Back Up Off My Reese's yo and other post-Halloween delights...

I really have nothing to say and no time to say it because I have to get out of the house in a half an hour to pick up the munchkin and the dog is crossing his legs begging me to let him out so he can pee on every bush that dares not smell like his urine. So I'll make this quick....

This year the munchkin became quite the little mind changing diva when it came to deciding what she wanted to be for Halloween. She wanted to be a rattlesnake, a tarantula, oh no mom, can I be Hannah Montana? oh no wait, I want to be ICarly, oh wait, no, I want to be her best friend Sam! Actually I want to be Wanda on Fairly Oddparents.

WHAT?

Her costume ideas were getting more and more obscure every day, I was afraid if I didn't make a decision for her, she was eventually going to want to be the old lady who said "I'll have what she's having" in that movie When Harry Met Sally.

So we finally decided on Patrick Starr, Spongebob's best friend. Great. Fine. Good. Let's go online and see what they have and this is what a found:


I'm pretty sure this is what future KKK members wear to their preschool class. Um, no. Not going to work. So with no sewing skills whatsoever, this is what me, fabric glue, felt and safety pins managed to wrangle up:


I give it a B- but she loved it so I got an A+ from the munchkin.

In other Halloween news....

My brother's girlfriend and I hit a new low when we dug out all the Reese's Peanut butter cups out of our candy bowl so we could keep it to ourselves. The kids can have the Dots and Dum Dum lollipops. We need chocolate and peanut butter sustenance because we all know passing out candy and tsk-tsk-ing on 9 year olds dressed in inappropriately sexy costumes (one was a sexy vampire who ended up just looking like a two dollar hook with bad dental work) is a hard job. And then later of course, I have the arduous task of going through my daughter's candy pile and sneaking out the candy I want from her stash without her noticing. Phew. A mother's work is never done.

Joey took me to the annual Haunted Trail thingy they have here at Balboa Park. I screamed, screeched and practically ran myself into a wall as scary teenage zombies and out of work ax murderers came at me and followed me in the woods. Joey laughed, pointed and egged the them on. It brings him extreme joy to see me scurry and pee myself in terror and as a good friend and devoted hag, I am willing to give this to him every year. You're welcome Joey. Thanks for the chicken strips at Dennys afterwards.

OH! and I've gotten an idea for a possible Halloween outfit for next year as well. I'm sure you've all noticed that a lot of women take Halloween as an opportunity to take any mundane occupation; be it a nurse, a flight attendant, a McDonald's cashier, whatever, and turn it into a whore-a-ween costume, which I have no problems with but it's so tired and obvious don't you think? I think we should turn less obvious things into whore-a-ween costumes.

For example, why hasn't anyone thought to dress up as a slutty hobo? Dirty hair, smelly clothes, holding a jar of piss with like short shorts? or what about Little Bo Peep's sheep? Why can't we have sexy Bo Peep Sheep? When is it THEIR turn to whore out? A naughty ax murder? A bloody head and lots of cleavage sounds like a win/win to me.

Okay I gotta go, my dog is now doing the pee pee dance and I think I just heard his bladder burst.

Lindsey And Donatella doing a great impression of my parent's leather couch.

So my take on the Lindsey Lohan thing is basically, wake me up when the E True Hollywood Story happens, particularly at the part where they show her snorting cocaine with a vacuum attachment.

It’s really hard for me to pay attention to a slow moving train derailment even if it does leave crack rock trails and incoherent twitter rants in its wake. Yawn. Snore. At least Britney Spears embraced her train wreck and made it action packed! (She’s a true performer that Britney...)

This morning, whilst perusing my favorite celebrity blogs, I came upon this picture and I immediately felt like my eyes were covered in fire ants and I was doused in alcohol and sweaty desperation. This picture gave me the cotton mouths in a serious way. I wanted to take all those free moisturizer sample packets in my magazines and squirt it at these two walking Halloween masks.

Did Lindsey volunteer for some kind of fucked up Donatella Versace apprenticeship program where the goal is to look like 15 miles of bad road with potholes, stand next to Donatella and make her look like a spring peach? I would have laughed at such an idea but this picture made me think twice. Don’t get me wrong, Donatella definitely doesn’t come close to looking like a spring peach. I don’t think she’s been ‘springy fresh’ since the 1700s. But she usually looks like that overly cooked chicken you see in the grocery store that’s been spinning inside the roaster for like a day and a half, with its crunchy skin all hanging off.

