The Human Stain

Okay so nothing about this post is going to relate to the title unless I break off into a rant about skid marks, which could happen, you never know. I was just on my Netflix list, changing my movies around, and saw that "The Human Stain," was on my "recommendations" list. Apparently its a drama and the fine people at Netflix thought I would like it. I have NO idea what the movie is about, but judging from the title, I'm thinking its totally about skid marks and the ruination it can bring to a family. Yes? Because skid marks don't just affect the person who caused it, it affects the ENTIRE family... especially the one that has to do the laundry. ...the same thing with "dutch ovens." Dutch ovens can tear a family apart. I should make a movie called "Dutch Ovens." Never mind. The title was fitting after all.

Anyways, I was doing my laundry today and realized that the majority of my wardrobe now consists of pajama tops and bottoms. I sat there thinking, "What happened to all my other outfits?!" Who knows? I do KNOW that I haven't gone shopping for myself in about 3 billion decades. Are parachute pants still in? because I could totally still rock that shit. How about cuffing your pants at the bottom.. is that still cool? Because I could cuff a pant faster than you can say "Lisa Lisa and The Cult Jam" No seriously, I NEED to shop. Its not for the lack of trying. I've tried many times, but I'm beginning to think I forgot HOW. (I think my fashion merchandising degree, slash dust catcher, slash receipt for my gigantic student loan bill, just burst into flames as I typed that.) I know. Someone pass the estrogen IV. Holy HANNAH! I forgot how to shop!
And its not that I don't know how to shop for clothes. I go in there with the best of intentions and get completely side tracked by the customers or the employees of the store. Then later, I realized I haven't gotten shit because I've been people gawking for the past hour. I just can't shop and ignore the other customer's baffling clothing decisions or people who choose the dressing room at an "Old Navy" to have a loud argument with their boyfriend. All pure unadulterated entertainment in every aisle .. who can SHOP?? Its free reality television people!
For example, a couple years ago I was shopping for some jeans and a girl about the same age as me was there with her daughter.....who was like 10 years old. So right there, I'm like.. wow, she must have had her when she was FIVE. ... But I REFUSED to get caught up in my head and continued looking for jeans that would hug my ass just right and not cut into my hips, causing skin dunlaps. That's hard work. You ladies know. It requires your full, utmost attention. So I'm sitting there, studying seams, cuts, low rise, high rise, button fly, pockets, no pockets, the "dirty jean" look? Or save some money and buy regular clean jeans and "dirty" them myself? Decisions. Decisions.
At this point, I had ALMOST forgot about the girl and her daughter UNTIL I hear THIS:

"Alize'.. Alize' don't wander off. Follow me Alize."

Alize?
Alize?
As in the DRINK Alize'????
As in "oh, let me name my daughter a cheap alcoholic beverage" Alize???
Jean shopping now officially over.
It probably wouldn't have been if she hadn't said her name THREE TIMES. My brain simply could NOT ignore it. It was like 'Alize, Alize, Alize," and off I went....

"I wonder if she named her that because that's what she was drinking when she got knocked up?"
"you're mean, how do you know she got knocked up? Maybe she's married!"
"OH yeah, married and looking at the rhinestone halter tops and sheer short skirts with her hooker heels.. yeah, she's SO married. She SCREAMS married."
" Just shut up and shop for jeans. you're so judgemental."
"Alize?? seriously? I mean, I love Smirnoff ice but you can be damn sure Smirnoff Chaney isn't gonna be added to the family tree."
(chuckled quietly to myself..)
"Maybe it's spelled different."
"WHO CARES? It's pronounced like the drink!! Why not just call her "Strawberry Hill? I wonder what her son's name is, Boone. "Boone's Farm and Strawberry Hill, oh what wonderful children they are!"
(holding in laughter as tears form in the corner of my eyes.)
" Or HEY, screw alchohol! Name them after cars! Cheap cars! "
"Hyundai, honey, its time to do your homework!"
"Oh Corolla, clean your room its such a mess!"
"If you don't get down from there Geo Metro, I'm going to tell Dad!"
" Daihatsu! Stop hitting your sister!"
(shaking quietly as I hold laughter in.. tears falling down both cheeks,)
"You're so NOT going to find jeans today.."

