Archive for March, 2008

Okay so I manage to go to the grocery store alone yesterday.

It’s only because girlfriend refused to go with me. I would have taken her, I swear.

So I go to the deli counter.

He’s there.

My number comes up.

It’s my turn, and I can feel my face getting hot.

Bow chica wow wow…

And he says:

“What can I get for you today ma’am?”

Bow chicka woooorrrrriiiiiiiippppppppp!

He called me ma’am.

I thought we had something special.

I had this vision of us together just like a couple on the cover of a romance novel…the wind from the overhead vents delicately stroking my heaving bosom, his hard salami pressed up against my leg, the number 69 appearing on the “now serving customer number” sign above us.

Sigh.

Now I know it can never be between us.

I’m just another housewife to him. Buying cheese on a Sunday afternoon.

and what that says about you horrifies me just a little bit. 

Barnyard fuckers: That almost never happens here. 

Crissy from Rhode Island:  Great.  Now I’m going to have the fucking paparazzi following me around Target watching me buy superflow tampons and vagi cream. 

Butt-hole bleach, How to bleach your butt hole, Ass bleach: Despite my objections to this product, had I known this was such a hot topic I would have done a video demonstration for you.  Not really. 

Hershey Kiss Weight Watcher Points: There are 3 w.w. points in one serving of kisses.  Quit asking.

Stake and blow job night:  Okay, I understand that not everyone was an English major in college or even a graduate of grade 3, so here’s your tutorial:  it’s steak with an E if you’re eating it.  A stake with an A is what Buffy the Vampire Slayer carries around with her to help her kill vampires and stuff.  Totally different kind of evening… just sayin’.

Friends fucking my drung mother: I don’t have any friends and my mother doesn’t drung. 

Shat her panties: This is what will go on my gravestone.  Fantastic.

Sold her panties: Again with the panties.  I’m going to have to stop wearing them.

SUPER FUCK: Well, I like to think so. And I must say I’m flattered by your enthusiasm!

Rachel Ray Smokes: And that’s why I like her now.

Chanel Motorcycle Helmet:  Paris Hilton is that you? I notice you didn’t bother to leave a comment though.  Whore. I hope you crash your motorcycle and die.

Jesus yoga: Salvation Rotation and Mighty Disciple are my favorite poses. Thanks Jesus!

Anywho…there’s a bunch more, but I’m getting bored now. 

I don’t think I want to leave my house anymore.  

Some of you internetatrons are freakin’ me out.

Portable DVD player given to me by generous step-mom for purpose of entertaining child in places where DVD players don’t exist: FREE!!!

All grandparental babysitters sick in the same week leaving me with no childcare whatsoever: bummer

Having a boss that is cool enough to let me bring my kid to work and plop her in front of above DVD player: Priceless!!

Ok. 

So this one was lame. I agree.  I can’t be funny all the time! 

Just think of something else that’s funny and laugh at that instead. 

Mmmkay? 

Happy Thursday everyone! 

I had an orgasm at the grocery store.

At the deli counter.

You’re gonna shit.

Check it:

For some reason, I am simultaneously repulsed by and inexplicably drawn to, pardon me, the wop-ish man. It’s got to be because of that first scene ever in the Sopranos when Tony is totally giving it to some girl.

And it looked really fun, even though he’s gross.

The part of my brain that’s not addled by alcohol finds them greasy and revolting.

Greasy and revolting.

And sexy.

So when the Italian Stallion manager at the Stop & Shop deli counter is all like “what can I get for you sweehot?”(Rhode Island accent) “Is that thick enough for you honey?” (huhuhuhuhhhh he said it’s thick!) and “You have a great day now doll!” I wanna be all like “Show me your hard salami!” This thought of course makes me giggle to myself, which makes my Paisan think I’m flirting which I never do because I’m a proper married lady and wouldn’t dream of it. Much.

And so, without my permission, my brain (and I must have been ovulating or something because that’s the only explanation I have for this sudden lusty-ness in an otherwise frigid existence) made a mini-porn movie inside my head where this large, bulging man in a deli apron with chest hair peeking over the top bada-bing, bada-banged me right there on the pita breads… And it caused, ahem, a flood and a wave.

Right there at the deli counter.

I’m not even fucking kidding you!

And it gets worse.