However, in this picture next to Lindsey, she’s taken on a very youthful, “sun bleached, dried up kitchen sponge” look don’t you think? Who knew Lindsey’s meth wrinkles would be quite complimentary on Donatella?

But even though I make fun, I still hope Lindsey pulls through. Remember when she appeared to be talented and well fed? The poor child is 23 going on 63 with a face that’s slowly looking like Octomom’s flappy lips (not the giant wax lips on her face either). This is why we say NO to drugs kids; particularly taking an eight ball of cocaine with a vodka chaser for breakfast.

As for Donatella, I’m not even worried about her because we all know zombies defy the test of time.

Xenu's Burning My Meatloaf and Other Delightful Nuggets...

Despite my love for sweets, (see love letter to Funfetti cake mix post below!) I'm pretty proud of myself for not being 300 plus pounds which I could easily gain if left alone at a 7-11 overnight. Do I want to stick my head under the blueberry slurpie nozzle, turn that lever and shotgun that sucker like a kegger? Yes. Yes I do. With every fiber of my being; however, I refrain because I care about my health! (actually I just haven't had the opportunity because the damn cashier is always eyeballing me when I start to circle the machine.)


At this point, do you think Jon Gosselin sweats dirty vag water? I know we throw the word 'douche' around in jest but I think that the universe has agreed with the masses for once and is turning him into an actual douche. If he starts growing a plastic spout of his ass, we'll know my theory is true.


I got so busy the other day that I actually told my poo to stop bothering me and come back again later when I'm not so busy. Like it was a Mormon knocking on the door or something. Well, no that's a lie, I would never tell a Mormon to come back later.


Last night I woke up around 2:45 a.m. and thought I smelled meat. I know - don't walk away yet, it gets better. I'm sitting there trying to determine what the smell was. It wasn't overpowering, it was just a hint of a smell. So every possible reasonable explanation goes through my head in about five seconds, 'did viking hubby just cut a fart with some extra stank on it? (no, because the smell didn't make my face want to eat itself which is usually my reaction when hubby lets one go). Is the dog breathing on me? (no). Did we leave a frying pan on the stove and maybe it's turned on slightly? (hmm, possibly.) So the next logical thing is to go check it right?

Well this is where you and I are differ. My brain made a U-turn out of logic town and heads to Tom Cruise's Xenu House of Crazyville because then I start thinking, well - what if this is some kind of ploy (by ALIENS. I know....SIGH...) to get me out of bed (double sigh) so they can electroshock me and put heated pokers up my bum? Fun for Tom Cruise sure, but for me, not so much. I swear, this TOTALLY made sense to me at 2:45 a.m. In my head, I was certain that in the alien handbook on how to attract and abduct humans, cooking meatloaf on low heat topped the list. It was nothing by the way, I ran to the kitchen, didn't see anything and ran back to bed. Because you know,...aliens can't possibly catch me when I'm onto their sneaky cooking schemes and scurrying quickly.

And yet, after all that, I still can't wait to watch THIS MOVIE.


I twitted the other day that I think I am allergic to PTA moms and actually I felt kind of bad about that because I'm sure most of the moms in the PTA are lovely people. So let me be more specific. The things about the PTA that causes my eye to twitch uncontrollably and make me wish for tourettes syndrome are...

* those in the PTA that emphasize and drag their vowels ...'oh that's greaaaaat.' 'Oh that's absolutely daaaarling.' 'Hey yooouuuuuu, how have you beeeeen? Oh wondeeeerful!"

* those in the PTA who can't differentiate whether they're talking to adults or children, so they just talk to everyone in the same, condescending baby talk. And usually, it's the same people who drag their vowels. They're a hoot to have a forced conversation with.

* those in the PTA that treat the planning of a bake sale fundraiser with the same seriousness as feeding starving children in Africa. You're selling homemade cupcakes girlfriend, not rebuilding a village in Darfur. Take it down a notch.

* those in the PTA that give me the side eye because I can't volunteer for 50 events in one week. I have a thing called WORK and Facebook to do when the munchkin's in school. Piss off.

