I have isolated the problem with our health care system. Seriously.
We have been very fortunate to have the girls covered under Healthy Families since they were born. The Mr and I don't have coverage...but that's a post for another day ;). Anyway, it's that time of year when we have to renew our application for coverage. Since we are self-employed, we have to submit different paperwork than your average bear. We have to provide something called a Profit and Loss Statement. Now, I won't bore you with the details (you're welcome), but I will tell you that through this process, I have discovered the root of all bureaucratic red-tape evil. It's stupidity. True story.
Ready?
At the bottom of our Profit and Loss Statement, we have to certify that we aren't pulling Big Brother's leg. We have to say something like, "The information provided is true to the full extent of my knowledge". Sounds pretty simple, right?
Nooooooooo.........
Here is what I submitted, a month ago...
"The information provided is correct to the full extent of my knowledge"
Pretty stellar word choice, right? Apparently, the Powers That Be took exception to my beautiful declaration and said that I have to include "above". Because clearly, when you include a statement about money shit on the same page as your money shit, there can be some confusion about what you're referring to. Perhaps, I was certifying that all the invisible numbers were true and you just had to use your imagination to see them.
So, I sent them this, "The information provided ABOVE is correct to the full extent of my knowledge". Bueno! Nope...no bueno. 2 weeks later, I receive a notification that the coverage will expire because they asked for paperwork and I didn't provide it. Huh.
So, I called and politely asked, "Really? What the fuck is the problem this time?"
I guess I'm shady as fuck and can't be trusted, because the word "true" just won't cut it. Now, I have to say "true and correct". Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but don't they mean the same thing in a general sense? I mean, really...You can't say something is true if it isn't correct and you can't claim something is correct if it isn't true. Right? Maybe I'm splitting hairs here, but come now, this is ridiculous.
So, I faxed them this, "The information provided ABOVE is TRUE and CORRECT to the full extent of my knowledge!!!!" Yes, I used CAPS and EXCLAMATION POINTS. Dammit.
But, really, here's what I wanted to say, "The fucking information provided ABOVE is TRUE and fucking CORRECT to the full extent of my knowledge, Assholes."
But I didn't.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Ants, laundry and being thankful
I have been waging a great battle. Seriously, I am currently engaged with a vast and menacing army and I don't think I'm winning. The Great Ant Battle is currently underway in my house. Ants makes me homicidal. True story. As of right now, my kitchen is torn apart because there were ants in my butter dish, on the dishes, the paper towels and in the silverware drawer. They are also hanging out in the bathrooms and wandering around Little Bit's dresser. Why they were crawling all over the extra paper towels and trooping across the top of the dresser, I'll never know. Hey, I never said ants were smart.
Anyway...
Like I said, ants makes me homicidal and being homicidal is pretty much a negative thing. As I was thinking about my blog today, I thought...I'm going to blog about the stupid ants! That will show the little bastards! But then, I remembered that ants don't have access to the internet and even if they did, I'm pretty sure they can't read.
Sooo.....
I decided to go against my deepest, darkest feelings and blog about things I'm thankful for.
Ready?
I am thankful for ants in my butter...because this means I have food in my kitchen.
I am thankful for a broken dishwasher...because this means I have dirty plates due to my kids getting to eat every day.
I am thankful for ants in the bathrooms...because this means we have indoor plumbing.
I am thankful for bills...because this means my family has a roof over our heads.
I am thankful for piles of laundry...because this means that my family has clothes on their backs.
I am thankful the stupid signs my neighbor puts in her yard...because this means our neighborhood is a safe place for kids to hang out and play.
I am thankful for ridiculous gas prices...because this means I have a car to put gas into.
I am thankful for the obscene cell phone bill my daughter ran up...because this means she has dear friends to talk to.
I am thankful for my alarm clock...because this means I have purpose every day.
I am thankful my husband works 6 days a week...because this means my family is provided for.
Did you see what I did there? Normally, I would just bitch, bitch, bitch about this stuff. But today, today, I choose joy and thankfulness.
Anyway...
Like I said, ants makes me homicidal and being homicidal is pretty much a negative thing. As I was thinking about my blog today, I thought...I'm going to blog about the stupid ants! That will show the little bastards! But then, I remembered that ants don't have access to the internet and even if they did, I'm pretty sure they can't read.
Sooo.....
I decided to go against my deepest, darkest feelings and blog about things I'm thankful for.
Ready?
I am thankful for ants in my butter...because this means I have food in my kitchen.
I am thankful for a broken dishwasher...because this means I have dirty plates due to my kids getting to eat every day.
I am thankful for ants in the bathrooms...because this means we have indoor plumbing.
I am thankful for bills...because this means my family has a roof over our heads.
I am thankful for piles of laundry...because this means that my family has clothes on their backs.
I am thankful the stupid signs my neighbor puts in her yard...because this means our neighborhood is a safe place for kids to hang out and play.
I am thankful for ridiculous gas prices...because this means I have a car to put gas into.
I am thankful for the obscene cell phone bill my daughter ran up...because this means she has dear friends to talk to.
I am thankful for my alarm clock...because this means I have purpose every day.
I am thankful my husband works 6 days a week...because this means my family is provided for.
Did you see what I did there? Normally, I would just bitch, bitch, bitch about this stuff. But today, today, I choose joy and thankfulness.
Monday, December 10, 2012
In which I get heckled
I love Pinterest. Seriously, it's a super terrific place to get ideas for crafting, cooking, etc. It's also my favorite place to go for a laugh. And laugh, I do. I poke fun at stupid people, myself and life in general. One of the things I pin about is politics. I am not a fan of politicians in general and take advantage of any opportunity to get a giggle at the expense of political stupidity.
Apparently, Pinterest has revealed my true nature as a "hater". Now, my personal opinion is that people use the term "hater" when they disagree with something you do or say but have no valid argument to present. As in, "Oh! You posted a smart ass pin about President Obama but seeing as I don't really know you or clearly have no understanding of your principles or values, I'm going to call you a hater and be generally obnoxious.".
I was happily pinning shit that made me laugh and then I received an e-mail telling me that someone had commented on four of my pins. I was super excited because while people frequently repin things I post, they rarely comment. All I thought was, "Yay!". Then I looked at the comments...Not only were they not fun and witty comments, they were rude and abusive.
Huh.
I didn't bother to respond to the comments and subsequently deleted them, thinking that perhaps the commentor was having a bad day or perhaps hadn't gone poop for awhile and was just a little cranky. Nope. She kept on commenting. So, I fired one back, asking why she continued to rudely comment. Her repsonse was that I was obviously a "hater".
Now, intrepid readers, I can admit that rather than taking the high road and ignoring her, I found myself posting pins that I was sure would irritate her. I know, I know, probably not the nicest thing to do. But honestly, I pin for myself not anyone else and if it makes me laugh, I'm going to pin it. Consider it icing on the cake if it pissed her off in the process. So sue me. Anyway, because I love you, I have posted the most entertaining exchange. Before you think I'm a complete bitch, I have removed her name from these postings because I don't reveal anyone's personal information. Ever. Let's just call her Thundercloud, shall we?
This is the pin that I posted. Funny, right? I realized the other day that I haven't been fond of a presidential candidate in many, many years, so this isn't me just harping on Obama. But, you know, take it any way you want ;)
Me:
If you are so inherently opposed to what I pin, why bother following this board? This isn't meant to be a public forum for debate.
Thundercloud:
I'm not follpwing you, don't worry. Just can't stand haters when I accidently run across them in this world. Sorry for you.
I'm not follpwing you, don't worry. Just can't stand haters when I accidently run across them in this world. Sorry for you.
Me:
Oh brother...get over yourself. Self righteousness is unattractive.
Thundercloud:
Still sorry for you, now knock it off and talk to someone that agrees with your sick outlook on this world.
Still sorry for you, now knock it off and talk to someone that agrees with your sick outlook on this world.
Me:
Oh honey, you're the one who started commenting, remember? I'm just pinning shit that makes me laugh, not getting butt hurt when I see something I don't agree with.
B: (this is a friend of mine)
Wow, someone needs to get a life don't they?
Wow, someone needs to get a life don't they?
Another Pinterest user:
LOVE THIS PIN!!! So sad, but true!
LOVE THIS PIN!!! So sad, but true!
Me:
You know, I think its one of those times where "live and let live" don't apply. I'm sure, had the election gone the other way, her boards would be filled with Romney bashing pins. It's all good, people like that amuse me more than anything :)
You know, I think its one of those times where "live and let live" don't apply. I'm sure, had the election gone the other way, her boards would be filled with Romney bashing pins. It's all good, people like that amuse me more than anything :)
Thundercloud:
No I don't pin hateful things. Would block all you haters with no respect if I could. What are you teaching your children?. So Sad .