Where I used to show up at the store on Friday mornings in my “I don’t give a shit because I’m a mommy now and I’ve given up on myself (almost) completely” brown velour pants, ponytail, and my sneaks, I am now going in my “I’m a bored suburban whore looking for adultery-American cheese at the deli counter” flirt-cut jeans and the only shoes I own that I think an I-talian man would find irresistible.

I even started wearing my Bio-fit Uplift bra with chicken cutlets on Fridays because it makes the girls look really, very nice.

This is not very good because I have to invent things to buy at the deli counter now. We really don’t eat a lot of meat and not even that many sliced processed cheese products and now I find myself buying things like Olive Loaf and I don’t even know what that is. But it’s colorful. And so I buy it.

It’s exaclty like how Sam the butcher on The Brady Bunch was always giving Alice the housekeeper a little extra meat on the DL.

You know they were totally screwing each other on the bloody rump roasts, right? You just know it!

Tonight I’m making a midnight run to spray paint obscenities on an elementary school.

Anyone in?

Sounds fun, right?

“Gasp! Why whatever for? That’s a terrible thing to do!” you say.

Nah. It’s justice.

Today my kid got rejected by snot school Henry Barnard (or as locals call it, Henry’s Barnyard), the fuckers.

She sort of freaked out a little when I had to leave the room for her assessment and, well, she didn’t perform exactly as I had hoped she would.

No.

That’s an understatement. I’m sugar coating.

She flipped her fucking noodle and the teachers had to come and pull me out of a meeting with the other parents and the principal because she had completely gone to the zoo and no one could calm her down not even the people who wrangle 3 year olds for a living!

(But at least she didn’t shit herself.)

I had to go back to the room to calm her. She begged me to take her home, but I insisted on putting her through it anyway. And then, while the other kids were doing finger play (I always feel really dirty saying that) my kid decided to do them on her back with her legs spread open instead. Did I mention she was wearing a dress?

Yeah.

She eventually managed to lock it up after a while, and she built a puzzle upside down and backwards. She also blew the standardized assessment out of the water with her genius. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

So we left with that feeling Julia Roberts had in Pretty Woman when the snotty sales people kicked her out of the store. She HAD the money, they just didn’t THINK she had the money. I was home for only about an hour before the snot school principal called me to say that even though she’s “a smart little cookie” her “separation issues are concerning as (they) indicate that she is not prepared for the demanding environment of Henry Barnard School.”

SHE’S ONLY FUCKING TWO AND SHE’S NEVER BEEN LEFT ANYWHERE BEFORE IN HER LIFE!!!! OF COURSE SHE LOST HER SHIT!!!

Are you kidding me with this?

So that’s it. No snot school this year. Bring her back next year, they said.

Yeah, not after bitter mama spray paints FUCKTARD BARNYARD on the front door.

By the way, while I’m writing this, she just explained what blood pressure is to my husband. And she’s right. She can also explain leverage and the concept of having a base coat before you paint a wall. We didn’t teach her this stuff. She just knows it.

The Barnyard can take her off their list of Nobel prize winners they’ve turned out. The good news is that The Paint Box can add her on. Because that’s where she’s going. She liked that place better anyway.

So…what color are we painting the snot school?

Day-glow Pink or Barn Door Red?

I can’t decide.

Eva wagge ub an yre still drung a lil bit? Thas me aday. I needed a hav bregfas an a bodle a ibuprophenenen an I feld much bedda…sweardagod.

We had a surprise birthday party for my sister-in-law last night. She’s 30 now. That makes her old. I would have told you about it, but it was a surprise (duh).

Here are pictures to make you sad that you weren’t invited.

-OR- they could make you really happy, like, depending on if your were there and stuff.

Work it baby! Work it! Own it! Didn’t I look hot last night?

Here’s Cya pretending she’s surprised even though

GREG!!

told her about the party. It’s cool Greg. We forgive you.

Cya farts sometimes.

Especially when she’s sitting on the whoopie cushion she got for her birthday.

This is Paul. He does not like Cya’s farting. He wants her ass to be quiet. (click on the picture and he’ll do a trick!)

He looks really, really scary, but he’s quite nice actually. As is his adorable gf, Jess.

Read more…

I bought some fabulous new party shoes the other day. I can’t afford them, but I had to have them anyway.

Visa can suck it.