* and finally those in the PTA that can't handle a tasteful dick joke once in a while. (when its just the adults around of course) God forbid I interrupt your fascinating monologue on how much better your child is than some other mom's kid, THEN when said mom comes around you smile in their face and tell them that they're just daaaarling.

Sorry, I got kind of ugly there didn't I? My apologies. My panties get into quite a bunch when I'm denied my sub-par dick jokes.

You Complete Me. A love letter to Pillsbury.

Dear Pillsbury "Funfetti" cake mix,

I will never forget that moment last week when you caught my eye. So festive, so joyful with the doughboy promising everlasting yumminess in your blue and rainbow colored box that glistened under the Target halogen lights. I was going to walk right past you for what did I need cake mix for? There was no birthday to be had, no special event in the near future to warrant a cake and I'm not much of a cooker/baker anyway. Even the simplest of baking tasks (like a cake in a box) can turn into a shriveled black coal in my cooking disabled hands. Children have weeped and ran away in fear from past baked monstrosities goodies that had the misfortune to have been created by me. There was absolutely no reason that our paths should cross.

But it did. And I was drawn like a magnet, curious as to what' funfetti' meant in the context of a cake. As I got closer, I saw that you were just a simple cake mix with some sprinkles thrown in. How could a simple thing like cake mix with sprinkles in it possibly live up to the promise of glee, celebration and happiness that your box shouted at me from across the room? It couldn't! And yet there I was, picking you up and including you with my other basket of goodies that was the reason I had visited Target in the first place. (Madonna CD/DVD of course).

Still unimpressed, I let you sit in the cupboard for three days and almost forgot about you until my sweet tooth kicked in. Let's see what that cake has to offer I thought, making you as an afterthought as I chatted away on the phone. It was at this point that I saw a recipe for Funfetti cookies on the side of the box and on a whim, I decided to do cookies instead because it only required two eggs, a 1/3 cup of oil and a steady mixing hand. Even THAT I could do and the 1 and a half steps it required to make the cookies appealed to my laziness when it comes to cooking. (oh who am I kidding, it appealed to my laziness period.)

Eight minutes later you were done. Two minutes later I experienced you.
(gotta let that bitch cool. Many a taste buds have been sacrificed due to my inability to grasp this concept in the past.)

And......OH.....My......GOD.

Cake mix with sprinkles!!! So simple and yet GENIUS on my taste buds!!! How could I have ever doubted you? How could I have questioned the marketing execs at Pillsbury? If Pillsbury promises ecstasy and one million orgasms in a box then by God they deliver!! I'm a believer Pillsbury! I am a believer!

I was a fool. I'm sorry. Please accept my apologies. I hope to have more wonderful times together, even if half the time it is my husband who prepares you, just remember, it is I that loves you most.

Til' we meet again on aisle 6, sweet sweet funfetti dreams.

Your admirer, lover, and newfound addict,

Me.

Dear Joe Simpson, Quit Creeping Around My Legs! (Jeopardy Answer: Things Jessica Simpson would say.)

A funny thing happened to me when I went to go see the red-headed messiah and comedy idol, Kathy Griffin, this weekend with my gays.

I got R.L.S.

What's R.L.S. you say? Restless Leg Syndrome.

Yeah. I know. What the fuckity fuck? Leave it up to me to get random shit at the most inopportune time. I'm surprised I didn't get a whooping cough on top of it. Anyways, come closer, hold my hand and walk down short term memory lane with me won't you?

If you don't know what restless leg syndrome is, let me explain. It's this super creepy crawly feeling that you get in your legs and you're just unable to keep them still. There's this urge to MOVE. If you have gotten restless leg syndrome, then you know the feeling that I'm talking about. (or if you're Jessica Simpson, you know the kind of creepy that I'm talking about, right Joe Simpson?) I don't know much about it, but I've gotten it on and off throughout my life. I even saw a commercial for a magic pill that would get rid of R.L.S. in exchange for wonderful side effects like growing a giant fuzzy mole in the middle of your forehead, powerful bowel movements and sporadic turrets syndrome.

My restless leg attack was so bad this past Saturday, I would not have hesitated taking a bucketful of those pills. Apparently waking up 5:45 a.m., going fishing all day, stressing out over my dog, drinking two very strong Jack and Cokes (thanks John!), and eating way too much Chinese food was the secret ingredient to a full blown restless leg attack.

