Archive for February, 2010

I wish Bob Ross was my dad.

I used to watch him paint when I was little and I always wanted to crawl into the TV and hug him.  I watched him every day.  I asked my parents for art books so I could learn how to paint like him.  He was sort of a hero, actually.

He was always just like “maybe get a little crazy and put a tree here.  Whatever you’re comfortable with is fine.”

My dad was always all  “SIT DOWN AND EAT OR YOU’LL GET A SPANKING!”  followed by “QUIT CRYING OR I’LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!”  And then he’d smack us on the back of the head,  or clap his hands really loud right in our faces, just to let us know he was THE MAN.

We got a lot of spankings and we did a lot of crying.

I bet Bob Ross would never make me eat meatloaf under threat of a spanking. He would probably leave his dinner to make me a grilled cheese sandwich like I wanted.

Also, Bob Ross had cool hair.  My dad was bald.

PS:  I need a topic for next week’s Toy With Me. Is there something totally gross you saw recently, or is there a story you want me to tell/re-tell? Maybe I’ll just tell the story about how I turn men gay.  I’ve got three under my belt.  I’m pretty proud of that.  Email me!

PSS: This post was way emo-er than I planned.  Sorry.  I thought it was going to come out funny, but no.  That’s okay though.  Bob Ross still loves me, even when I suck a little bit.

Quick update on the Karma situation:

Yesterday the basement flooded, Homeslice was a crankasaurus, Mister was in a shitty mood, Girlfriend followed me around demanding cookies, a show we bought tickets to was switched to a different performer–no refunds (fucking Ticketmaster cunts), Big Pussy ate my new favorite plant that I bought at the flower show and barfed it all over my dining room table, Alice fished a coffee filter out of my compost bucket and ran around with a diarrhea coffee buzz like you read about, BUT it was raining like a sonofabitch so she refused to go out which means she had diarrhea anyone? anyone? all over the house, AND I came down with a cold and a wicked sore throat. I can take anything, but a sore throat really pisses me off.

So yes. The universe pretty much shat on my head.

Don’t kill ladybugs. Roger that.

Yesterday after reading that my “ladybugs” were actually some sort of Beetle impostering as ladybugs, Girlfriend and I went on a killing spree.  Each armed with a library book( I KNOW IT!), we went into the bathroom and opened up a can whoop ass on the beetles.

We were like, all Matrix-y and shit, and we were spinning around and doing ninja flips and gettin’ all crazy, and we were pretty bad ass, laughing all the way and making splooshy sound effects and high fiving each other until all the beetles were dead, dead, dead.

Hahahahahahaha!

And I enjoyed it a little too much, and I blame Girlfriend because she thought it was hysterical, which made massacring tens of ladybug beetle things AWESOME! Hahahahaha! and we totally bonded and then I realized something.

Karma is a bitchface.

It’s always making anything fun a wicked pain in the assical.  Murdering bugs, annoying as they may be, makes for very bad karma.  I mean,what would Buddha say?

I do not think he would be pleased with Girlfriend and me.

Mister tells me that my source of information on the whole beetle/ladybug thing was bad and that ladybugs come in all different shades of orange/red and if he’s right, I have just gleefully killed what are arguably the most adorable bugs in the entire entomological world.

What happens to you when you smoosh good luck ladybugs with a library book?

This can’t be good, Queefies.

So now I’m scared that something really bad is going to happen, and I keep going back to this show I was watching on Monday night. I don’t know what show it was because I don’t really pay attention to show names, but it was one of those police shows–OMG! Greg from Darma & Greg was in it– and it was about a guy who started shooting people who looked like his wife. After he shot his first person, he got a high from it, and then he got addicted to shooting people and he couldn’t stop, and he just wanted to do it more and more and it became like, an obsession.

I didn’t see the whole thing, but I think he murdered his family probably.

I’m scared that this is going to happen to me now. I’m going to start killing bugs like, all the time, and then before you know it, BAM!

I’m a killing machine.

I already share a name with a serial killer, so it’s like I am one already!

And you’re getting a twofer today because it’s TOY WITH ME Wednesday!

Breastfeed my husband? Hell no!

Morning Queefies!