Upon my arrival home, girlfriend noticed immediately that mommy had brought home a little prezzy for herself.

“What you got in the bag mommy?”

“Some new shoes.”

Her face lit up and she ripped the bag from my hand and dumped it out on the floor.

“Let me try them out!”

Frantically, she pulls off her little navy blue All Stars, puts on my new party shoes, and begins to clomp around the living room.

“I like these shoes. They’re tee-rific!”

My husband and I both dove for our cameras and started clicking away paparazzi style. Not only is she cute as all get out in my shoes, but she’s wearing sunglasses and no pants.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Britney Spears made this look famous months ago.

Ever have a day where you swear that if you could just have a martini with breakfast you’d be able to think straight?

That’s where we’re at today.

My daughter’s first visit to the snotty preschool we’re trying to get her into went well on Tuesday. She might actually stand a shot at getting in as she did not, as I feared she might, employ any of her preferred parental humiliation tactics such as…

• Spitting at the principal and calling him “stupid!”
• Diving under a table and shouting “No! I’ll never do it! Never! Never!”
• Shitting her pants.
• Dropping an f-bomb (which she’s never done, but I’m waiting for it).

While she was well behaved, her mother looked like a moron when talking to the principal. He started telling me about Piaget and how his theories on brain development impact their preschool program. I know exactly who Piaget is, but was unable to communicate intelligently on the topic due to my fear that I would sound stupid. And so I sounded stupid. Had I had a martini before we went we could have really Piaget-ed it up. I’ll know for next time.

In other news, I stepped in a deceptively deep puddle and soaked my right shoe on Wednesday. I sat for 8 hours with one wet foot. Thanks puddle (douche).

In happier news, my friend Valerie had a baby at midnight on Wednesday. A 7lb, 14oz boy named Alexander David. Welcome to the world little guy!

You no longer have to hide in my bushes to get a picture of me. I’ve added some to the “about” section. If you tell me how gorgeous I am, I’ll send you an autographed copy of one.

Last night while turned off and sitting on my kitchen counter, my cell phone, unbeknownst to me, turned itself on (!) and dialed random people thereby leaving them privy to our dinner conversation. I feel violated. Clearly the fucking thing is possessed.

My friend Rachel over at Get Your Freak On and I are going to try to win tickets to see and meet Kathy Griffin, comedic goddess, by doing something ridiculous to get her attention. Check back as I’m sure one or the both of us will be posting our antics on our blogs.

Anywho, TGIF people.

I’m not doing anything special this weekend other than possibly making another dance video and most likely nursing a monsterous hangover on either Saturday or Sunday.

What are your weekend plans?

Pretty flowers for prom date: $10.00

Rental fee for totally bitchin’ black and white tuxedo: $25.00

Rad new Mullet haircut that shows your wild side: $15.00

Thinking you’re the shit:

Priceless!

Imagine your mother is Dr. Ruth…

I love my mom. Everyone does. She’s a single gal who’s very open and funny. She has tons of friends, she’s not afraid to use a well-placed f-bomb, has a wicked sense of humor, and nothing shocks her because she’s a social worker and deals with the absolute scum of the earth every day. You can talk to her about anything. And everyone does talk to her.

Among the people who come to visit her are some State Troopers who are on a stake out in front of her house (they’re not watching her, but apparently someone in her neighborhood has been vewy, vewy naugh-tee). They come in for potty breaks, grilled cheese sandwiches, cups of tea, and a nice chat. They’re the manliest sort of men around and she’s smitten. Think of Sex and the City kind of smitten, but without all the Samantha style sluttishness. My husband finds it adorable. I, on the other hand, want to gouge out my mind’s eye with a rusty fork and wash my ears out with acid. Imagine your mom sharing her State Trooper en flagrante delicto fantasies with you! (shudder).

And because of her training in all things theraputic, she feels it’s her job as my mother/therapist to give me unsolicited marital advice. Take Saturday for example. My husband spent the day painting our double living room. This was no small undertaking, but he did it without complaint, because he’s cool like that. I tell my mother what he’s doing and she gasps, saying “well, you’d better rest up and save your energy, girl. You owe him a little fun tonight. You’re going to have to make him a steak and give him a blow job.”

My husband thinks she’s the best mother-in-law a guy could ask for.

I know.

This is why I have a blog. It quiets the screaming in my head a little.