Its becoming increasingly obvious that I need someone with a cattle prod to go with me when I shop. Any volunteers?

Lots of People Were Doing The Nasty....

...around June or July about 27 sum odd years ago because I have THREE friends with birthdays this month!!!! So here's my quick blurb on who they are, how we met and why they're cooler than shit.

(disclaimer: if you're a March baby and my friend and somehow I neglected to mention you on this post, then you should go to myspace and sign in your birthday. Seriously, that is the ONLY WAY I remember birthdays. Judy has been my best friend since the SECOND GRADE and I just started remembering her birthday without struggle about five years ago.)

(Pic:Judy and some Cambodian refugee..oh wait that's me..)

Who: Judy

Met: In second grade, I lived across the street from her when I first moved to "The Heights"

Most Memorable moments:
- making mud pies with dirt sprinkles
- treasure hunts and 'Smurf" hunts in her backyard
- going to prom together with our 'dates'. Her with A-hole number one and me with Victim number one.
- Passing out at her own wine and cheese party. A hostess with the mostess I must say....
- Our conversation about "getting pregnant"
(age 8-ish): me: "I don't wanna get pregnant."
Judy: "You don't have a choice, you're a girl. Girls just get pregnant."
me: "How do you get pregnant?"
Judy: "It just happens because you're a girl. I think when you're like thirty or something..."

(Pic: 12 year old Shannon, making long distance calls at my house...)

Who: Shannon

Met: In third or fourth grade (?) . I don't remember exactly.

Most Memorable Moment:
- Shannon had THE first boy/girl party. (she was quite a revolutionary)
- Dying her hair with kool aid and accidentally buying the wrong pack with the sugar already in it. Oops.
- Giving her her first "guy" poster for her birthday in 6th. Grade. I think her dad still has a hit man out on me for that one. (Seriously, what was wrong with me??)
- Sneaking in to see "Pretty Woman." I think we bought tickets to "Joe Vs. The Volcano." Yeah. Now you see why we chose Pretty Woman instead.
- Shannon and Laura as "Overboard" (their band name) singing "Like A Prayer" to the kindergarden kids during recess. We held "concerts" every lunch and I was their manager. Yeah, that's right. I was an early P-diddy in the making.

(pic: Brandie and me..oh wait, that's her dog Bailey)

Who: Brandie
Met: college, I dragged her to her first Tijuana club.
Most Memorable Moment:
- Let her borrow my shirt when we went clubbin' down in TJ. Next thing you know, girlfriend had it in her back pocket after three drinks! I asked her why she took off her shirt and was dancing around in her bra. Her answer?
"I got hot."
Ask a stupid question.....
- Going on so many "mini vacations" trips! She's the bestest vacation buddy ever! Our list includes, Catalina Island, San Luis Obispo, Palm Springs, Rosarito, MX., Cabo San Lucas, Las Vegas, Dallas, TX.
- Going for a "little drink" at the hotel bar at Rosarito and being "escorted" back to our room after our "little drink" turned into 5 shots of tequila... each. The next day we woke up with killer headaches and our clothes strewn about in wierd places. THEN we had to ride back in my bumpy Jeep on a dirt road. Good times.. good times......
- Meeting up with each other after being out of touch for four years and picking up where we left off with complete and total ease. She's my Italian connection.

I love all you hot mommas!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!

Now bend over get a ready for your spankins.....