No I don't pin hateful things. Would block all you haters with no respect if I could. What are you teaching your children?. So Sad .
Me:
Wow, who ate your bowl of sunshine? It's called having a sense of humor, you should try it. And feel free to block me anytime, seeing as you keep coming back to my pins...not the other way around.
Funny shit, huh? My personal favorite is where she questions my parenting skills. Now, I'm curious, of the two of us, which one seems to be hateful and aggressive?
Saturday, November 24, 2012
In which I get saucy in my sleep
I don't know about you, but Winter wreaks havoc on my sleep. I know that you are just dying to know what I'm talking about because you are here on this blog that clearly never goes anywhere and is simply a product of my over active imagination.
Anyway...
In the Winter, the heat is on (because The Mr. is a delicate flower and gets cold...big baby), since the heat is on, I get parched in my sleep. Yes, parched! I use big words now, big words are cool. When I get parched, I get thirsty and when I get thirsty, I cough. And this wakes me up. Still with me?
Good.
Last night, I woke up coughing and so I got up and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. Now, here is where the story gets fuzzy. I was sure that I went right back to bed and fell asleep. Sounds legit, right? According to The Mr, this was not the case. His version of the story goes like this...
I came back to bed and sat down on the edge. And didn't take that next critical step, the lying down step. Never one to miss an opportunity, The Mr reached over and, um...placed his hand on my northern regions. My response to this? "Why, hello there!".
Now, I can't testify to the validity of this event but in all honesty, it sounds about right according to the recent night time antics my brain has been playing on me. Greeting my husband's wandering hand with a suggestive and slightly shady, "Why, hello there!" pales in comparison to my recent dream in which I was in a McDonald's bathroom and the toilets where so high up off the floor, that I had to leap up onto it and then, when I managed to get up there, the toilet became a swing toilet and there was some sort of circus happening under me.
See? Winter + heat = havoc.
Anyway...
In the Winter, the heat is on (because The Mr. is a delicate flower and gets cold...big baby), since the heat is on, I get parched in my sleep. Yes, parched! I use big words now, big words are cool. When I get parched, I get thirsty and when I get thirsty, I cough. And this wakes me up. Still with me?
Good.
Last night, I woke up coughing and so I got up and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. Now, here is where the story gets fuzzy. I was sure that I went right back to bed and fell asleep. Sounds legit, right? According to The Mr, this was not the case. His version of the story goes like this...
I came back to bed and sat down on the edge. And didn't take that next critical step, the lying down step. Never one to miss an opportunity, The Mr reached over and, um...placed his hand on my northern regions. My response to this? "Why, hello there!".
Now, I can't testify to the validity of this event but in all honesty, it sounds about right according to the recent night time antics my brain has been playing on me. Greeting my husband's wandering hand with a suggestive and slightly shady, "Why, hello there!" pales in comparison to my recent dream in which I was in a McDonald's bathroom and the toilets where so high up off the floor, that I had to leap up onto it and then, when I managed to get up there, the toilet became a swing toilet and there was some sort of circus happening under me.
See? Winter + heat = havoc.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Dishes, men and be kind to your nurse
I think The Mr. might be losing his eyesight. True story. Last night, I had the pleasure of having a celebratory glass of wine (okay, maybe several glasses of celebratory wine) with my very best friend, Tracy. We were toasting to the news that she was accepted into the nursing program. Not only am I excited because she's my bestie and this is her life's dream but because she will be an amazing nurse. Also, she might one day be the one to stick me with a needle and I don't know about you, but I prefer people with that kind of power to be on my side! Seriously folks, be kind to your nurses.
Anyway, before I left for her house, I made dinner, supervised homework and gave out instructions regarding showers and bedtimes. When I left, there were a few dishes in the sink, but not many. When I arrived home, about 3 hours later, it looked as if every cabinet in the kitchen had exploded and there was a pile of dishes a mile high. Not only were there dishes everywhere, but there were dishes with FOOD still on them. Really? You can't even rinse your dish off? Now, I get that men are completely unaware of where things are in the kitchen (as well as the rest of the house, apparently), but the sink is literally right next to the dishwasher. It's a one stop shop. Sink, soap, sponge, dishwasher. It's not rocket science. I know that it's not rocket science because I am not a rocket scientist and manage to do the dishes EVERY DAMN DAY.
I also know that my husband is not a completely incompetent person who would ignore the mess and go to bed and lie there with his laptop on his chest watching YouTube videos until he falls asleep. Riiiiiggghhhttt...
Therefore, the only explanation I can come to that would justify this behavior is that he's going blind. And because he's going blind, he couldn't SEE the dishes piled in the sink. And because he couldn't see them, he couldn't wash them.
See?
Anyway, before I left for her house, I made dinner, supervised homework and gave out instructions regarding showers and bedtimes. When I left, there were a few dishes in the sink, but not many. When I arrived home, about 3 hours later, it looked as if every cabinet in the kitchen had exploded and there was a pile of dishes a mile high. Not only were there dishes everywhere, but there were dishes with FOOD still on them. Really? You can't even rinse your dish off? Now, I get that men are completely unaware of where things are in the kitchen (as well as the rest of the house, apparently), but the sink is literally right next to the dishwasher. It's a one stop shop. Sink, soap, sponge, dishwasher. It's not rocket science. I know that it's not rocket science because I am not a rocket scientist and manage to do the dishes EVERY DAMN DAY.
I also know that my husband is not a completely incompetent person who would ignore the mess and go to bed and lie there with his laptop on his chest watching YouTube videos until he falls asleep. Riiiiiggghhhttt...
Therefore, the only explanation I can come to that would justify this behavior is that he's going blind. And because he's going blind, he couldn't SEE the dishes piled in the sink. And because he couldn't see them, he couldn't wash them.
See?
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
In which parents do the stupidest things
My 10 year old came home yesterday talking about the election. They voted in their classroom and talked about the election process. Good stuff.
However...
She also reported that she heard the following:
Some kids said they didn't want Mitt Romney to win because he is LDS. Because he is LDS, if elected, he might "do" one or more (Please note that I have added my very own commentary. You're welcome):
However...
She also reported that she heard the following:
Some kids said they didn't want Mitt Romney to win because he is LDS. Because he is LDS, if elected, he might "do" one or more (Please note that I have added my very own commentary. You're welcome):
- Ban all coffee and caffeinated drinks. Because you know, caffeine is such a hot button issue and presidents are SUPER concerned with what you drink.
- Ban the wearing of tank tops. This one was my favorite. Every president that has ever been in office has been asked the question, "Women wear too many tank tops, how are you going to use your term in office to solve this heinous and rampant crime?"
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
An open letter to Bank of America
Dear Bank of America,
How are you? Good? That's nice. Let me tell you how I am. Better yet, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, a family bought their first home and they said, "It's good." The years went by and America began to fail. The jobs went away, the money went away and the government turned a blind eye. Then, in what seemed like a miracle, the government said, "We'll help you, Americans!" We thought, "Finally!". Sadly, the government only had eyes for you, the Big Bank. You got your bailout and we got...nothing. No jobs, no money, no bacon. Then, the government said, "The banks will help you, Americans!". You were supposed to help us keep our homes. You were supposed to do the right thing and help our economy get back on its feet.
But you didn't. Shame on you.
The government enacted programs like, Making Homes Affordable and The Hardest Hit Fund. Your job was to work with homeowners that wanted to keep their homes. But you know what? You suck at your job. As it turns out, you were only interested in "helping" homeowners who had crazy interest rates or adjustable rates or balloon payments or in other words, homeowners with bad loans that banks like YOU gave them in the first place. Your plan of action? Foreclose on the house and write it off for your own benefit. It's a win-win for you, isn't it? You write off the loss and then sell the house at a ridiculous price.
Shame on you.
My family wasn't one of the favored ones. Our loan was a good loan. A fixed loan with a low interest rate. Seems pretty great, right? Not so much. Remember the part about no jobs? My husband was in danger of losing his job, so we took a huge risk and opened our own business. By the grace of God, our business was successful. I can feed my kids and pay our bills but there's a little, tiny problem. It's a stretch every month to do so. We looked at our finances and thought, "This is not good.", so we asked for help. For the next 2 years, we "worked" with a Bank of America agent. And by "work", I mean submitting our paperwork and then waiting for an answer. Guess what our answer was? "Your paperwork has expired, you need to resubmit it." For 2 years we did this, because your agent would wait for the paperwork to expire and then ask for it again. In the meantime, we were getting phone calls, 4 or 5 of them a day asking when we were going to make a payment. It's kind of hard to make a payment with no money. As our business improved, we were able to catch up on payments until we were again current. Then, one day, our credit companies started sending us ominous letters in the mail. Things like, "Your credit limit has been reduced" and "We are closing your account". Once we got over our shock, we discovered that Bank of America was accepting our checks every month, cashing them and sending us new statements, but were not applying them to our account. The result? Our credit score showed that we were 5 months behind on our mortgage payments. 5 months! In the meantime, your agent still hadn't gotten our paperwork together enough to be reviewed.
