aisle and don't leave it in the middle so others can't get around. I thought we discussed this.

8. Learn some correct grammar. No one will take your vents and rants seriously when you spew incorrect, misused and improperly spelled words all over social media. Your, you're, their, they're, there etc. Yes, typos and auto correct happen. But not every time you post. Just as important, if you're going to correct other people's grammar, make sure you correct their grammar not grammer.

7. Please, for the love of God, get a debit card. Why are you still writing checks in public? They are free, easy to use and super fast. This will lessen your chance of me stabbing you in the face in a checkout line as you rummage through your purse for a pen and driver's license then balance your checkbook.

6. Stop using your religion as a shield to allow you to judge others, be a hypocrite, and say what you want simply because you have faith and can ask for forgiveness. Because you can be forgiven doesn't give you carte blanche to judge others and be mean and cruel. Practice what you preach and lead by example. It's pretty hypocritical of me to judge others here and say mean things while telling others not to do it, right? No. The difference here is this is satire not directed at any one person specifically and I wouldn't say something horrible to someone just to be mean and hurt them and turn around and say 'it's ok because I'm a Christian and all will be forgiven.'

5. Because you can, doesn't mean you should. This goes for so many things. Diarrhea mouth on social media, over sharing on social media, wearing pajamas to Walmart, wearing see through tops with only a bra under, demonstrating your pole dancing maneuvers at office parties. Always ask yourself  "I know I can, but SHOULD I?"

4. Stop smoking. This is purely selfish. I have never smoked. I try not to judge others that do, but I can't help it. It's fucking gross. Even if you don't do it around others, we can still smell it on you and it's stinky. You stink. You reek. You do. I hate walking through clouds of this stench just to get into stores. I hate seeing the littered butts on the ground. Oh, they're biodegradable you say? So are tampons and we don't throw those out of our car windows or on your front lawn. You know the health ramifications so I won't lecture. And it's your right, so there is not much I can do. But if you still can't stop, please have the courtesy not to expose others in public and, for fuck's sake, do not smoke in cars with kids. It takes a special kind of selfish and stupid to do that.

3. Don't gift things you wouldn't want to receive. I know this is a limited subject relegated to holidays and birthdays, etc. and not a major life changing resolution. And it's kind of rude of me to dictate what others should give. But enough is enough. If you don't want to step on ten billion sharp Lego bits or Polly pocket parts and spend hours picking them up, don't give them. If you don't want to be awakened from a dead sleep by a shrill shrieking siren of a toy that the cat accidentally stepped on or shot in the face with a foam missile by a sugar fiending toddler screaming 'put em up' over and over, don't give them. Most importantly, with all due respect grandma, my kids don't need one more motherfucking stuffed animal. Half of the 280 billion stuffed animals we own are still in plastic trash bags from operation 'Lice Scare 2006' and the other half are strewn on the floor waiting for their turn to be puked on by the cat. 

2. Stop asking for help, advice and opinions if you're not going to take it. I already told you I liked the black top and not the orange one, so why are you wearing it? And stop whining about all of your financial woes, then constantly spend money on crap you don't need. And I already told you that guy was a scumbag so why are you sexting him? Jeez. If you're going to do what you want anyway, why do you ask for advice?

1. Quit constantly adding pictures of yourself to Facebook and changing profile pictures. Sure, we all like to look good. But constantly uploading pictures of yourself, alone or with half cropped others, makes you look vain, shallow, desperate for attention, insecure, and like you're fishing for compliments. You know who you are. Here's a tip- if people and close friends aren't liking or commenting on pictures of yourself that you upload, you may be doing it too much and are guilty of this. Or if the wrong types of people are liking and commenting, ie douche bags and possible serial killer rapists, you might be guilty and have a problem. Ask yourself "Why do I want to upload this picture? Do I want attention? Would I want my child to do this and have perverts liking it and commenting?"

There you have it. Aren't these resolutions great? I'm sure people besides me will benefit from these resolutions being implemented. So, general public at large, please comply with these resolutions post haste. It would mean a lot to me.

And after all, they are totally better than my own list of resolutions that I quit writing after drink more wine. That would be about all I could add to my already hectic schedule of champagne drinking and bon bon eating so this way is much better. Do it.