Hateration Week

You ever have one of those weeks where your pizza falls on floor cheese side down? you explode in the toilet and there's one square of toilet paper left? your hair looks like Joyce Dewitt's? the laundry starts reproducing more laundry and the dirty dishes thought it was a good idea and did the same? the sound of others BREATHING in your direction makes you want to kick them squaw in the arse? your bank balance is negative a couple thousand dollars and top ramen is starting to look like a gourmet meal? each cup of coffee you have is either too sweet, too bitter, or has already gotten cold? when friends seem a world away and annoying motherfuckers are within choking distance? when your obvious genius isn't appreciated in your own time?(heh),when there's ham, no burger? Peanut butter no jelly? Your mind and body feels like it got a good ol' Ike Turner beat down? When everyone else seems like they got their shit together except YOU? when the pen runs out of ink in the middle of writing a check? where a "power nap" just won't cut it and what you really need is a "power week" of sleep? when all your hard earned money seems to go to everyone else but YOU? your blog looks funny on Internet Explorer but yet looks fine on Mozilla Firefox and you're not computer competent enough to fix it? the rug seems to have pores that actually produces dirt and lint? you feel you've been vacuuming said rug so much that if you totaled up the miles you've vacummed, it would circle the earth EIGHT TIMES? prozac starts sounding pretty darn good, downed with a shot of tequila coupled with a lobotomy? the person who gave you a bad first impression makes an even WORSE second impression? everyone thinks "whorebag" is a malicious word? (its actually a loving term people.. a whorebag coupled with some PMS pants and bitchy heels makes for a great ensemble), when you want a piece of chocolate cake and there's only sugar free crap in the cupboard? then you realize it was your dumbass that bought the sugar free crap? you're finally SO SO happy that it's Friday and then you realize you're a mom and moms don't really get a REAL "friday?"

yeah.

That's the kind of week I had. Love me.

Now cheer me up and leave a dirty joke in my comments section!

Eat Here.

On today's menu:
Free Advice!!

Starter/Appetizer:
"If one chooses to go diggin' for shit, one should not complain when one gets crap on ones hand."

Today's Special:
"If one chooses to stick ones nose into a hairy asshole, one should not complain about the smell."

Side Salad:
" If one chooses to smell ones finger after scratching ones ass, one should not complain about a smelly upper lip."

Dessert:
"If one chooses to fuck Paris Hilton, one should not complain about the burning sensation that one feels whilst they pee.

So that's all I've got to say about THAT.

Hollah.

A Potpourri of Poop

- The milk chocolate covered Oreo is touting itself as "the most seductive cookie ever." I didn't even realize there was a competition amongst cookies as to who was the sexiest. However, after tasting the chocolate covered Oreo, I must say IT IS indeed the "Angelina Jolie" of the cookie world. It was so seductive that I damn near brought the whole box into bed with me. I say "damn near" because about halfway to my bedroom.. oh ...oops.. lookit that.......I done ate them all! (ok, wishful thinking.. I'm still sharting it up with Slim Fast, but HAD I been given a box, thats what would've happened.)

- AmbienCR is one of those unneccessary pills they advertise on t.v. to help you sleep better. I love this and the other pill commercials with the wierd names (Nexium, Crestor, Camel Toe..you know the ones..) because I LOVE hearing the "possible side effects" that happen when you take such a pill. It can range from dizziness, losing your hair, growing a third eye, sharting your undies uncontrollably, being unable to function 5 hours AFTER you wake up (Ambien says do NOT take the pill unless you can devote a full 7 to 8 hours of sleep before you need to be active again. Um, If you can DEVOTE 7 to 8 hours sleep everyday you wouldn't NEED the pill right? Just a thought.) and possibly getting Turrets Syndrome.. blah blah blah, but HEY, you got a good night's sleep didn't you?!? Quit complaining about your soiled panties and that growth on your back! At least you're well rested!

- Can someone please tell the THREE GRAY HAIRS I found on my head that they are WAY TOO early and they seriously do not need to bring friends. (yikes).

- Gianda De Laurentiis from "Everyday Italian" scares the bejeesus out of me. Her head is so incredibly huge. Is this a condition? Is this what happens when you eat too much pasta fagioli? Everytime I watch the show, I'm on the edge of my seat waiting for her neck to give out under all the pressure causing her to fall head first in the vat of boiling pasta noodles and pesto. And oh glory be if she happens to have her hair up! That's like adding 10 more pounds of pressure to that poor neck of hers and literally I'm all nerves throughout the show.
Huge head.
Huge.
SCARY Huge.

