Archive for the 'Don't Look at Me. I'm Ugly in the Morning.' Category

Since Sunday, our computer died so thoroughly that even Mister cannot resurrect it (I’m at work right now, fyi), I have had Lady Days for approximately 8 days, Mister and I were both stung by bees, I have a weird monkey flu that makes my throat/chest/tummy/lower back area so tight and painful I can barely breathe, plus I have a fever that makes me snuggle under my blankets on a 90 degree day with no air conditioning.

And now today, I have an itchy rash where my bee sting was, Mister’s bee stung foot is all Frankensteinish and swollen but the dude at Urgent Care said there’s not much he can do about it, I’m still sick and now my ear and throat hurt, Girlfriend has a fever, AND MOTHERFUCKING FRANK ATE MY FUCKING VEGETABLE GARDEN.

The little jerk was actually in there when I went to dump my compost into the bin this morning and I was all “GET OUT!” and the bold motherfucker just stood up in his back legs, looked at me, and kept eating my broccoli!
Can.
You.
Imagine?
And so again I hissed “Fuck! Off! FRANK!” and off he did not fuck! He just stood there looking at me like “yeah? What are you gonna do about it, lady?”

So you know what I did about it, you guys?

That’s right!

I SHOOK A STICK AT HIM!

He finally scurried away and I was able to survey the damage he did to the tender vegetables I have been nursing from seed since MARCH!

He took all my broccoli, cauliflower, basil, cilantro, romaine lettuce, and sunflowers.

And all I can think about is how badly I want some orange nail polish.

Yesterday, in our hungover stupor, we noticed that Homeslice had climbed into the laundry basket.  It was so adorable, and while we were standing there going “look how cute!”  the basket flipped over and she landed right on her face.

Not. cute.

And there was blood and crying and drama and now she has a super fat lip.

And a pediatrician appointment this morning.

There’s a bruise on her leg I cannot explain, she’s got scratches all over her from scratching her itchy eczema, and she had a slight fever last night before bed.

Basically, Homeslice is a hot mess and it looks like we keep her in a bramble patch down by the river.

Also, it’s Girlfriend’s last day of preschool today.  I can’t really think about it without crying, and I have pictures from graduation that I can’t show you yet but I will just as soon as they become available.

For now, I have to go do workouts before these bitches wake the fuck up and demand I take care of them, which I’m not that good at as it turns out.

I gained 5lbs last week!  You have to work pretty hard to gain 5 lbs in a week.

Woot! Woot! I RULE!

Today is an epic suckfest.

I have a dentist appointment.

I HATE the dentist.  I’m not scared of the dentist or anything,  I just hate it because it’s a pain in the ass and because I don’t like people touching me especially on my face area.

And just to make it more of a pain in the ass, I have to bring both kids with me.

Would any of you Queefies mind telling me how in the name of what the Jesus I’m going to keep Homeslice from making out with that mouth sucker outer thing whilst I’m getting my teeth cleaned?  She’s an octopus. She squirms and struggles and crawls and oh shit this is so, so, so, so  not good.  I’m going to end up buying a mouth sucker outer thing before it’s over, I can already tell.

Also, I feel like total shit today.  I’m not sick, I’ve got a god damned hangover.

There was a party.  There was Tequila.  What was I supposed to do?

And then I have to go to work all night.

If any of you stalkers are planning to kill me, now would be a good time.  Preferably before the dentist.  Seriously,  just go for it.

PS: Working at night is totally kicking my ass.  I hate life about 90% of the time because of it.  I can’t do it anymore and so DOES ANYBODY WANT ME TO WRITE SOME WORDS ON THE INTERNETS FOR THEM?  PLEASE?

PSS:  Do you ever have one of those nights where you’re just like “I’m not going to drink at the party because I have way too much functioning to do tomorrow.”  And then as soon as you walk into the party someone says, “hey, you want a drink?” and suddenly you’re all “FUCK YEAH!” and then you wind up drinking like an asshole?