Shame on you.
After many phone calls, our credit was repaired but we were removed from the modification program, ironically called, "The Hope Team" or some such nonsense. But guess what? We still couldn't afford the house. About 6 months ago, we decided to try again, but this time, we hired someone to work on our behalf. We experienced an all too familiar process. Submit, re-submit, re-submit. Wait. Re-submit. Until we finally received our modification letter in the mail. Hallelujah! Let me share with you what I opened...
"We are pleased to tell you that you are approved to enter into a Trial Period Plan under the federal government's Home Affordable Modification Program." Phew! I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe we can finally get some help! Well, guess what? Bank of America is nothing if not predictable. Want to know how much you are willing to "help" us with?
$30.00
Yep, your grand gesture is $30.00 a month less than what we currently pay. I'm feeling overwhelmed by your generosity. How could we ever repay you?
Shame on you.
And as an added bonus, if we decide to make these super affordable "trial payments", you are going to be reporting to the credit bureau that we are only making partial payments. So, not only have you slapped us in the face with your ever so generous $30.00 savings, you are going to spank our credit in the process.
So thanks, Bank of America. Thanks for proving once again that Middle Class America will always get shanked and that your Big Bank and all it's executives will continue to profit from our loss. I hope you enjoy your dirty money, you earned it.
Very Truly Yours,
Middle Class America
How are you? Good? That's nice. Let me tell you how I am. Better yet, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, a family bought their first home and they said, "It's good." The years went by and America began to fail. The jobs went away, the money went away and the government turned a blind eye. Then, in what seemed like a miracle, the government said, "We'll help you, Americans!" We thought, "Finally!". Sadly, the government only had eyes for you, the Big Bank. You got your bailout and we got...nothing. No jobs, no money, no bacon. Then, the government said, "The banks will help you, Americans!". You were supposed to help us keep our homes. You were supposed to do the right thing and help our economy get back on its feet.
But you didn't. Shame on you.
The government enacted programs like, Making Homes Affordable and The Hardest Hit Fund. Your job was to work with homeowners that wanted to keep their homes. But you know what? You suck at your job. As it turns out, you were only interested in "helping" homeowners who had crazy interest rates or adjustable rates or balloon payments or in other words, homeowners with bad loans that banks like YOU gave them in the first place. Your plan of action? Foreclose on the house and write it off for your own benefit. It's a win-win for you, isn't it? You write off the loss and then sell the house at a ridiculous price.
Shame on you.
My family wasn't one of the favored ones. Our loan was a good loan. A fixed loan with a low interest rate. Seems pretty great, right? Not so much. Remember the part about no jobs? My husband was in danger of losing his job, so we took a huge risk and opened our own business. By the grace of God, our business was successful. I can feed my kids and pay our bills but there's a little, tiny problem. It's a stretch every month to do so. We looked at our finances and thought, "This is not good.", so we asked for help. For the next 2 years, we "worked" with a Bank of America agent. And by "work", I mean submitting our paperwork and then waiting for an answer. Guess what our answer was? "Your paperwork has expired, you need to resubmit it." For 2 years we did this, because your agent would wait for the paperwork to expire and then ask for it again. In the meantime, we were getting phone calls, 4 or 5 of them a day asking when we were going to make a payment. It's kind of hard to make a payment with no money. As our business improved, we were able to catch up on payments until we were again current. Then, one day, our credit companies started sending us ominous letters in the mail. Things like, "Your credit limit has been reduced" and "We are closing your account". Once we got over our shock, we discovered that Bank of America was accepting our checks every month, cashing them and sending us new statements, but were not applying them to our account. The result? Our credit score showed that we were 5 months behind on our mortgage payments. 5 months! In the meantime, your agent still hadn't gotten our paperwork together enough to be reviewed.
Shame on you.
After many phone calls, our credit was repaired but we were removed from the modification program, ironically called, "The Hope Team" or some such nonsense. But guess what? We still couldn't afford the house. About 6 months ago, we decided to try again, but this time, we hired someone to work on our behalf. We experienced an all too familiar process. Submit, re-submit, re-submit. Wait. Re-submit. Until we finally received our modification letter in the mail. Hallelujah! Let me share with you what I opened...
"We are pleased to tell you that you are approved to enter into a Trial Period Plan under the federal government's Home Affordable Modification Program." Phew! I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe we can finally get some help! Well, guess what? Bank of America is nothing if not predictable. Want to know how much you are willing to "help" us with?
$30.00
Yep, your grand gesture is $30.00 a month less than what we currently pay. I'm feeling overwhelmed by your generosity. How could we ever repay you?
Shame on you.
And as an added bonus, if we decide to make these super affordable "trial payments", you are going to be reporting to the credit bureau that we are only making partial payments. So, not only have you slapped us in the face with your ever so generous $30.00 savings, you are going to spank our credit in the process.
So thanks, Bank of America. Thanks for proving once again that Middle Class America will always get shanked and that your Big Bank and all it's executives will continue to profit from our loss. I hope you enjoy your dirty money, you earned it.
Very Truly Yours,
Middle Class America
Friday, October 26, 2012
In which I ease my mom's worries
We are leaving for a Disney Cruise in 2 days! I'm super excited about it...so excited, in fact, that I decided to make a schedule for my mom because as moms are wont to do, she likes knowing where we are and what we're doing. I think this should ease her mind and allow her to know that we are safe and having fun!
The Sique’s Epic Adventure at Sea or…In Which We Run Away to be Pirates
Day 1 - October 28, 2012
All Aboard by 4:00 pm (Tito mentioned something about a strip poker game. But I’m sure he was kidding.)
Day 2 - October 29, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Swim With the Dolphins” day. I hope we can keep up with the ship because according to the Pirates Code, “Whoever falls behind, stays behind.”
Day 3 - October 30, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Job Switching” on the Disney Wonder. It’s a special time in which the guests and the crew switch places for the day. It should be a real learning experience! I hope they make me Captain.
Day 4 - October 31, 2012 (Puerto Vallarta)
Today we have planned a great day at a spa. It’s called “Cosechamos los órganos de forma gratuita!”. I think it means, We play organs while you harvest your free spirit! Sounds pretty amazing, right?
Day 5 - November 1, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
Today we plan to drop the girls off at a local school so they can learn something new and appreciate what they have at home. Then, Tito and I plan to see some local color. This may include the nearest cosmetic surgeon, a brothel and possibly the dentist. Super excited!
Day 6 - November 2, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
This is our “Anything Goes” day. Discuss.
Day 7 - November 3, 2012 (at sea)
This day is solely reserved for drinking, dancing and carrying on. And some water skiing. But that’s not definite because the waters may or may not be shark infested.
Day 8 - November 4, 2012
All ashore by 9:30 am. I’m sure we will have made some new friends. Looking forward to sharing our trip with you but I hope you won’t need a kidney anytime soon because Tito is a little unsure about the spa. I bet it’s fine though.
The Sique’s Epic Adventure at Sea or…In Which We Run Away to be Pirates
Day 1 - October 28, 2012
All Aboard by 4:00 pm (Tito mentioned something about a strip poker game. But I’m sure he was kidding.)
Day 2 - October 29, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Swim With the Dolphins” day. I hope we can keep up with the ship because according to the Pirates Code, “Whoever falls behind, stays behind.”
Day 3 - October 30, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Job Switching” on the Disney Wonder. It’s a special time in which the guests and the crew switch places for the day. It should be a real learning experience! I hope they make me Captain.
Day 4 - October 31, 2012 (Puerto Vallarta)
Today we have planned a great day at a spa. It’s called “Cosechamos los órganos de forma gratuita!”. I think it means, We play organs while you harvest your free spirit! Sounds pretty amazing, right?
Day 5 - November 1, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
Today we plan to drop the girls off at a local school so they can learn something new and appreciate what they have at home. Then, Tito and I plan to see some local color. This may include the nearest cosmetic surgeon, a brothel and possibly the dentist. Super excited!
Day 6 - November 2, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
This is our “Anything Goes” day. Discuss.
Day 7 - November 3, 2012 (at sea)
This day is solely reserved for drinking, dancing and carrying on. And some water skiing. But that’s not definite because the waters may or may not be shark infested.
Day 8 - November 4, 2012
All ashore by 9:30 am. I’m sure we will have made some new friends. Looking forward to sharing our trip with you but I hope you won’t need a kidney anytime soon because Tito is a little unsure about the spa. I bet it’s fine though.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Shoplifters, Yoda and The One
Today is a special day. Today, I'm giving a big shout out to all the thieves and shoplifters out there. Now, before you become indignant, let me tell you a little story.