- Dear Aroma Kitchen Appliance Company,
In your haste to make the handy dandy, all-in-one toaster oven, griddle AND coffee maker contraption, you neglected one little itty bitty thing. The coffee pot should pour coffee INTO my coffee cup and NOT dribble out the sides, spilling coffee on my counter and burning the crap out of my hand. EVERY. MORNING.
You owe me some Neosporin and Clorox Wipes you bastards.
And FYI: being able to toast just ONE piece of bread is about as useful as *'titties on a boar. (*taken from "Brad's Big Book Of Exasperated Hillbilly Sayins")

- As a cooking disable person, I especially appreciate sayings like "Just Add Water" on food products. (Krusteaz Pancake Mix, how I love thee.) If only more things were this easy and user friendly. I'm anxiously awaiting "The Jetson's" house that will take my messy living room, fold it up, tuck it under and pop up an identical but neater living room in its place with the push of a button. Heck, I'm not picky, how about an electric shock administered to the hubby when he "misses" the toilet. Useful AND entertaining!

- Whenver I'm at KFC, I am tempted to order just a big bag of "batter crispies" with a side of gravy. Why yes, I AM a picture of health and wellness.

- I was watching another reality show called "Cheerleader Nation" or something like that. A teenage girl on the show told her mom in an exasperated manner that she 'NEEDED' a cell phone. I automatically thought, "HA! You don't 'need' a cell phone, back in my day we used to write notes and fold them into swans!" Then I realized I'm at a point where I even HAVE a "back in my day" story and waited for my hip to give out.

- I'm disturbed by my growing attraction to Hulk Hogan. That fu manchu moustache, doo rag and fanny belt he wears makes me feel funny inside.

- List of people who should be spade or neutered. Someone alert Bob Barker.
1. Courtney Love
2. Anna Nicole Smith
3. Jerry O'Connell (this guy is bEYOND annoying.. what is he drugging Rebecca Romin with??)
4. Howard Stern. I'm afraid he and his girlfriend would create this wierd blond praying mantis creature. (Shannon, digiscrap that image for me please...)
5. Star Jones and her gay husband, because an African American Elton John is something the world is not ready for.
6. Bob Saget, I can't even believe a guy this cheesy exists. What a Saget!
7. Carrot Top. Is an explanation really necessary? From the looks of things though, I'm afraid that he's going to start procreating with himself.
8. Jessica Simpson, because I'm seriously afraid that her dad will do the honors. ewww.
9. Paris Hilton, again, explanation not necessary.
10. People with Mullets

- Dontcha' hate people who tell you to "go outside and experience life" blah blah blah. Newsflash, 'outside' will still be there after I get off the Internet and watch all my reality shows that I've Tivo'd. Now leave me alone. I like looking pasty and gaunt.

and finally, an essay queston for the weekend:

Can YOU smell what The Rock is cooking?
What's he been cooking this whole time?

Please note that you will have two minutes for each question.

GO!

Whorebags will get SLICED.

So I get this email from my "supervisor" whom I don't particularly like and it goes something like this....

Hi Elaine,

Don't forget we still have to schedule a day for you to train for the blah blah (work talk) reports and we also have to schedule you a ride along with one of the investigators too.

Thanks,

Whorebag.

*************************************************************************
Whorebag,

Is there anyway I can do my ride along and training on the same day? That way I can just knock it all in one day. (IE; which means I don't have to have my aunt babysit for two days, instead of one AND I don't have to do the hour and a half drive to the office TWICE.)

Thanks!

Elaine

***************************************************************************

Elaine,

That's fine. We'll train on blah blah day and afterwards you can go with blah blah for the ride along.

Thanks,

Whorebag.

Great. It's all settled right? Then I get this email AFTER I already told my aunt what day I need her to watch Maddy:

Elaine,

Is there anyway we can just do this on Monday (another coworker was coming in that day to train for the same thing)? You can just do the ride along when there's one in San Diego (it doesn't really MATTER if the ride along is in San Diego as I would STILL have to get a babysitter! and what was the reason for this change of heart ask???? keep reading..) I would just rather do it with both of you at the same time and blah blah here so I don't have to train TWICE.