PSSS: Don’t you hate it when you do that?

PSSSS: Do you do that too or am I the only stupid douchebag here today?

PSSSSS:I find it hard to believe that I’m the only stupid douchebag here.

*this post is like, 15 posts in one, so if you want to read it in pieces that would be perfectly fine*

So we did it Queefies.

The great big gigantic patio/deck project is all done.  Mister is pretty much a super hero and as usual, he built the whole thing with his dick. He’s got a few small abrasions on it, but that’s just because patio bricks are kind of rough. I mean seriously, he’s not THAT strong. Let’s not be nuts here.

I helped, of course.  I hauled wheelbarrows full of gravel and sand and brick.  I’m so proud of myself though you guys because I must have moved a ton or more of gravel and about a ton of brick and like, an assload (that’s a standard measurement, right?  Assload?) of sand and I didn’t get tired and I’m not sore and I didn’t even cry.  I thank my girl Jillian for all of that ass kicking. Also, it’s because I’m fucking awesome.

And then after that whole project was done, I planted a mimosa, an oak, a dogwood, and two hydrangeas.  And then the Richard and Micheles came over and I got totally absolutely undeniably hammered from just two glasses of wine, but that didn’t stop me from having more wine and then after that some tequila and then I felt horrible mommy guilt for putting Homeslice to bed in a dirty dress with sand in her diaper, but it turned out okay because she woke up and I got her into some proper pjs and wiped her down with a washcloth.  So I didn’t have to wake up at 3am and beat myself up over it. Instead, I woke up at 3 am and felt guilty for worrying about it so much and for burdening everyone with my mommy neurosis.

I fucking rule.

Anyhoodles, that was our weekend.  We worked like dogs.

OMG!!! I didn’t tell you guys!
The dog officer came and took Maudette’s puppy away!

The dog officer came and took Maudette’s puppy away!

I was standing there washing dishes and watching the little fuckface dig holes in my new mulch, when the van pulled up. And I was all “take the dog! take the dog!” and the dog officer got out and lured him over to her. She saw me in the window and asked who he belonged to, and when I motioned in Earl and Maudette’s direction, she nodded and said “this little guy is coming with me” and it was just like one of those moments when Mr. Wilson catches Dennis doing something naughty and he’s thrilled to pieces. And then I was all “TEQUILA ATTACKED ALICE!” and then I ran into the house because I didn’t want to get caught talking to the dog officer because remember I’m scared of Earl and Maudette and Tequila and the puppy.

They got him back, and I nearly ran over the puppy who was running around in the middle of the street on my way home from work last night, so clearly they’re not afeared of the dog officer and/or are slow learners and/or they don’t give a shit.

She wears too much mascara, the dog officer does.

So the yard is ready for the Birthday Extravaganza on Saturday.  It’s already way out of  hand.  There’s a lot of people coming.  Like, a lot.  So you can probably come too.  I won’t notice because there will be so fucking many people.

Here’s a picture of me getting bombalooed on my new patio:

And today is Girlfriend’s birthday!!!!

She’s 5! 

*sniffle*

I totally forgot to tell you guys that the other day, after taking Homeslice and Girlfriend to the Children’s Museum of Providence, I came out to the parking lot to find that some asshat had parked sooooofuckingclose to me that I think they must have had to climb out of the passenger’s side to get out because no human being could fit in between there, except me. I could fit, but only because I was determined to punish them, so I held my breath and tippy toed in between so that I could reach the driver’s side door handle and put my gum under it. I considered doing the old standby door slam, but the car was a total ghetto whip. That wouldn’t have been enough punishment for them. Actually, it wouldn’t have been any punishment at all. So, I had to break out the big guns–the one reserved only for *very special assholes* and I put my gum under the door handle. I slammed my door into theirs just for good measure but it was weak. It was too close and I couldn’t get enough momentum.