It starts innocently enough, the family and I headed out to the Mall to do some back-to-school shopping. We found a great deal on backpacks. Yay! As usual, The Mr. escaped to the TV section (the big baby), which happens to be right next to the bra section. In hindsight, I realize that this is, in fact, great marketing at work. Think about it, you're a man, your lady wants to look at pretty panties, "Babe, aren't these cute?". You're as cornered as a rat in a barrel. Suddenly, you see out of the corner of your eye, your White Knight. He beckons you, "Come toward the light!" You find yourself drawn like a moth to a flame, "Yeah, those are great. I'm just going to look over here...". Your lady is blissfully unaware that you have abandoned her (cardinal sin, gents) and you get to stand, slack jawed before a huge bank of TV magic.
It's a win-win.
Anyway, I left The Mr. drooling over TVs big enough to fill a wall and went in search of the ever elusive Comfortable, yet Flattering Bra. Perhaps you've heard of it. I've heard whispers, rumors..."It's true, I say. My mother's cousin knows a bartender that has a roommate who met a girl at the bank who swears that she has one! It's real!" I decided that today was my day, I was going to find this Mythical Beast. Onward!
I searched high and low, pulling style after style, color after color. The tags shouted at me, "Best Bra Ever!", "No Pinch Underwire!", "The Best Kept Secret!", "Mega Pushup!". Oh, the sensory overload. I gathered my wits about me and headed to the fitting room with an armload, thinking, "One of these has to be The One."
Things started out fairly tame. Not The One, but nothing weird either. Which, ladies, you KNOW is important when we are seeking the Care and Maintenance of "The Girls". Then, it happens.
The security device.
Don't get me wrong, I completely understand stores using these and don't disparage them for it. However, I definitely have a problem with where they have decided to attach them. Could it be on the strap, where it wouldn't interfere with the fit? No. How about on the upper area of the cup where, while it may feel awkward, wouldn't really be that big of a deal? No.
No.
The security device is on the back. Right on the clasp. Because that's THEE perfect spot to put a large, bulky plastic thing. It's so incredibly easy to reach behind you and blindly try to fasten your bra clasp when there's a plastic bulge the size of Australia. Not. If, by some miracle, you get the damn thing fastened against all odds, now you're faced with a different problem. When a woman is trying on her most important piece of clothing, it's important that it be seamless and comfortable, right? Well, nothing says comfort like Australia digging into your back. I wish ALL bras had Australia somewhere on them, it would make life much more interesting and our clothes would look just that much better on us.
So, while I was trying to appreciate the bra that may well be The One, I was also cursing shoplifters everywhere because thanks to their errant ways and general misbehavior, I got to stand in front of a fitting room mirror (or as it's more commonly know, the Fun House Mirror) and try to ignore Australia hunching on my back like Yoda. So thanks, all you rotten shoplifters, you made my day,
I did prevail, I found The One. I skipped back over to the TV section where not only was my husband still drooling over the big screens, my daughters were standing in front of a 3D TV with 3D glasses on looking like little zombies. As special thank you for "shopping" with me, I let The Mr. pay for The One. Good times.
Remember ladies, when you're faced with roadblocks on your search for The One. Don't despair. Don't give up. You too, can conquer Australia.
"Do or do not, there is no try" - Yoda
It starts innocently enough, the family and I headed out to the Mall to do some back-to-school shopping. We found a great deal on backpacks. Yay! As usual, The Mr. escaped to the TV section (the big baby), which happens to be right next to the bra section. In hindsight, I realize that this is, in fact, great marketing at work. Think about it, you're a man, your lady wants to look at pretty panties, "Babe, aren't these cute?". You're as cornered as a rat in a barrel. Suddenly, you see out of the corner of your eye, your White Knight. He beckons you, "Come toward the light!" You find yourself drawn like a moth to a flame, "Yeah, those are great. I'm just going to look over here...". Your lady is blissfully unaware that you have abandoned her (cardinal sin, gents) and you get to stand, slack jawed before a huge bank of TV magic.
It's a win-win.
Anyway, I left The Mr. drooling over TVs big enough to fill a wall and went in search of the ever elusive Comfortable, yet Flattering Bra. Perhaps you've heard of it. I've heard whispers, rumors..."It's true, I say. My mother's cousin knows a bartender that has a roommate who met a girl at the bank who swears that she has one! It's real!" I decided that today was my day, I was going to find this Mythical Beast. Onward!
I searched high and low, pulling style after style, color after color. The tags shouted at me, "Best Bra Ever!", "No Pinch Underwire!", "The Best Kept Secret!", "Mega Pushup!". Oh, the sensory overload. I gathered my wits about me and headed to the fitting room with an armload, thinking, "One of these has to be The One."
Things started out fairly tame. Not The One, but nothing weird either. Which, ladies, you KNOW is important when we are seeking the Care and Maintenance of "The Girls". Then, it happens.
The security device.
Don't get me wrong, I completely understand stores using these and don't disparage them for it. However, I definitely have a problem with where they have decided to attach them. Could it be on the strap, where it wouldn't interfere with the fit? No. How about on the upper area of the cup where, while it may feel awkward, wouldn't really be that big of a deal? No.
No.
The security device is on the back. Right on the clasp. Because that's THEE perfect spot to put a large, bulky plastic thing. It's so incredibly easy to reach behind you and blindly try to fasten your bra clasp when there's a plastic bulge the size of Australia. Not. If, by some miracle, you get the damn thing fastened against all odds, now you're faced with a different problem. When a woman is trying on her most important piece of clothing, it's important that it be seamless and comfortable, right? Well, nothing says comfort like Australia digging into your back. I wish ALL bras had Australia somewhere on them, it would make life much more interesting and our clothes would look just that much better on us.
So, while I was trying to appreciate the bra that may well be The One, I was also cursing shoplifters everywhere because thanks to their errant ways and general misbehavior, I got to stand in front of a fitting room mirror (or as it's more commonly know, the Fun House Mirror) and try to ignore Australia hunching on my back like Yoda. So thanks, all you rotten shoplifters, you made my day,
I did prevail, I found The One. I skipped back over to the TV section where not only was my husband still drooling over the big screens, my daughters were standing in front of a 3D TV with 3D glasses on looking like little zombies. As special thank you for "shopping" with me, I let The Mr. pay for The One. Good times.
Remember ladies, when you're faced with roadblocks on your search for The One. Don't despair. Don't give up. You too, can conquer Australia.
"Do or do not, there is no try" - Yoda
Monday, June 25, 2012
In which we narrowly escape the black market
I went away this weekend and almost didn't make it back. True story.
A girlfriend of mine, Lulu, is turning 30 and so her hubby aranged for a surprise weekend away for her and some girlfriends at a beach condo. Awww. We whisked her away and headed for a weekend with no men, no kids and if we played our cards right, copious amounts of alcohol.
We made a stop on the way to get a snack and pee. We thought it would be a perfect moment to take a picture so that our trip could be enjoyed for generations to come. My bestie, Tracy, approached a normal looking guy and asked him to take our picture. Now, this seems innocent enough, right? How many times have you asked someone to take your picture or been asked to take a picture? It's not like we were asking him to donate a lung or solve world hunger. Nope, it was just a picture.
Tracy: Excuse me, can you take our picture?
Man: No, I don't have time.
*crickets*
Now, intrepid readers, if you had just told a group of women that you didn't have time to take a picture (because let's face it, that's some hard, time-consuming shit right there), wouldn't you make an effort to walk away? Perhaps whip your phone out of your 80's throw back denims and start madly texting or talking or...something? Not our new friend. Nope, he just stood there. And stood there. And stood there. He stood there while we asked a woman to take our picture. He stood there while we laughed maniacally about people who "don't have time". He stood there until his wife/girlfriend/babysitter/parole officer/dominatrix came out of the bathroom and they walked away.
Shit. You. Not.
We made it to the condo in one piece and had some wine while watching the ocean. We walked down to the beach and wiggled our toes in the sand and picked up shells. Good times.
As the day wore on, we decided that we should adhere to the "Safety First" rule and called a cab to take us into town for dinner. Charms specified that there were 6 of us (twice), could they accomodate that? Yes, ma'am, be there in 20 minutes. Yay, let the party start!
We should have known that the driver was a whack job when he couldn't find his way through the parking lot to the unit we were at. When he finally arrived, he pulled up in a mini-van. Looks promising, right? Oh, you optimistic little ray of sunshine.
He opens the door and there, where the middle seat belongs is...nothing. That's right, folks, there was no middle seat. Why? Who the fuck knows. He says he took it out but doesn't know why.
Alrighty then.