I don’t know how much time I have this morning.  Homeslice and Girlfriend are still sleeping.  I always get really paranoid when they sleep late, and I keep going into their rooms to make sure they didn’t die.  I put my hand on their little tummies to check for breathing and sometimes I poke them to make them move.  I’m an awesome mother, obviously.

They’re both still alive, btw.  I poked them.

Can somebody tell me why my upstairs bathroom is infested with lady bugs? It happens every year at this time. I counted 21 of them yesterday, and I have to do the floor every day because when I go in there, it’s littered with dead lady bug parts. Apparently there’s some sort of a lady bug coup d’ etat going on in there.  It’s a veritable  lady bug blood bath.

But why are they doing it in my bathroom?

I saw Amityville Horror AND I read the book, so I’m kind of an expert on these things, and so I know that it’s usually flies that come with an evil haunting and so I don’t think that’s why all the lady bugs.

As far as I can tell, they must think the horrible daisy border the former owners put up is real. Stupid lady bugs.  It’s ugly AND it’s wallpaper, you guys!  Get a clue.

OR!

I am not only Queen of Fucking Everything, but I am also Earth Mother and all the creatures big and small want to be near me regardless of ugly wallpaper.

I spend a lot of time in that bathroom, you know.  I brush people’s teeth, I give people baths, I wipe people’s butts (not Miste’rs though, thank Jeezus, but I could be anywhere in the house and hear “I pooped!” and I have to come running to wipe Girlfriend’s ass), and I clean it and clean it and clean it. Not Girlfriend’s ass.  The bathroom.  Because lady bugs are messy.

Between that upstairs bathroom and the kitchen, it’s pretty much my day.  So why aren’t they in the kitchen where all my plants are?

Because lady bugs are fucking stupid and they have horrible taste in wallpaper.  That’s why.

In other news, the flower show was pretty stupid.  It was more of an opportunity to find a landscaper than to learn about pretty flowers.  We paid $17 a person to see landscaping vignettes.  It was fucking stupid.

But we got a cute picture of Homeslice:

so that was good.

And I noticed that not one of you showed up there to meet me which proves once and for all that I don’t have any REAL friends.  Sure, you say you love me but WHERE WERE YOU?

I agonized over my outfit just for you.

Assholes.

You know what TV show I’m totally addicted to right now which means they’ll change my cable and I won’t be able to see it anymore just like the Horrible Ghost Hunter’s Tragedy of ’08?

It’s The Millionaire Matchmaker.

The other night, she called somebody an “ugly firecrotch bitch.” And then, after she got all up in Firecrotch’s grill, she was all “get her out of here!  Take her away!”

How can you not love her?

You can’t! You can’t not love a person who calls somebody a hilarious name and then has them taken away.

I’m totally going to start doing that, FYI.

From now on, when somebody pisses me off, I’m going to have them taken away.  Wherever I am, I’m just going to start shouting “take her away!” and maybe somebody will do it.

And if that works, I will then start shouting “off with her head!” and see how far I can take this thing.

I love these little experiments.  I’ll keep you posted.

And speaking of experiments, I saw my first bisexual porn the other day.

It was…

weird.

I sort of just sat there with my head cocked to one side going “huh” because even though there was a girl involved, the guys weren’t really interested.  It was really just gay porn that was happening and then some confused, cracked out slut just like, wandered onto the set and started sucking some wenises.

The guys just kind of looked at her like, “TAKE HER AWAY!”

And I was very confused because I didn’t know who the hell I was supposed to be watching and there were wenises going every which way and boys were kissing boys and girls were sort of there too and it was…a cluster fuck. I couldn’t get into it.

Oh, and just a heads up, we’re taking the ladies here today so if you’re stalking us you can adjust your plans accordingly.

So yeah.

That was random.

Wanna know what I ate yesterday?

Oatmeal with wheat germ, butter, and brown sugar.  I put just a little bit of butter and brown sugar, so it tasted like, I don’t know, paper? I’d have put banana in it but my mom ate the last one when she was visiting the other day. (Whore)

Orange juice

Half a mango

One handful of Whole Foods brand organic chocolate animal cookies, consumed in the dark in my pantry with the door closed so Girlfriend wouldn’t catch me eating them BECAUSE COOKIES ARE BAD FOR YOU AND YOU CANNOT EAT THEM EVERY DAY.