And then today I almost, ALMOST, punched some bitch out because instead of oh, I don’t know, holding the door for me when I was obviously struggling to get the stroller through, she FUCKING SLID IN BETWEEN THE STROLLER AND THE DOOR AND STEPPED OVER THE STROLLER TO GET OUT WHILE I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DOORWAY WITH THE WHEELS CAUGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She like, jumped over us instead of even just waiting for me to get through!

I was so fucking pissed you guys! So. Pissed. And I know I’ve got The PMS, but still. I think I’d be pissed anyway because people just fucking suck. I would have decked the bitch, but I was still struggling to get the stroller through the door.

I wanted to be like “HEY! COME BACK HERE SO I CAN KICK YOU IN THE UGLY FACE!”

But then I remembered that I now keep a can of pepper spray in the stroller…

No. I didn’t spray her, Queefies, but I could have and next time I will because Mister still hasn’t rigged up that flame thrower I wanted mounted to the stroller wheels.

That’s a perfectly good reason to pepper spray people, right? Just because they’re assholes?

I think so. In fact, I think they should list that on the package.

Pepper spray is good for stopping:
viscous animals
homicidal maniacs
criminals
cases of epic jackassery
rapists
assholes

So, I’ve been feeling incredibly lonely lately.

I miss diving into a bottle (a big one) of wine with my friends and not worrying about having to deal with some kids or nurse a baby to sleep or having to bury a body all by myself. Most of my friends have kids of their own, or they live somewhere far away AND they have kids and so some of my friendships are carried out in 10 minute, highly interrupted, from one side or the other, phone calls. Somebody’s kid always blows up, or they have to get out of the car to pick up a kid or drop off a kid or something happens and the conversation gets cut short.

I know this is just how it is when you have kids. It happens to everybody. It’s just one of those kick you in the crotch realities of parenthood. I know Mister goes through some degree of this as well.  All of his friends have kids too, and his super cool garage band is all but kaput.  Their stuff was all rusty, and Mister had a spider climb out of his amp when they played out a couple of weeks ago.

It’s just the stage of life we’re in, but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.  It’s probably one of the hardest things about it, actually. You wind up being isolated at a time when you need some friends the most.  And I know that soon enough they will go from being totally dependent on me, to not wanting anything to do with me and I’ll be feeling lonely for a totally different reason.

But for now, I just want to get shit-faced and talk about clothes and diets and NOT KIDS.

That’s all.

Simple stuff.

And when I get home, I don’t want to have to nurse somebody to sleep or make sure teeth are brushed.  I’m dreaming.  I know.

And then the other day, my brother called me and he’s all “I need some new clothes. I need you to help me find my style. I don’t have one and I want one. Also, I need to lose weight. Teach me how.”

Queefies, it was as if the goddess heard my prayers and sent me…A SISTER!

I used to dress him up like a girl when we were little because I wanted a sister and they sent me the wrong thing. He was only two, so I got away with it without him punching me in the face. And now, he’s coming to me for help with girl stuff. So today while Girlfriend is at school, Homeslice and I will take Uncle Billy shopping, and then we’ll talk about diets and it will be just like going out with a lady friend.

Except, you know, it’s with my brother.  And there’s no wine.  And I’ll have Homeslice with me.

But it’s a start!

Do you think I could get him to try on a dress for me?

Just one?

Do you think he’d want to go to the Clinique counter to test out face cream?

Maybe some bra shopping?

Go grab a couple of salads and a diet coke?

Talk about our periods?

Guess what, Queefies?

I know you don’t like to hear this, but it’s almost bathing suit season.

I’m wicked sorry.

Hugs.

Remember last year when I searched and searched for a swimsuit that would cover my bodacious postpartum assical area?

And  remember how I cried in the dressing room at Marshall’s and Mister had to come in there and get me and take me home and feed me ice cream until the hurting in my heart went away?

Crap.

Did I not tell you about that?

And do you remember how much trouble I had trying to find jeans this winter after the whole Gap can suck it with their size 16/00 debacle? Don’t even get me started on the POOF! shoes again.

