Step Away From The Twat Zone Oh Crispy Fried Ponytail!

I took my blood test this week to see if I had gestational diabetes this time around and little did I know I was about to walk into an episode of Intervention.

It started out normal enough, I waited for the receptionist to hand me my 'tasty' glucose beverage. For those who haven't had the sheer pleasure of downing one of these liquid dreams, it's akin to drinking a Slurpee after it has sat inside a car in 100 degree weather. Truly a happy joy joy experience.

I got the orange flavored drink and was informed by the receptionist that I only had ten minutes to drink it; however, I downed that sucker in less than a minute. I gave her the empty bottle and she side-eyed me like I had dumped it down the drain. (Believe me, I was tempted). My apologies Ms. Receptionist, I didn't realize I had to put it in a wine glass, swish it around, inhale it and ponder if it's a light medium or full bodied glucose syrup. Why the hell would I take my time drinking that liquid sugar shit? *Dumb twat.

*please note this is a pregnant lady writing this blog post and while I may indeed project thoughts of death and carnage upon those who annoy me, I do so with a sweet sweet smile on my face for I am still yet a lady indeed. (stop laughing)

Afterwards, I had to let the orange syrup sit in my stomach for an hour before they drew my blood. Thankfully I found a recent copy of People and spent the hour wondering if Heidi Montag purposely spent thousands of dollars to look like a transsexual blow up doll.

Finally, a crazy looking chick popped her head out the door, called my name and looked around even though I was the ONLY ONE in the lobby. I stood up and acknowledged that yes indeedy, I'm the patient you're looking for, NOT that brown swivel chair you're eyeballing.

Something about this girl appeared 'off' to me and it wasn't because her hair was fried crispy blond and put up in a high, dry ponytail so her roots could take center stage, it was because even after I walked up to go in, she stood at the doorway and blocked my path. It seemed to me like she really WAS waiting for the brown swivel chair to follow her into the patient rooms. So finally I said, 'Yes, I'm ready to go." just to get her attention.

She looked at me, blinked, waited a few seconds and finally let me through the door.

Wierd. I secretly prayed that my regular nurse was back in the examination room and this was just some kind of greeter girl that walks the patients in. Crispy fried ponytail led me to the back room hesitantly, as if she didn't know where she was going and told me to have a seat. I peeked out from the corner of my eye and saw that she was gathering up the needles and pulling out my file. My regular nurse was nowhere to be found. Crap.

I was still holding out hope that my first impression of her was just me being harsh; however, within ten seconds of returning to the examination room, I was fully convinced this chick was under the influence of some extra strength, Lindsey Lohan brand type of Vicodin.

First, she asked me which arm 'they' usually draw blood from. (I assume by 'they" she meant the doctor, but with the way this chick was functioning, 'they' could have been secret agent Ninjas). Seeing as the examination table was against the wall and she couldn't even get to my left arm, I wondered why this question was necessary as I am fully equipped with blood filled veins on both arms. I told her the last time 'they' drew blood, it was from my left but I didn't mind if she took blood from my right arm.

She sat there and blinked at me for what seemed like an eternity. I was beginning to wonder if somehow my voice was on a west coast feed and her ears were on a east coast feed because it appeared as if there was a two minute delay from when I spoke to her and when she finally got what I was saying enough to respond.

HOly shartfucks batman! This woman in a half coma was going to prick me with a needle?? My palms immediately became fountains as she came at me with a needle. I looked away as she tapped my arm and stood there drooling, trying to find a vein. When she finally did find one, not surprisingly, she missed it. She blurted out a slurry 'oops, sorry,' fiddled the needle around and found what she was looking for. I gritted my teeth and fought the urge to beat her over the head with the gynecologist's specula.

After about five minutes but what seemed like hours, she managed to get my blood and actually put a band aid on my arm without falling asleep. She even tried to make light conversation with me but with the west coast/east coast delay going on in her head, it was the most painful conversation I've ever had to endure.

Wasted as Fuck Nurse: "Soooo...where are you going after thish?"
Me: "Oh I'm just going to pick up my daughter from school."

2 minute delay...she blinks really slowly.

Wasted as Fuck Nurse: (finally processes in what I'm saying) "Ooooh. Yeah...yeah...I remember those days..."