OH I'm SORRY Whorebag! Am I inconveniencing YOU??? OH DEAR ME, I didn't realize that I wasn't bent over in front of your dildo with no lube. Here. See that? I'm ready to take what you got and HARD because I live my life just so as not to inconvenience YOU, you TRIFLIN', BITCHY, TWO FACED, MICROMANAGING, NO PERSONALITY HAVIN', BROWN NOSER, SUCKIN' THE BOSS' DICK 24/7, WHOREBAG!!!

Okay, phew! Sorry, I had to get that out. This blog is THERAPY to me, so truly, I'm sorry you had to see such ugliness, but hey, you know what you signed up for comin' over here. There's more than meets the eye to my rage over whorebag but seriously, that email took the cake with me. I thank God EVERYDAY that I work at home because besides the fact that I can raise my girl and work in pajamas, if I had to deal with whorebag EVERYDAY, she would have been chopped into pieces and ground up into my doggy's food bowl. The first time I met her my "shady bitch-o-meter" went haywire. Luckily, I had a different supervisor when I first started and she was the coolest chick EVER. Best supervisor I have ever worked for but she had a baby in the past couple months and quit working altogether, which I was fully supportive of. The downside is that the "Age Of The Whorebag" began shortly after.
Long story short, I emailed her back and told her that my aunt could not take the day off that she wanted and if it really inconvenienced her to "train twice" then she could kiss the fattest part of my ass. (in a professional, well typed out email of course).
This is what I got:

Elaine,

Tuesday's fine. That's fine.

Whorebag.

You bet your melted ice cream cone ass that's "fine!" Biznatch.

If I had to choose between bitchy co-workers and toddlers with the terrible two's, I will take the toddler EVERYTIME!
But again, this job really isn't THAT bad because I've had worse. FAR WORSE. SO FAR in fact, that my job right now is just a dot if you had a view of it from my old job....which happened to be IN "HELL, Inc." The only good thing that came out of "Hell, Inc." is that I met one of my bestest friends (Debi) whilst working for Satan HERself. (Yeah, sorry ladies, I have seen Satan and she's a moody biatch.) . I think one of the main reasons we're so close is the same reason why people who experience a tragedy together remain close. We met so many "characters" (homeless people, crack addicts, felons, gangbangers, prostitutes) in "Hell, Inc." because Satan just attracted them all. It was a telemarketing business, selling websites to small businesses. Debi was in charge of training and supervising the call center and I was in charge of creating the websites along with writing ad copy, quality control, customer service and manning the receptionist desk (for a whopping $9.50 an hour. CHA muther effin' CHING! oOOOKAAAY??? *****head roll, hand up****). Debi and I practically ran the place because Satan would be in her office eating puppies but sometimes (like twice) her other personality would take over and she would actually be semi pleasant. On these days, she would regale us with stories of riches and bling that we would be showered with if we were persistent and hardworking (ie: working overtime with no overtime pay, taking her shit, watching her eat puppies and little to no raises). She spoke of champagne wishes and cavier dreams, when, at best, she was offering Colt 47 wishes and pork rind dreams. Satan's minions would EAT THIS CRAP UP though and practically RUN to their phones after her Tony Robbinsspeech. The speech would get them rearin' to go up until they had actually made some money. You would THINK that now that money was coming in they would work harder right?? But nooooo, they would get a fat paycheck, call in sick for a week, spend all their money on crack, whores, gambling, or (insert life destroying addiction HERE______). Then they would come in the next week defeated and desperate. OR quit altogether and go back to their "Welfare" job. (I don't know what company "Welfare" is but apparently a lot of them worked for this institution. ) The turn around rate at that company was dizzying. We would constantly be hiring, training, firing and fighting with disgruntled employees. Debi and I even witnessed employees coming to work all tweaked out on crack. One girl literally looked like she had JUST came from a bar down the corner. At 7:30 am, she came trottin' to work wearing a silver disco dress, one strap hanging off her shoulder, eyeballs twitching and mascara/sweat smeared all over her face. She walked into the office at about one hundred miles an hour and spattered out fifty fast hellos in a span of 2.2 nano seconds. (Damn Debi, those were GOOD TIMES). Many a times, the cops were almost called because the employees failed to read the fine print of their job application (which stated that if they were fired or if they quite 45% of their check would be taken away just in case any of their orders fell through... Satan was a bitch AND a damn good con man to boot). We DREADED giving out the last paycheck to an ex-employee because WE KNEW that after walking out the door with their check, they would come running back in demanding to know where the rest of their money was. It wasn't just regular ol' "anger" either, it was a "I was gonna buy five dime bags of crack and now I can only buy one" type of RAGE. One time, Satan and her husband went on vacation and then PHONED Debi on payday to inform her that the callers wouldn't be getting their checks that day and that they would have to wait until next week. To this day I don't know how Debi did not shit her pants right there on the spot when she had to tell felons, crack whores, gangbangers and prostitutes that they wouldn't be able to feed their habit that weekend. We literally had to let all the callers out of the office that day and then lock ourselves in until they all left. In fear that we would get shanked while walking out to our cars.