If we were smart, we would have sent him packing and found a van with ALL its parts. But not us! We said, "Fuck it!" and off we went with Lulu and Charms sitting on the floor of the van. On the FLOOR of the van. From this vantage point, they were able to see that our driver had a cooler between the 2 front seats. Obviously, he was going to smuggle us out of the country, steal our organs and sell them to highest bidder. Beacause really, could it get any weirder?
Yes, yes it can.
After dinner, we called another cab to take us downtown (for 6 please, with 6 seats!), hopefully for drinks and dancing! While we waited, we went into a little gift store and looked at all the crap that tourists absolutely insist on buying while on vacation but almost always turns out to be something like, "What the fuck was a thinking?" We came around a corner of the store and there was the tallest chick I've ever seen with a pelican at her feet...biting her hand. Seriously, a pelican. One of these...
Except without the birds and about 75 more colored scarves and electric blue paint and glitter around her eyes. And she sang. Why yes, I did have nightmares.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). This guy was younger than the other two and the ride started out without incident. Until he informed us that he was a 3rd degree black belt and if anyone was to ask, he was a fighter not a lover. Oh and he didn't seem to like it when Lulu asked him if he was going to steal our organs and then kill us. Touchy, touchy.
He dropped us off at a "club" where there was supposed to be good music for dancing. There was dancing alright...there was the guy that was just DYING to dance and looked like he was about to bust a move at any moment. The chick who was either dancing with an invisible friend or had dropped some very pretty acid before she left the house. Although our personal favorite was a couple who we don't think was really a couple that was either having a dance off or this was their version of foreplay. They were running into each other and flinging each other around. At one point, she ended the dance by falling slowly to the floor and then just laid there.
Best entertainment ever.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). Apparently, the reason downtown was so quiet is because cab driver #4 thought the party was in his van. I'm pretty sure each and every one of my organs was vibrated to within an inch of their lives (it's a good thing cab driver #1 didn't try to sell any of them then because I think they were damaged) and I think I'm clear on how it feels to have heart palpitations. And did I mention he thought he was in the Indy 500? At one point, while trying to enter the condo address (which Bre had to google on her phone because he didn't know where in the hell he was going), he nearly plowed into an off-ramp guard rail. But don't worry girls, "I got you!" But I'll tell you what, Kristin and DanceBoy were dancing and singing like it was 1999!
Thankfully, we made it home alive (and with all our organs) and had dessert and more wine.
This is where we get to the sad part...we're old. I hate to admit it but we are. Give us a warm blankie and a glass of wine and we'll fall asleep on the couch.
No one lost a kidney or got stung by a jellyfish or was dry humped on the dance floor. But it was amazing and unforgettable and I can't wait to do it again.
I would tell you more, but I don't have time. *wink wink*
A girlfriend of mine, Lulu, is turning 30 and so her hubby aranged for a surprise weekend away for her and some girlfriends at a beach condo. Awww. We whisked her away and headed for a weekend with no men, no kids and if we played our cards right, copious amounts of alcohol.
We made a stop on the way to get a snack and pee. We thought it would be a perfect moment to take a picture so that our trip could be enjoyed for generations to come. My bestie, Tracy, approached a normal looking guy and asked him to take our picture. Now, this seems innocent enough, right? How many times have you asked someone to take your picture or been asked to take a picture? It's not like we were asking him to donate a lung or solve world hunger. Nope, it was just a picture.
Tracy: Excuse me, can you take our picture?
Man: No, I don't have time.
*crickets*
Now, intrepid readers, if you had just told a group of women that you didn't have time to take a picture (because let's face it, that's some hard, time-consuming shit right there), wouldn't you make an effort to walk away? Perhaps whip your phone out of your 80's throw back denims and start madly texting or talking or...something? Not our new friend. Nope, he just stood there. And stood there. And stood there. He stood there while we asked a woman to take our picture. He stood there while we laughed maniacally about people who "don't have time". He stood there until his wife/girlfriend/babysitter/parole officer/dominatrix came out of the bathroom and they walked away.
Shit. You. Not.
We made it to the condo in one piece and had some wine while watching the ocean. We walked down to the beach and wiggled our toes in the sand and picked up shells. Good times.
As the day wore on, we decided that we should adhere to the "Safety First" rule and called a cab to take us into town for dinner. Charms specified that there were 6 of us (twice), could they accomodate that? Yes, ma'am, be there in 20 minutes. Yay, let the party start!
We should have known that the driver was a whack job when he couldn't find his way through the parking lot to the unit we were at. When he finally arrived, he pulled up in a mini-van. Looks promising, right? Oh, you optimistic little ray of sunshine.
He opens the door and there, where the middle seat belongs is...nothing. That's right, folks, there was no middle seat. Why? Who the fuck knows. He says he took it out but doesn't know why.
Alrighty then.
If we were smart, we would have sent him packing and found a van with ALL its parts. But not us! We said, "Fuck it!" and off we went with Lulu and Charms sitting on the floor of the van. On the FLOOR of the van. From this vantage point, they were able to see that our driver had a cooler between the 2 front seats. Obviously, he was going to smuggle us out of the country, steal our organs and sell them to highest bidder. Beacause really, could it get any weirder?
Yes, yes it can.
After dinner, we called another cab to take us downtown (for 6 please, with 6 seats!), hopefully for drinks and dancing! While we waited, we went into a little gift store and looked at all the crap that tourists absolutely insist on buying while on vacation but almost always turns out to be something like, "What the fuck was a thinking?" We came around a corner of the store and there was the tallest chick I've ever seen with a pelican at her feet...biting her hand. Seriously, a pelican. One of these...
That's right, in the store, biting her hand. But it's okay because it's a baby, it's been there for 2 days and birds poop all the time. Phew, thank goodness Tall Chick was an expert on birds.
Our cab arrives. Yay!
We count the seats, yep all there...and we're off! This driver seems normal enough until we notice a bottle of...something between his legs. "Whatcha got there, O'douls?"
Driver: No, no, this is just Ginger Ale.
Riiiigggghhhhhttttt.....
He drops us downtown and we go looking for trouble. I mean dancing. For a beach town, it was damn quiet. The most excitement we found was at the pizza parlor where the staff was doing a floor show. A little Greased Lightning and some flying pizza dough makes for a damn good time. We did find a slightly frightening person that looked like the Bird Lady from Mary Poppins...
Except without the birds and about 75 more colored scarves and electric blue paint and glitter around her eyes. And she sang. Why yes, I did have nightmares.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). This guy was younger than the other two and the ride started out without incident. Until he informed us that he was a 3rd degree black belt and if anyone was to ask, he was a fighter not a lover. Oh and he didn't seem to like it when Lulu asked him if he was going to steal our organs and then kill us. Touchy, touchy.
He dropped us off at a "club" where there was supposed to be good music for dancing. There was dancing alright...there was the guy that was just DYING to dance and looked like he was about to bust a move at any moment. The chick who was either dancing with an invisible friend or had dropped some very pretty acid before she left the house. Although our personal favorite was a couple who we don't think was really a couple that was either having a dance off or this was their version of foreplay. They were running into each other and flinging each other around. At one point, she ended the dance by falling slowly to the floor and then just laid there.
Best entertainment ever.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). Apparently, the reason downtown was so quiet is because cab driver #4 thought the party was in his van. I'm pretty sure each and every one of my organs was vibrated to within an inch of their lives (it's a good thing cab driver #1 didn't try to sell any of them then because I think they were damaged) and I think I'm clear on how it feels to have heart palpitations. And did I mention he thought he was in the Indy 500? At one point, while trying to enter the condo address (which Bre had to google on her phone because he didn't know where in the hell he was going), he nearly plowed into an off-ramp guard rail. But don't worry girls, "I got you!" But I'll tell you what, Kristin and DanceBoy were dancing and singing like it was 1999!
Thankfully, we made it home alive (and with all our organs) and had dessert and more wine.
This is where we get to the sad part...we're old. I hate to admit it but we are. Give us a warm blankie and a glass of wine and we'll fall asleep on the couch.
No one lost a kidney or got stung by a jellyfish or was dry humped on the dance floor. But it was amazing and unforgettable and I can't wait to do it again.
I would tell you more, but I don't have time. *wink wink*
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Measure T and The Crazy Lady
I recently had an encounter with what I believe is the world's angriest woman. It was super fun....
I was recruited by our town Librarian to campaign for a measure that is being presented to the voters in June. This measure would renew an existing tax (1/8 of a cent) that currently provides 87% of our county's library funding. Sounds pretty important, right? I thought so too. I agreed because not only do I love to read, but my kids love to read. I feel that I can swing 1/8 of cent to fund the library and really, if the library isn't getting the money, you better believe that the government would not only refuse to give it back, they would find something else to fund with it. Maybe more private jets.
Anyway.