One handful of dry roasted peanuts.

Water, water, water, water, water, water

Cheddar cheese on whole wheat bread with pickles on the side. (Btw, you guys HAVE TO get this book.  I’ve been making bread like a motherfucker!) (Don’t worry.  There are NO semen recipes in it)

Then I get to work, and here’s where being tired and sad and wanting to go home turns into a Food Craptacular:

Immediately upon entering break room to put my dinner in the fridge- BAM! One mini cupcake from the break room table. It wasn’t even good, I knew that, but I ate it anyway. WTFF?

A couple of hours later…

Baby carrots and 1 tablespoon of peanut butter

1 Cookie

1 Apple

1 Chocolate from somebody’s Valentine’s sampler

1 Cookie

Amy’s Palak Paneer and a salad for dinner

1 Piece of Denise’s birthday cake

And then I went home and went directly to bed before I could eat one more thing that would make me want to shoot myself in the face with a bazooka.

Do you see a pattern here Queefies? Because I do, and that’s why I’m about to do something unimaginable, something I never thought I would do, something that has absolutely nothing to do with Lent (because I’m giving up anal for Lent just like every year).

I’m going into sugar de-tox, you guys.  I’ve been eating like this every day since Christmas 2008 and I’m tired of feeling like shit about it.  It’s not so much that it makes me fat.  It’s that it’s a monster and it demands more and more and more of itself and it’s never happy or satisfied.  There’s always another cupcake, another cookie, another whatever and I’m all done with it!

So, for the next week, I will not eat any bullshit food.

None. Nada. Nein.

Who’s with me?

Let’s ALL do it!

One week.

No sugary treats.

If you guys see me eating a cupcake or some such nonsense like that any time between now and next what day is it?, you need to slap it out of my mouth and shove it up my ass (except I gave up anal for Lent, so probably don’t do that last part).

Go check out A Collection Of Semen Based Recipes!

This morning, Mister tried to leave for work wearing his Halloween costume:

You know, sans makeup and accessories, but STILL!  I had to stop him and tell him he cannot leave the house dressed like that and somehow I’m the asshole.

PS: Yesterday, after considerable effort with stroller hauling and packing of food bribes to keep Girlfriend in line,  I attempted to go to the mall, which I loathe doing, to go to The Gap for a new pair of jeans. My favorite ones are so old and worn thin, they’re like one squat away from an Unfortunate Incident.  But to my dismay, they have apparently closed all the Gap stores within a 20 minute radius of my house, and if you know me, you know I don’t leave that 20 minute radius for anything.  Not even for Trader Joe’s (it’s 25 minutes away, fyi).  And so this morning, I go online to The Gap and I measure myself for a new pair of my favorites–The Curvy Jean.

And their sizing chart is fucked.

Somebody needs to explain how in the name of Shit and Asshole I’m supposed to know what size I am when my waist is 34 inches around which is a size 16 (!), my hips are 35 inches, and my thigh is 20 inches around which makes me a size 00(!!!).   I’m a 16/00.  And before anyone tells me I measured wrong, I did not.  I followed their measuring tips (6 times), which are also fucked because according to them, my waist is really my hips, my hips are really my ass, and my thigh is, well, it’s still my thigh.  At least we can all still agree on what a thigh is, but you have to come and see this chart and tell me what I’m doing wrong, or at the very least tell me what fucking size I am, or tell me you’re a disproportionate freak show like me so I feel better.

Do any of you work there?  Can you ask them what kind of  fuckery this is?  I don’t want to have to call bullshit on my beloved Gap, but I will if I don’t get a satisfactory explanation.

The Queen demands it!

The Ghosts of David and Grandmother Helen strike again!

Yesterday, when I got into my car to start it, the radio came on. I hadn’t put the key in yet, leading me to believe that David and my Grandmother Helen have been out cruising in my car, and they forgot to turn the radio off. I’m like 99% sure I hadn’t had the radio on when I put it into the garage, because it is impossible for me to pull the car in with music playing. I must have silence to concentrate or I’m gonna either take a mirror off or smash into my lawn chairs.