So there I was, fifth row at one of the most hilarious shows I've ever seen, trying to enjoy my girl Kathy and I could not, for the life of me, sit still. To top it off, they were taping it for Bravo which is going to air sometime in November, so I couldn't get up and walk it off. AND as if that wasn't bad enough, wouldn't you know it, with only a half hour left of the show, all of a sudden had to go to the bathroom really bad. If my tweaky fidgeting wasn't noticeable before, it was definitely noticeable now.

And I guess that's why I'm writing this post, if you watch it this November and the camera happens to pan on a Filipino girl who's crackin' out like Whitney Houston in her seat; um, that's just overly tired me suffering from R.L.S., full of piss, booze and Chinese food.

I told you I was due for a comeback.

Short, Sweet and Often...and no, I'm not talking about my Circus Peanuts Diet.

Um hi, remember me? Yeah, I don't either. I'm not going to make any blog declarations anymore, because it seems like whatever goal I set for myself, my brain will do the exact opposite. I love how in the last post I was going for a modest one to two posts a week and I went over a MONTH without posting! So yeah, maybe I'll declare that from now on I'm going to blog sporadically and write whenever the hell I feel like it because that's what I've been doing anyway, I'm going to just embrace my talent for inconsistency and you should too. Clearly I excel at it.

Anyways, enough about that because I imagine the only people left reading this are me and a random sicko who accidentally got here by googling popular key words that seem to lead to my blog: midget and underwear. No joke. I owe those two words a fancy dinner and a hand job with all the random hits I get from them. I'm sure most of the accidental visitors leave my blog in a huff and secretly cuss me out for A. not having the underwear they were looking for? B. for not really being a midget and C. for not having a picture of a midget in their underwear.

And to that last category of people, I apologize. Here's a picture of my colleague Bridgette the midget to make your visit here somewhat worthwhile...

And yes I DID say colleague because we shared trade secrets and become BFFs on the set of a wildly popular movie called "Tiptoes." I'm sure you've heard of it, but just as a reminder, I had three pivotal scenes in that movie - one was the back of my head; a performance so moving and scene stealing that I practically won an Oscar for 'Best Movie Extra's Back of Head Walk By." Unfortunately I lost out to "Dead Spartan Number 4" from the movie 300. We were neck and neck though.

Please don't act all weird now that you know my celebrity past. I put my ball gag on one strap at a time just like you do. So relax. And yes, I will personally autograph your beloved DVD copy of "Tiptoes"..... if you send me a dollar. Sorry, blame the economy. And Kanye.

I'm keeping this post short and sweet because I really do want to blog more than once every 6 months, so this is me not blowing my blog wad. But as a special favor for me, I ask my three readers that you pray for the death of all things rattlesnake! A baby rattlesnake bit our doggy this past weekend. Thankfully, we caught it in time, rushed him to the vet and he's doing fine. This took a hit to our wallets like you wouldn't believe because apparently the only people more crooked and conniving than the mafia are veterinarians.

Our option upon getting to the hospital with our poor doggy was cough up the dough for their specialized treatment or your beloved doggie dies. The most ridiculous of charges was a fee for "administering the shots"...the medicine in the shot was a whole other price bracket entirely, let's not get into THAT, but it was 65 dollars just to ADMINISTER it. As in just the act of poking and pushing the needle into our dog was costing us 65 dollars. WTF? We're all in the wrong business people.

Although to be fair they did give us an 'budget friendly' option of putting him to sleep for $100.00. What thoughtful saints they are.

Thankfully, my wonderful awesome friends, Debi and Drew, stepped up to the plate right away and helped us in our time of need as soon as they heard what happened to our dog. We didn't even ask, they're just friends who go above and beyond the call of duty because it comes naturally to them. So thanks guys, seriously. If it wasn't completely inappropriate, I would hire some strippers to give both of you a lap dance with a little dry humping on the side. But the combination of stripper glitter and sweaty politician smell takes at least two bottles of Tide with bleach to get out. Maybe we'll skip that and just take them to dinner and a drag show next time they're in town.

So remember, your homework today kids is 'death to all things rattlesnake' and 'let more midget movies come my way.'

Sorry, I had to stick that last part in because I think I'm due for a comeback.

and I kinda miss Bridgette the Midget.