Part of my responsibility was to walk different neighborhoods, knocking on doors and making sure people knew about the measure and handing out literature. Now, I really dreaded doing this, not because I don't like talking to people because I do. Ask my kids, I talk to everyone. It's a running joke in my family that I make friends everywhere I go...waiting in line at the grocery store, shopping at Target. I figure, if you're just standing there waiting you might as well have a good time doing it and since making snide remarks to (or about) strangers tends to get frowned upon, I get chatty instead.
Moving on.
I fully admit that I'm one of those people that will do just about anything to avoid opening the door to people I don't know (or sometimes to people that I do know, but tell. Shh.), so it didn't hurt my feelings at all if people ignored my friendly little knock. I left my little paper under the mat and moved on. No harm, no foul. Until I arrived at The Crazy Lady's house. This was one of those times when her house didn't give any clues as to the menace inside. It was nicely kept, a happy little welcome sign on the door. Inviting, right? Not so much.
She answered, I introduced myself and told her briefly why I was there. Things like, this tax provides 87% of the library funds and if it doesn't pass, the library faces massive closures. As in most, if not all the libraries will close. She then said, "I'm voting no."
I admit, I chuckled because I thought she was joking. Really, who would vote to close libraries other than people who kick puppies and name their kids Adolf.
I was soon put in my place, because not only was she serious, she was so serious that she kept me on her porch for 5 minutes while she ranted about how, "The government should have gotten all those assholes out of office years ago and then we wouldn't be in this mess. And what are we doing supporting illegal immigrants anyway? All those damn liberals have screwed us up and taken our money and I'm not going to give one more cent for them to clean up their messes!"
And then came the real shocker...
"I'm a published California historian and I donate books all the time to the library! So no, I'm not voting for this!"
Wow. Wow. So, let me get this straight...You're an author and you what, don't like libraries? You don't want people to have access to your books? You're against reading?
Intrepid readers, you should be so proud. I pasted an enchanting smile on my face and said, "Thank you for your time." and walked away.
People like her need a warning sign. Or some poison in her coffee. Either way.
I was recruited by our town Librarian to campaign for a measure that is being presented to the voters in June. This measure would renew an existing tax (1/8 of a cent) that currently provides 87% of our county's library funding. Sounds pretty important, right? I thought so too. I agreed because not only do I love to read, but my kids love to read. I feel that I can swing 1/8 of cent to fund the library and really, if the library isn't getting the money, you better believe that the government would not only refuse to give it back, they would find something else to fund with it. Maybe more private jets.
Anyway.
Part of my responsibility was to walk different neighborhoods, knocking on doors and making sure people knew about the measure and handing out literature. Now, I really dreaded doing this, not because I don't like talking to people because I do. Ask my kids, I talk to everyone. It's a running joke in my family that I make friends everywhere I go...waiting in line at the grocery store, shopping at Target. I figure, if you're just standing there waiting you might as well have a good time doing it and since making snide remarks to (or about) strangers tends to get frowned upon, I get chatty instead.
Moving on.
I fully admit that I'm one of those people that will do just about anything to avoid opening the door to people I don't know (or sometimes to people that I do know, but tell. Shh.), so it didn't hurt my feelings at all if people ignored my friendly little knock. I left my little paper under the mat and moved on. No harm, no foul. Until I arrived at The Crazy Lady's house. This was one of those times when her house didn't give any clues as to the menace inside. It was nicely kept, a happy little welcome sign on the door. Inviting, right? Not so much.
She answered, I introduced myself and told her briefly why I was there. Things like, this tax provides 87% of the library funds and if it doesn't pass, the library faces massive closures. As in most, if not all the libraries will close. She then said, "I'm voting no."
I admit, I chuckled because I thought she was joking. Really, who would vote to close libraries other than people who kick puppies and name their kids Adolf.
I was soon put in my place, because not only was she serious, she was so serious that she kept me on her porch for 5 minutes while she ranted about how, "The government should have gotten all those assholes out of office years ago and then we wouldn't be in this mess. And what are we doing supporting illegal immigrants anyway? All those damn liberals have screwed us up and taken our money and I'm not going to give one more cent for them to clean up their messes!"
And then came the real shocker...
"I'm a published California historian and I donate books all the time to the library! So no, I'm not voting for this!"
Wow. Wow. So, let me get this straight...You're an author and you what, don't like libraries? You don't want people to have access to your books? You're against reading?
Intrepid readers, you should be so proud. I pasted an enchanting smile on my face and said, "Thank you for your time." and walked away.
People like her need a warning sign. Or some poison in her coffee. Either way.
Friday, April 13, 2012
The Great Bikini Debate
I took the girls to Target today and this is what my list looked like:
Just as a side note, we did not arrive at this section for me because not only will I refuse to try on a swimsuit unless I have just ingested copious amounts of alcohol, I'm pretty sure they don't carry what I would be in the market for. I know this because the last time I checked, Target doesn't sell rain ponchos in fun, flirty colors and seeing as how I generally eat too much candy and Pringles, this is all I am willing to subject the general public too.
Moving on.
My oldest is 13 and is entering that special time in her life where she could wear a burlap sack (or a rain poncho in fun, flirty colors) and still look gorgeous and disturbingly attractive. Every year, she wages the Great Bikini Debate and presents all the reasons why she should be allowed to purchase and wear a bikini. Did you notice the wine on my list? In the interest of fair play, I agreed to let her try on some bikinis.
Fuck.
I just can't get on board with the picture of my baby girl prancing around wearing smaller versions of what she wears under her real clothes every day. I'm talking underwear, people! The suit parts were smaller than her underwear. Smaller, slinkier, sexier...pick your adjective. Whatever you want to go with, the reality is that if I relented in the face of the Great Bikini Debate, I would be endorsing the irreversible action of my beautiful girl gallivanting around in glorified underwear.
This, I cannot do. Why? Because I'm pretty sure that if she arrived at the pool wearing something of this nature, what had started as an innocent Jr. High pool party would swiftly come to resemble something out of Girls Gone Wild or an episode of Campus PD. If you think I want to be responsible for that kind of catastrophe, you better think again.
Lesson of the day, you want to turn Happy Mom into Raging Lunatic Mom all you need to do is stick me in a dressing room and parade my daughter in front of me wearing shoe strings and a doily.
On the upside, I got some peanut butter M & M's to tide me over until it's time to drink.
- Wine
- Cotton balls
- Birthday present for Little Bit's teacher (Who is absolutely amazing by the way. But you can't have her because she's ours. Ours, I say!)
- Camera case (For my beautiful new Nikon camera who has been christened Idris which is a Doctor Who thing and if you don't get it then not only do I feel unendingly sorry for you but it's very well possible I might make slanderous comments in your presence or even just flat out refuse to associate with you.)
- Wine
- Lotion
- Swiffer Wet Jet thingys
- Wine (This is a good thing...read on and you'll see why)
- Cotton balls (Looks promising!)
- Candy
- Pringles (These were definitely not on the list because as we all know, you can't have just one and quite frankly if my ass gets any bigger it's going to require its own zip code.)
- Easter socks from the $1 section (Now, these were for me and I love them. Don't judge me.)
- Wine (Did I note that twice? Huh. Fancy that.)
- Camera case (Yay!)
Just as a side note, we did not arrive at this section for me because not only will I refuse to try on a swimsuit unless I have just ingested copious amounts of alcohol, I'm pretty sure they don't carry what I would be in the market for. I know this because the last time I checked, Target doesn't sell rain ponchos in fun, flirty colors and seeing as how I generally eat too much candy and Pringles, this is all I am willing to subject the general public too.
Moving on.
My oldest is 13 and is entering that special time in her life where she could wear a burlap sack (or a rain poncho in fun, flirty colors) and still look gorgeous and disturbingly attractive. Every year, she wages the Great Bikini Debate and presents all the reasons why she should be allowed to purchase and wear a bikini. Did you notice the wine on my list? In the interest of fair play, I agreed to let her try on some bikinis.
Fuck.
I just can't get on board with the picture of my baby girl prancing around wearing smaller versions of what she wears under her real clothes every day. I'm talking underwear, people! The suit parts were smaller than her underwear. Smaller, slinkier, sexier...pick your adjective. Whatever you want to go with, the reality is that if I relented in the face of the Great Bikini Debate, I would be endorsing the irreversible action of my beautiful girl gallivanting around in glorified underwear.
This, I cannot do. Why? Because I'm pretty sure that if she arrived at the pool wearing something of this nature, what had started as an innocent Jr. High pool party would swiftly come to resemble something out of Girls Gone Wild or an episode of Campus PD. If you think I want to be responsible for that kind of catastrophe, you better think again.
Lesson of the day, you want to turn Happy Mom into Raging Lunatic Mom all you need to do is stick me in a dressing room and parade my daughter in front of me wearing shoe strings and a doily.