Well, bathing suits are a whole new level of wrong and what the fucking fuck?

It’s the same battle I have with clothing.  Everything is either made for teenage girls, or 75 year old women.  There’s no in between.  I’m totally opening a store called Forever 35 and I’m designing shit for all of us in that no-woman’s-land between high school and retirement home.

Anyway, I spent about 3 hours trying to find something from Victoria’s Secret and if you’ve ever ordered a swimsuit from them before then you know that A) if you don’t buy something in March to wear in June you’re shit out of luck because the thing you want will be on back order until October. B) They have one billionty styles, but somehow not one single thing that will look pretty on your particular particulars.  I don’t know how they manage it. But, I took the risk and ordered three suits which all turned out to be total losers, and I had to take it in the pooper for the return shipping.  Basically, I spent $20 to have my self-esteem assaulted. What a deal!

My beloved Target has lots to choose from as long as you want a triangle top string bikini with mis-matched top and bottoms because there’s no way in Hades you’re going to find a matching top and bottom in your size.  There are an awful lot of woefully disproportionate people out there, Queefies.  I don’t want a string bikini anyway.  I’m almost 36 and although I don’t have stretch marks and I’m in pretty decent shape thanks to my sweaty lesbian friend, Jillian, I don’t feel comfortable in a string bikini.  But, I don’t want to totally pack it in and get a swim burqa either

Actually, I think they’re called “burkinis.”

You know it’s bad when even the model can’t rock it.

And so the Internet search began and you know what, Queefies?

Thanks to a head’s up from Melissa Lion, I found something!

There IS a place where a girl can find something not too stringy, but not too burqua-ish and it is called Popina Swimwear.

I wanted something like that little blue number I had last year that reminded me of  vintage swimwear, like a pin-up girl type thing, and they totally have a ton of stuff just like that! They have a bunch of cute tankinis which I looked at and loved.  They also have  Jantzen Swimwear ,and they make a ton of cute stuff, too.  I came very close to getting this:

Because meow, my friends.

It’s freaking adorable.  I might actually turn around and order it because the more I look at it, the more I kind of want it like a lot and a lot.

But instead of a vintage one piece swimsuit, I decided on this two-piece one for now:

Do you know how hard it is to find a bra top bikini top?  It’s damn near impossible because everything is a triangle or a halter style.  Neither of those look good on me at all.  I need the straps to break up my broad shoulders and also I need them to lift the girls because I’m sorry to tell you Queefies that the glory and the splendor of last year’s nursing boobies have all but disappeared now.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  Literally.

I think we should take a moment of silence….

(                                                                                                       )

And I picked out these bottoms to go with it because my hipster underpanties are flattering on me and so I figured these would be good.

So yeah.  It looks all kinds of awesome, and I get to feel like I’m better than everyone on the beach because my swimsuit came from a small, woman-owned business AND it didn’t cost me eleventy billion dollars either.

Suck it, Victoria’s Secret! I’m rockin’ the hotness this year.

OMG… Popina just sent me an email because of this post and are offering an extra 10% discount just for you Queefs!  Just use discount code “pamster” to get the deal.

Do you think these sandals are cute? (these aren’t exactly the same ones, but they’re similar)

They’re not very glamorous, but those days of hot shoes are all done for me.  You cannot chase some kids around in hot shoes without dying and so these are pretty good.

They’re Borns, and if you’ve ever owned a pair of Born shoes, then you know the joy I felt when I found them, the only pair left at Marshall’s, for only $30.

I about did a happy dance and shouted “SUCK IT! THEY’RE MINE!” as I walked through the store showing them to everyone.

I thought these would be the sandals for me–the ones to go to the zoo and the playground and the grocery store and everything all summer long (I’m totally over flip-flops, aren’t you), and they actually make my ankles looks skinny and they go with everything and I’m just in love with them.

Or at least I was in love with them.

As it turns out, they’re really Satan’s Sandals.

The first time I wore them, they were totally fine.