I Come To You A Year Older with Stories of Strange Creatures and Beheadings..

Yes I know! I've been blog constipated for months now, pushing out little hard turd posts a pathetic twice, three times a month. For this I truly apologize to the few readers who STILL come back. (thank you for your patience and patronage by the way) My daughter is headed back to school on Monday so that should at least up my blog posts from two/three a month (sigh) to once a week? Hopefully? No promises because you all obviously know what happens to my "I swear I'll blog more" promises. (big deep exasperated SIGH).

Since we last gathered around my sputtering blog fire, a few things have happened. My birthday has come and gone. (August 12th, please mark it on your calendar as a national holiday if you haven't already. And feel free to click on the Amazon wish list button on your right to give me a belated birthday gift so I can forgive you for forgetting my 21ST BIRTHDAY. - don't question me).

Go on. I'll wait.

The viking hubby asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I asked him if he could please babyshit ( <---- typo but I'm leaving it because I'm lowbrow like that.) while I took off for the weekend with main gay Joey to visit our friend Debi and her husband Drew in Morro Bay, which is this sleepy little fisherman's town in the central coast of California. Viking hubby happily accepted as that meant he didn't have to go to the store and do hard things like "get a card" and "get a present."

If left to his own devices, I would have a gun collection that rivals his. TRUTH: When we first got married, I once got a huge stuffed gorilla, a box of chocolates AND A GUN for Valentine's day. His reasoning? So we could go shooting TOGETHER (aww) at the range with my very own gun. (I never did know what the giant gorilla was for but I imagine it was a stand in for him when he goes out fishing all day). He IS romantic people.. just in a very soldier of fortune kind of way. But I know viking hubby's limits now and I abide by them.

So I had a fabulous birthday weekend in Morro Bay eating, laughing, sleeping in, taking naps, kayaking, - everything a vacation should be with good friends. I won't go into details because my vacation is part of my summer vacation episode of I'm Not Samantha Brown that is currently in the works.

In other news? I've been experiencing a whole new way of life up here in my new hilltop home and by 'experiencing' - I mean screaming at the top of my lungs at the funky creatures that insist on visiting us. Or they could've been sent by the bees and lizards to kill us for murdering their kind once we moved in.

For example, please oh baby Jesus in heaven, what in holy peroxide is this???


It was shaped like a giant ant with what can only be described as bleach blonde David Bowie locks all over its body. I guess I caught it as it was getting back from the salon, because I saw NO roots. This bug is way ahead of Britney Spears already.

And one time, I attempted to take a stick that had gotten stuck on my flip flop when it said, "oh hell no bitch!" and CRAWLED AWAY.

Let me recap for you what I just said in case you didn't fully grasp the creep factor of this incident.

THE STICK.

WALKED.

AWAY.


I won't even tell you how much crap ran down my pants when that happened because it would just be embarassing and would cause you to look at me in an even more unflattering light than you already do.

One bottle of hand sanitzer and a couple of soiled panties later, we found a visitor hitching a ride on our floating temperature gage in the pool. This visitor's first name was Rattle last name Snake.

That's right, you heard correct. A baby rattle snake decided to take a dip into our pool. This is truly when viking hubby's countrified blood starts pumping in excitement. Before I could even take a picture, he had pushed the floating gage to the edge of the pool with a stick and when Mr. Rattlesnake stuck his head up to the edge of the pool to get out, he was then treated to a beheading by viking hubby with said stick. I had to convince viking hubby to throw it away and not make meal and a belt out of it. I apologize for not taking a picture but I have to tell you that it takes all my might to go within two feet of a bug so really, unless I had one of those paparazzi camera with the telescopic lens, a drawing is the best I could do:

(click on below images to make it larger)

Seriously - who needs a camera when you have my lifelike paint sketches? It really does transport you to the moment doesn't it?

So anyways, that's it for now - we'll see if other strange creatures make an appearance here at Casa De VikingMidget Ranch, (dragonflies with mohawks? humming birds with fake eyelashes?, spiders scooting around in a lowered impala??) and I'll make sure to report these findings to you.

Thank you in advance for my birthday presents.

(If anything my new talent for subtle gift begging warrants at least a small gift of circus peanuts or smelly stickers.) ;-)