On the upside, I got some peanut butter M & M's to tide me over until it's time to drink.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
iPods, fractures and a discount
I think there is a conspiracy against me, and my iPod is in on it.
Due to the excessive amount of time I spend in my car, I have been listening to a lot of podcasts. Alot of them. Yesterday, while driving to school, I started the first podcast in my "Stuff Mom Never Told You" queue. Ordinarily, these are fairly benign and often very educational. Good stuff.
Not this time.
The podcast was titled "Is masturbation good for you", an enticing title, to be sure. They started out talking about the different myths associated with masturbation and statistics of who is doing it and where. For the most part, this didn't sound to dangerous, so I kept listening. I was doing really well until the conversation turned to the dangers of men humping hard surfaces. Hard surfaces?? What, like the table or a door? No, no...the floor. WTF?? Guys hump the floor?! Apparently, they do and if they do it too hard (!!), they risk the chance of a penile fracture.
.....
You heard it right folks, penile fracture. I almost had to stop the car so that I could vomit. *shudders*
I decided the safest course of action would be to change podcasts. Yeah, I'm just that smart.
So, I switched to "Stuff From The Science Lab - Those crazy Kimodos". Cool, right? Not so much. Apparently, Kimodo Dragons vomit. All. The. Time. And not just your normal vomit, they vomit things like partially digested goats. Goats!
And, another switch. This time it was about sending Jay-Z and Beyonce on the Virgin Galactic to film a music video. At the cost of $200,000. It's a good thing people don't waste money on stupid shit. Let me tell you that as soon as I heard the words "vomit bag", I switched again.
Then, I noticed the title on the next podcast... How the digestive system works.
Seriously.
On the upside, I went to Save Mart after class to do some grocery shopping. As I was checking out, I handed the lady my S.H.A.R.E.S. card (super cool if you've never heard of it. You earn points every time you shop and then Save Mart sends a check to your school. Check it out.). As she proceeds to push the button telling the register that she is going to slide my card, she accidentally presses the senior discount button. Sweet! $10 off my grocery purchase! I am totally willing to be a senior, if it saves me money.
Due to the excessive amount of time I spend in my car, I have been listening to a lot of podcasts. Alot of them. Yesterday, while driving to school, I started the first podcast in my "Stuff Mom Never Told You" queue. Ordinarily, these are fairly benign and often very educational. Good stuff.
Not this time.
The podcast was titled "Is masturbation good for you", an enticing title, to be sure. They started out talking about the different myths associated with masturbation and statistics of who is doing it and where. For the most part, this didn't sound to dangerous, so I kept listening. I was doing really well until the conversation turned to the dangers of men humping hard surfaces. Hard surfaces?? What, like the table or a door? No, no...the floor. WTF?? Guys hump the floor?! Apparently, they do and if they do it too hard (!!), they risk the chance of a penile fracture.
.....
You heard it right folks, penile fracture. I almost had to stop the car so that I could vomit. *shudders*
I decided the safest course of action would be to change podcasts. Yeah, I'm just that smart.
So, I switched to "Stuff From The Science Lab - Those crazy Kimodos". Cool, right? Not so much. Apparently, Kimodo Dragons vomit. All. The. Time. And not just your normal vomit, they vomit things like partially digested goats. Goats!
And, another switch. This time it was about sending Jay-Z and Beyonce on the Virgin Galactic to film a music video. At the cost of $200,000. It's a good thing people don't waste money on stupid shit. Let me tell you that as soon as I heard the words "vomit bag", I switched again.
Then, I noticed the title on the next podcast... How the digestive system works.
Seriously.
On the upside, I went to Save Mart after class to do some grocery shopping. As I was checking out, I handed the lady my S.H.A.R.E.S. card (super cool if you've never heard of it. You earn points every time you shop and then Save Mart sends a check to your school. Check it out.). As she proceeds to push the button telling the register that she is going to slide my card, she accidentally presses the senior discount button. Sweet! $10 off my grocery purchase! I am totally willing to be a senior, if it saves me money.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
And lice for all!
There is a school district in California who shall remain nameless...but I can tell you that there is an IUSD in its initials and it's in the armpit of the state and if you like tacos, you would love it there. But I'm not going to tell you its name, so don't ask.
Anyway, this district is experiencing an EPIC lice outbreak. And by epic, I mean 70+ cases in grades K-6. That's alot of creepy crawlies. After weeks of trying to get rid of the little buggers, the school is now receiving angry phone calls from parents who can't understand, "Why is my child being sent home from school over and over? There's only a few little bugs. And Eggs. But, why? I don't understand!".
Now, for those of you not intimately familiar with how lice and kids work, let me give you a little lesson.
A live lice decides to take up residence on a kid's head. Let's call him Justin (as in Beiber, who is in fact, a girl). Justin's hair looks like an awesome place to live and so the lice begins to lay eggs on the hair shafts. The eggs hatch and produce a multitude of fellow creepy crawlies that skitter around, making Justin itch and then lay more eggs.
(Are you scratching yet? Because I am.)
Justin decides to be a gentleman and share his manly comb with Kim (as in Kardashian, who is in fact, a gold digging tramp). Kim's little heart goes pitter patter and she practically swoons while she combs her tresses with Justin's comb. Oh, the ecstasy! Well, guess what? Kim has a new friend, and it's name is Lice. That's nice. So Kim's lice carry on the family name by laying more and more eggs which hatch more and more lice.
(I need a shower. With bleach.)
The lice now have control of the school, despite efforts by the staff and teachers to eliminate the spread of these little beasts. Why, you ask? Because the parents are lazy (I know I know, not all of them are lazy. But just enough of them are lazy that the efforts of the valiant are overshadowed by the non-effort of the few) and they don't want to comb through EVERY STRAND of hair on their kid's head. And who could blame them? It sucks, alot. But this is the only way to prevent world domination. You have to treat and comb, treat and comb. And repeat. Because if you don't, the eggs will keep hatching and the lice will keep laying. Remember science and biology? Hell, remember pregnancy? If you don't take measures to prevent it, reproduction will happen.
On a side note...spay and neuter your pets. And strange relatives.
(My head itches. Alot.)
Now that you are up to date on how lice work, let's rejoin our intrepid school district. Where was I...
Right, parents are calling and complaining. So, rather than holding the line and saying to these parents, "Sorry, your little Lice Factory has to be Nit Free and certainly Live Lice Free before they can return to school", the district is considering changing their policy from "No Nits" to allowing children with nits to stay at school and children with LIVE, CRAWLING lice to remain at school until the end of the school day.
Well, that sounds like a stellar idea. Because the lice will totally respect the sanctity of the classroom and refrain from infecting other kids because we all know that lice appreciate and endorse education and the learning environment.
Right?
Are you vomiting yet?
So kiddies, let this be a lesson to you. If you see LIVE CRAWLING lice during the school hours, don't even worry about it, because I'm sure your school district has thought it through.
I need to go and shave my head.
Anyway, this district is experiencing an EPIC lice outbreak. And by epic, I mean 70+ cases in grades K-6. That's alot of creepy crawlies. After weeks of trying to get rid of the little buggers, the school is now receiving angry phone calls from parents who can't understand, "Why is my child being sent home from school over and over? There's only a few little bugs. And Eggs. But, why? I don't understand!".
Now, for those of you not intimately familiar with how lice and kids work, let me give you a little lesson.
A live lice decides to take up residence on a kid's head. Let's call him Justin (as in Beiber, who is in fact, a girl). Justin's hair looks like an awesome place to live and so the lice begins to lay eggs on the hair shafts. The eggs hatch and produce a multitude of fellow creepy crawlies that skitter around, making Justin itch and then lay more eggs.
(Are you scratching yet? Because I am.)
Justin decides to be a gentleman and share his manly comb with Kim (as in Kardashian, who is in fact, a gold digging tramp). Kim's little heart goes pitter patter and she practically swoons while she combs her tresses with Justin's comb. Oh, the ecstasy! Well, guess what? Kim has a new friend, and it's name is Lice. That's nice. So Kim's lice carry on the family name by laying more and more eggs which hatch more and more lice.
(I need a shower. With bleach.)
The lice now have control of the school, despite efforts by the staff and teachers to eliminate the spread of these little beasts. Why, you ask? Because the parents are lazy (I know I know, not all of them are lazy. But just enough of them are lazy that the efforts of the valiant are overshadowed by the non-effort of the few) and they don't want to comb through EVERY STRAND of hair on their kid's head. And who could blame them? It sucks, alot. But this is the only way to prevent world domination. You have to treat and comb, treat and comb. And repeat. Because if you don't, the eggs will keep hatching and the lice will keep laying. Remember science and biology? Hell, remember pregnancy? If you don't take measures to prevent it, reproduction will happen.
On a side note...spay and neuter your pets. And strange relatives.
(My head itches. Alot.)