I’m cool with them borrowing my car. I’d rather have them out speeding around than sitting in my bedroom watching me do naughty things that make me die a little bit inside with Mister so I can get me a new ride.

Also, it smelled like pot. But then again, that could have been from…well, never mind.

Dun-dun-daaaaa…

In other news, I’m coming down with a cold, and I had a story to tell you, but I fucking forgot what it was.

PS: Happy Valentines Day Queefies! We’re doing absolutely nothing. I’ll be lucky if Mister picks up a card, but this morning, he told me I “don’t look like a pile of dog shit.” That’s pretty much as romantic as it gets around here, so I guess that was Valentines Day. Ta-Da!!!!

PSS: I think I’m going to have to demand an explanation for this:

OMG, you guys. Remember this bitch from a post I wrote last year?

So yesterday Crissy drops Girlfriend off at The Sandbox Preschool and there’s this bitchmom with a baby in a carrier and Girlfreind goes over, stands on her tippy toes to peek into the carrier and says “Oh your baby is soooo cute!” and the bitchmom whips the carrier away and says “Don’t put your face near her face! She’s had two colds already this year!” And girlfriend sort of just looked like…”huh?” And Crissy was present for the whole exchange and can say with 100% certainty that Girlfriend’s face did not come anywhere near bitchmom’s baby’s face and so WHAT THE FUCK WAS HER FUCKING PROBLEM?

Crissy thinks that would have fixed her wagon quite handily.

Well.

Speaking of wagons, guess what she rolled up in yesterday?
YES.
MY Volvo wagon.
It’s new. And shiny. And i’m jealous.
And she’s about 6 months pregnant with baby #3 (somebody’s been making her husband vewy, vewy, hap-py!) and she’s totally not an EPC.
She’s something else entirely.
She’s a…Mrs. Fancypants.
A Mrs. Fancypants, dear Queefies, is perhaps the antithesis of the EPC because unlike an EPC, Mrs. Fancypants has a J-O-B and no SUV. She drives an Audi or a Volvo or a BMW instead because she’s very refined, you know. She’d never be caught dead in a pair of sweatpants with JUICY written in sparkles across the ass.
She’s always very put together and looking lovely for work in her outfits from Ann Taylor. There are three of them at Girlfriend’s school. There’s this one who is apparently very good at giving Hummers (I should probably ask her how many she had to give to get the Volvo), a TV reporter, and one who makes wedding cakes. Fancy ones.
They teeter through the ice and snow in stiletto bitch boots every morning looking just as perfect as perfect gets, and I’m not sure how I feel about them as a group. But I know how I feel about this particular Mrs. Fancypants.
I don’t think I like her very much and here’s why:

#1. That incident last year with the baby in the car seat really stuck in my craw.

b) I kind of liked her last winter. I told her she looked hot in her boots, and then she was pretty nice to me when I was pregnant. She always asked how I was feeling. That was nice. It’s probably just because she herself wanted to be in my condition (dear lord, WHY?)

#6) And then a couple of weeks ago, I heard her talking about being pregnant and starting to show, and the woman she was talking to (who, btw, is neither an EPC nor a Mrs. Fancypants. She’s a Breeder.), declared that she should be well into her 6th pregnancy(!!!) by now and that there must be something wrong. I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I heard that.

f) Yesterday I walked in behind her. She had a stranger with her, and she introduced this stranger as anyone? anyone?

“THE NEW NANNY”

And she said it super-loud so everyone would hear her. The NEW NANNY looked like she wanted to crawl under a table. I would never introduce someone that way, would you? I’d probably say something like “this is our friend Karen. She’s going to be helping out and taking Girlfriend to school from now on.”

I think that was really bitchy of Mrs. Fancypants.

And that, dear Queefies is why I do not like her. She has my car and now she has my nanny and she doesn’t even respect her. Also, her hair is always perfect and she can walk on ice, 6 months pregnant wearing stiletto boots.

What is there to like about this woman?

Absolutely nothing.

PS: Today is a Toy With Me day! Mister got flashed at the hairdresser a couple of weeks ago! WTF? Sluttery At The Salon
Happy hump day! (I really hate it when people say that.)