The second time I wore them they seemed to have sprung some sort of a leak because they started making a poofy sound when I walk.

You know what I mean, right?

It’s like, “step POOF! step POOF! step POOF!”

It’s like I’m farting with every step.

So that’s kind of annoying, right? But whatever. I can deal with it because they look good.

So I wear them yesterday and now the non-poofy shoe has developed a creak and now when I walk it’s “creak, POOF! creak, POOF! creak, POOF!”

Okay, well that sucks, but still. If I go somewhere noisy, nobody will notice.

But then, Queefies, I noticed that they gave my baby toes redness and hurtyness and THAT IS THE LAST STRAW!

Fuck these fucking shoes.

Hurt and humiliation are not what I look for in a sandal.

I can’t even return them because it’s Marshall’s, and I threw all the stuff away already. So now I guess it’ll have to be “step, creak, POOF! OW!, step, creak, POOF! OW!”

Nice.

And don’t even get me started on the frustration of having to find sandals for Girlfriend. We’ve been to five stores and endured countless diva-style try-ons where Girlfriend either refuses to try them on, or she puts them on and kicks them across the store because she hates them and can I ask you something, Queefies?  WHY ARE THEY MAKING HIGH HEELED SANDALS FOR FIVE-YEAR-OLDS?

Don’t little kids run anymore? I want a pair of cushiony flat sandals that my kid can run in without having them fall off or twist her ankle, and I mayn’t have them. They don’t make that kind, and if they do, they don’t make them in a size 12.

I tried to get her a pair of sneakers. She wants Skechers that light up when she walks. That seems simple enough, right? Nay, nay. I spent approximately three hours of library time trying to find some fucking light-up Skechers for under $50. The good citizens of Schmuckytown will weep when they hear about this. I finally found them at Sears.com, and so after verifying with several different sites that this particular style does, in fact, light up, I ordered them. They arrived yesterday and guess what? They sent the wrong fucking shoes. These don’t fucking light up.

So I have to go kick some ass at Sears today.

Those Fucktards.

DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM???

Do you think I should play the blogger card on them? Should I be all “I write a hugely popular blog (it’s okay to lie a little bit when you’re being an irate customer) and I think the Internet would be very interested to know that Sears cannot get their shit together enough to send the correct thing, and to make it up to me you need to refund the shipping costs and give me a free lawnmower.”

They don’t need to know that I already told the Internet about the epic asshattery. Shhhhh!

So yes. I feel like I’m in that movie where people buy the things they’ve always wanted and then it turns out that the thing is infused with evil.

What if we try to trade Girlfriend the bunny for something else like…a dog.  Dogs are way less work than bunnies and I don’t have to defend a dog against a cat, a dog, an infant, and a five-year-old, and she’d probably take the trade and I can’t deal with the heartbreak when we have to give the bunny away and she’s going to cry to death and holy shit I have a ton of crap to do this morning before work somebody kill me. Why are so many people suddenly following me on Twitter?  I wonder what’s going on.  I’m always the last to know.  I have to hang clothes out on the line somehow and how does one gain three pounds overnight?  Another dog wouldn’t be bad and Alice would have company but it has to be a smallish non-shedding housebroken dog who likes cats, dogs, babies and kids.  What are the chances of finding all of that in one dog? Not too good. A puppy would be better but I can’t handle a puppy right now.  I already clean up shit from the cat and the dog and the baby and wipe Girlfriend’s ass and I’ll bring it up to Mister and see what he thinks.  Work is going to be boring tonight HOLY SHIT WHY IS MY MOUTH BURNING?

Toy with Me today!  Wild Things: Animals are Pretty Kinky.

First, I should probably address the concerned Queefie emails I’ve been getting about the flooding here.  The Crissys have emerged unscathed, thanks for asking.  Our basement is dry, our street is dry, we’re dry. Getting to work is harder for both me and Mister though because our normal routes are flooded, and so it takes us each like 20 minutes instead of 10 to get to work.  OH, THE HARDSHIP!  I haven’t been able to see my Vinny over at the deli because the Stop & Shop is underwater.  That’s okay though because absence makes the heart grow fonder and that was a ghetto Stop & Shop anyway.  They didn’t really even have an organic section.