WTF? I was willing to bet my imaginary left testicle that the nurse didn't even remember her own name. I still don't know if that nurse was high, sleepy or just slow, but I was so anxious to get out of there I almost forgot to schedule my next appointment - an important one since this is the appointment I get to find out the sex of the baby. Whoo!

If for some reason the doctor is out next month and I see Ms. Crispy fried ponytail nurse wobbling towards my crotch, I'm grabbing the dildo cam and doing it myself.

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.

Give me a Heapin' Helpin of Tuna with a side of vitamin beer please!!

To my darling marketing campaign geniuses over at Stampede Beer,

I’m confused. I don’t know , maybe I should start drinking some of your beer to ‘smarten’ me up but I’m kind of scared of your product because I don’t really understand what you’re trying to say with Jessica Simpson as your spokesperson. Am I going to end up on the back of a truck full of hay, in cowboy tranny gear, with my mouth half open like a slow kid who breaths loud if I drink or don’t drink your beer? Please explain.

I know the mind automatically jumps to Jessica Simpson when the word “smart” is involved, I mean who could forget the deep philosophical discussions she had about chicken or tuna? Or unearthing the secret of the ages on national television? (buffalo wings is actually CHICKEN? Thank you Jessica, you MENSA card carrying member you…). But her whole “village idiot trying to do simple math” look with the word ‘SMART’ written in front of her sends confusing messages about your beer.

Next time might I suggest using the tried and true selling point of Jessica Simpson? (I’ll give you a hint; they’re under her shirt and if you’re still stumped, go ask Papa Joe - he’s handled her money makers before). Or maybe I’ll be really smart and just not drink your beer ‘with vitamins.’ Which is pretty much like a triple layer cake with sugar free icing. Your tag line should really read:
"What swelled liver? You’re getting your daily dose of vitamin C and B12 with each can! Drink it up Mr. Athlete!”

With Love,
Yo Momma.


To My Darling Lindsey,

So you supposedly like WOMEN right? You’re openly attracted to WOMEN? You’re down with heapin' helpins' of tuna? Okay, I can respect that. My question to you is, if you’re attracted to WOMEN, why did we decide to date a 12 year old anorexic boy that looks like he got into a fight with a box of Nice & Easy? Hmm? An explanation is needed young lady. You’re a slightly attractive girl who makes good money, couldn’t we have dated someone who looks a little less like a prepubescent grocery bagger with sticky sacks and more like someone who actually showers and has a Virginia?

On the positive side, it looks like your girlfriend could take a mean hit off a giant bong, re-chain a BMX bike and hammer up some drywall - all in one day. So who knows, maybe you like how flat twink asses look in a pair of Dickies and a tool belt. Or maybe it just goes to show that whether it be men or women, your judgment is clearly impaired when you snort enough coke to kill a "women's" softball team.

Next time, leave lesbian dating to the experts!

High Five Ellen!

With love,
Yo Momma

Dear John Mayer,

Is it your 1980’s workout pants? Is it the constant yammering you do on and off the stage? Is it the painful diarrhea face that you get when you sing? (click on that link and tell me that's not your new desktop wallpaper!) I don't know what it is but it seems as if every time I see you, I get the feeling that if I stick your head up my nay nay and squeeze hard, I would get “Spring Flower Fresh” scented vinegar water to squirt out your ears and give me that oh so fresh feeling.

And why do I get the urge to do that when I see you?…. or Shia Lebouf?…. Or Justin Timberlake?….Or Spencer Pratt? …or Katherine Heigle?????

It’s a disturbing thought, but I think I’m not alone in feeling that most celebrities are about as useful as vaginal irrigation devices.



With love,
Yo “oh so fresh” Momma.


Otay ya'll, I'm off to Mizzery, Moosorry, Mizzo tomorrow for a whooole week to visit some family and take a well deserved vacation in a cabin...on lake.....in a remote area of the wilderness.......with no internet....who's nearest neighbor is probably someone named 'stabby Joe' (thanks Shannon)....
City girls with big imagination + sleeping in remote wilderness = screeching at every owl that 'hoots' in my direction and mistaking every tree as a one-eyed hillbilly cannibal.

Maybe this won't be such a relaxing trip after all.
Wish me luck as I go off on my own midget Blair Witch Project. Pictures and made up horror stories coming soon! Stay Tuned!