Now that you are up to date on how lice work, let's rejoin our intrepid school district. Where was I...
Right, parents are calling and complaining. So, rather than holding the line and saying to these parents, "Sorry, your little Lice Factory has to be Nit Free and certainly Live Lice Free before they can return to school", the district is considering changing their policy from "No Nits" to allowing children with nits to stay at school and children with LIVE, CRAWLING lice to remain at school until the end of the school day.
Well, that sounds like a stellar idea. Because the lice will totally respect the sanctity of the classroom and refrain from infecting other kids because we all know that lice appreciate and endorse education and the learning environment.
Right?
Are you vomiting yet?
So kiddies, let this be a lesson to you. If you see LIVE CRAWLING lice during the school hours, don't even worry about it, because I'm sure your school district has thought it through.
I need to go and shave my head.
Monday, January 30, 2012
It's elementary, my dear Watson
If our teens are tomorrow's adults, we are in for a shitstorm. I was driving home from dropping the kids off at school and two cars in front of me was a truck pulling a horse trailer. As we approached an intersection, a high school boy and his little brother stepped into the street. To his credit, they were in a crosswalk but to his discredit, he stepped out from behind a car parked on the street. AND he didn't bother to wait to make sure the driver of the truck had seen him. The guy in the truck wasn't going fast, but he didn't have time to stop due to his HORSE TRAILER and had to swerve completely off the road to avoid hitting this idiot. Rather than being chagrined or scared that he had almost caused an accident that would have surely injured or even killed him (or his brother), this Douche Bag turned and started yelling at the guy in the truck.
What a fucktard.
This is one my of pet peeves. If you are going to cross the road, LOOK to make sure there are no cars approaching! It's not fucking rocket science! Have we learned nothing from the chicken who crossed the road??
My kids could cross better at 5 years old than this dumbass.
Heaven help us...
What a fucktard.
This is one my of pet peeves. If you are going to cross the road, LOOK to make sure there are no cars approaching! It's not fucking rocket science! Have we learned nothing from the chicken who crossed the road??
My kids could cross better at 5 years old than this dumbass.
Heaven help us...
Friday, January 27, 2012
Mymomsasuckeranddoeswhateveriwant
I'm not even really sure what to say about this. My gut instinct is to say that this may well be the worst mom on the face of the earth. As in mykidwonteatanythingbutthiscrapandihavecreatedamonsterbecauseigiveintohereverytime kind of absolute stupidity. But then I thought, maybe the girl has some kind of psychological aversion to textures or smells.
But really...
http://health.yahoo.net/experts/dayinhealth/chicken-nuggets-how-bad-are-they
Check it out, tell me what you think.
But really...
http://health.yahoo.net/experts/dayinhealth/chicken-nuggets-how-bad-are-they
Check it out, tell me what you think.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
R.O.U.S.!
I went into the garage to do laundry the other day. Yes, you read that right..."The Garage" because in their infinite wisdom, the contractors that built our house didn't see fit to include a laundry room inside the house. Either that or they did not consult a woman when pondering their design. So, I walked out into the 25° icebox and began the time honored tradition of filling the washing machine with other people's dirty clothes. All of a sudden, I heard a rustling sound behind me. I turned and there, running from the bag of cat food was a R.O.U.S.
What is a R.O.U.S., you say? Let me sum up...
See? This is what was in my garage! Okay, maybe not THIS big, but big all the same. I'm not ashamed to admit that I ran away screaming, like a little girl. I immediately shouted to The Mr., "R.O.U.S., in the garage!" What do you think he did? Nothing. He remained on the couch and asked, "Are you sure?"
Well, of course I was sure! It almost leaped at me. It nearly bit me.
Alright, maybe not the leaping and biting part, but it was there! I finally convinced him that we needed to put a trap out. A BIG trap, not some little sissy trap for little mouseys. We needed to get out the big guns. Or an elephant gun. Last night he brought home a trap and set it for the R.O.U.S. I'll keep you informed as to our epic rat hunt.
On a side note, Little Bit (who turns 10 this coming Sunday), announced this morning that she thinks we should call the government R.O.U.S.', because, "They take all our money." I'm not sure how rodents and money connect in her little pea brain, but connect they do and I have to say, I think the term is pretty fitting.
Especially today...End Piracy, Not Liberty
What is a R.O.U.S., you say? Let me sum up...
See? This is what was in my garage! Okay, maybe not THIS big, but big all the same. I'm not ashamed to admit that I ran away screaming, like a little girl. I immediately shouted to The Mr., "R.O.U.S., in the garage!" What do you think he did? Nothing. He remained on the couch and asked, "Are you sure?"
Well, of course I was sure! It almost leaped at me. It nearly bit me.
Alright, maybe not the leaping and biting part, but it was there! I finally convinced him that we needed to put a trap out. A BIG trap, not some little sissy trap for little mouseys. We needed to get out the big guns. Or an elephant gun. Last night he brought home a trap and set it for the R.O.U.S. I'll keep you informed as to our epic rat hunt.
On a side note, Little Bit (who turns 10 this coming Sunday), announced this morning that she thinks we should call the government R.O.U.S.', because, "They take all our money." I'm not sure how rodents and money connect in her little pea brain, but connect they do and I have to say, I think the term is pretty fitting.
Especially today...End Piracy, Not Liberty
Monday, January 16, 2012
Social idiots
I went to Costco the other day and was reminded that people are not only rude but sometimes just downright ignorant. Now, this is not news to me and I'm sure it's not news to you but don't you find that there are times when this behavior just completely takes you by surprise?? No? Hmm, I guess it's just me.
Anyway.
Some things I pondered that day:
I am guilty of leaving my shopping cart in the parking lot from time to time. However, when I leave it in the parking lot, I always anchor it in one of those little "green spots", you know...with a tree or a bush. My trip to Costco treated me to a man who was unloading his HUGE cart. Not one of those regular carts, but one of those flatbed things. As I watched, he unloaded his large purchases and then very casually turned his flatbed around and parked it behind the car parked next to him. I momentarily hoped that this was just a resting place for the flatbed on its way to the ever amazing Cart Corral. How silly of me. This man proceeded to hop right on up into his Cadillac Escalade and drive away. Loser.
Are we just that lazy and unthinking as a society that we have no qualms about thumbing our noses at the people around us? Really?? The guy wasn't old or herding large quantities of kids or in a wheelchair or missing any limbs. Would it have KILLED him to walk over 2 parking rows and stow his flatbed? What an idiot.
The second offense involved a man walking into Costco ahead of me.
Let's pause for a moment here.. Have you noticed that both of these offenders were men? This is not to say that men have cornered the market on behaving like asses but I have to say, they were batting 2-0 that day.
Moving on. This man was filthy dirty. Not dirty in a homeless man kind of way or even in a "I was working in the basement of my house and sadly, the place is filthy dirty but I'm trying to rectify that" kind of way. He was just dirty. A dirty white(ish) shirt, dirty jeans and dirty shoes. Now, if I had been across the way at Lowe's, I would have been able to chalk it up to yard work dirt. But this was Costco. Costco isn't the Land of the Working Man! Put on some clean clothes, man!!
I had to go home and have cheesecake in order to recover from this social trauma.
Anyway.
Some things I pondered that day:
I am guilty of leaving my shopping cart in the parking lot from time to time. However, when I leave it in the parking lot, I always anchor it in one of those little "green spots", you know...with a tree or a bush. My trip to Costco treated me to a man who was unloading his HUGE cart. Not one of those regular carts, but one of those flatbed things. As I watched, he unloaded his large purchases and then very casually turned his flatbed around and parked it behind the car parked next to him. I momentarily hoped that this was just a resting place for the flatbed on its way to the ever amazing Cart Corral. How silly of me. This man proceeded to hop right on up into his Cadillac Escalade and drive away. Loser.
Are we just that lazy and unthinking as a society that we have no qualms about thumbing our noses at the people around us? Really?? The guy wasn't old or herding large quantities of kids or in a wheelchair or missing any limbs. Would it have KILLED him to walk over 2 parking rows and stow his flatbed? What an idiot.
The second offense involved a man walking into Costco ahead of me.
Let's pause for a moment here.. Have you noticed that both of these offenders were men? This is not to say that men have cornered the market on behaving like asses but I have to say, they were batting 2-0 that day.
Moving on. This man was filthy dirty. Not dirty in a homeless man kind of way or even in a "I was working in the basement of my house and sadly, the place is filthy dirty but I'm trying to rectify that" kind of way. He was just dirty. A dirty white(ish) shirt, dirty jeans and dirty shoes. Now, if I had been across the way at Lowe's, I would have been able to chalk it up to yard work dirt. But this was Costco. Costco isn't the Land of the Working Man! Put on some clean clothes, man!!
I had to go home and have cheesecake in order to recover from this social trauma.
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