I know.  WTF?

Ghetto.

But enough about boring stuff like states of emergency and disasters because apparently, the lunchroom at work has it out for both  me and The Lunchist. I’m having issues in there too.

I eat dinner at my desk now because there’s this annoying person who likes to take her dinner break at the same time as I do.  We’ll call her Princess Twattington because that is not her name. She’s all of 16 or 17 and is but a lowly library page who puts the books back on the shelves.  That’s right Queefies, librarians have people for that. Contrary to popular belief, they don’t do it themselves.  Library pages are also the people who have to clean the poopie off the books when somebody decides to make a whole ‘nuther kind of deposit in the book drop.  I pray Miss Twattington is on duty the next time it happens because the experience will be good for her.

Anyway, Miss Twattington has a little bit of a problem understanding lunch room etiquette.  For example, if I am such an asshole as to get to the lunch room first and put my humble little frozen Amy’s dinner in the microwave, and she  happens to walk in and find the microwave is taken for the moment, she stands in front of it with her dinner in her hand and taps her little toe waiting for the thing to beep, and as soon as it does, she punches the button to open the door and shouts “WHOSE DINNER IS THIS?”  in her most annoyed princess voice and she takes the dinner out and throws it on the counter.  You can forget about checking to see if your dinner is hot enough because Miss Twattington already has her stuff in the microwave before you can even get over there.

She doesn’t do this to only me. She pulled my boss’s dinner out and put it in front of her on the table.  My boss is not a woman to be trifled with.  I’m surprised she let Miss Twattington keep her face, to be honest.

While other people may be able to tolerate Miss Twattington’s behavior, I have a hard time with it and I’ve come pretty close to punching her dead in the face because that precious 30 minutes in the lunch room is quite often the only peace and quiet I get all week.  It’s the only time I have to sit with a People magazine or an InStyle or a Pottery Barn catalog or whatever and just eat my sad little dinner without having to get up a hundred times to cater to some kids.  And then I come to work and I have to deal with this crap from somebody else’s kid?

I call bullshit on that.

And before you think I’m overreacting, there’s more.

There are 5 other chairs at the table and she chooses the one RIGHTNEXTOME and practically sits in my lap. I’ve tried spreading my stuff out so she’d choose another chair, but NO.  She totally invades my space and puts her stuff down ON TOP OF my stuff and then, and this is the most annoying thing for me, she chews like a cow and loudly smacks her lips and BELCHES while she eats.

I do not like to have my space invaded and I do not like eating noises, Queefies.

Just ask Mister.  If people get too close to me, I move.  If people are gross when they eat,  I’ll take my dinner and eat it somewhere else because it makes me want to stab them in the eye with a fork.

And then if I’m at the sink washing my dishes, she literally puts her hands in front of me and starts washing her dishes as if I wasn’t already there!

And sadly for Miss Twattington, the lunchroom is not the only place where her etiquette skills are lacking.  I’ve had to jump out of her path so she wouldn’t slam into me because she was clearly not planning on going around me.   She’s twice my size.  It would hurt if she slammed into me.  I’ve been looking at books on a cart and she’s literally stepped in front of me and taken them away!  She has pushed some of my co-workers out of her way, and when an office door is closed, she just opens it without knocking and walks on in.

Pretty much everyone is annoyed by her rude behavior, and I have been elected to be the one who puts Princess Twattington in her place, but I don’t think I’m going to.

I think I’m going to wait for the girls in her college dorm to do it.  They’ll be far more cruel and punishing than I could ever be and so for now, I’m going to eat at my desk and avoid contact with her because really?

I’ve got my own princesses to discipline.  Speaking of, Girlfriend just shoved poor little Homeslice over and made her do a faceplant into a hardcover book she was looking at.

I’ve got to go kick some ass.