Point being.......um.. wait.. what was my point? OH yeah, I guess compared to THAT, whorebag isn't that bad...and the fact that being a stay at home mom is the BEST. JOB. EVER.

Screw the office.

Viva la SAHMS!!

When I grow up, I want to take endless naps......

Dream job at 10: Scientist
Dream job at 13: Army
Dream job at 16: Actress
Dream job at 23: Travel channel talk show host
Dream job at 29: The first ever rock and roll Accordi0n player. ("Polkadonna" I'm still working on this I swear)

...notice how the jobs went from pretty reasonable to totally ridiculous as I "grew up?" that's because I think I've slowly figured out that working sucks hairy donkey balls and working for someone else is about as satisfying as hitting yourself with a bag of hammers...in the conch. Yeah, I work for someone else NOW but that's only because I get to take care of the munchkin AND work in my pjs. Otherwise, it would have been rock and roll stardom already.. accordion STYLE! Plus, that whole hogbull about wanting to be a "scientist" at 10 was because I thought being a scientist meant that you mix crap up in test tubes and watch them fizz over. Little did I know that was the path to creating a meth lab.

Actually, I'm quite surprised that I don't have body parts hidden in my floorboards right now (although there are some people at work who are vying for that honor). I stumbled on my early attempts at story writing from 6th grade. I was digging through some old shit when I saw a big red 'A' scrawled across a paper I had written. Wanting to see what genius I had spewed at such a tender age, I reread my paper (plus I was looking for an excuse to pat myself on the back, even though its kind of hard with stubby midget arms....) It was called, "The Answer is Blowing In The Wind." I can tell you right now that I had no idea who Bob Dylan was in 6th Grade, I just know that Elise Keaton sung a beautiful rendition of it on an episode of "Family Ties." The title sounded kind of pretty until I kept reading. The story was about a boy that gets picked on at school. While walking home depressed about his lot in life, a piece of paper hits him in the face. He looks at it and it says, "The Answer is Blowing in the Wind." Suddenly, he driven by an unseen force to build a robot in his basement, complete with razor sharp implements for some slicin' and dicin'. The robot then goes on to kill the bullies that picked on him and whoever else decides to pick on him. (heads being sliced in class, blood spurting on classmates clothing, the little boy doing the evil "mua ha ha" laugh.. this story was CHOCK full of CRAP that was seriously disturbing and entertainingly descriptive.) Consequently, the little boy gets drunk off his power and the robot goes on an uncontrollable killing spress, turns on him and kills him at the end. I described how his brain sounded as it hit the floor, how it resembled cottage cheese after the robot ran over it... nice. The end is of another little boy in another little town, getting hit in the face with the bob dylan posessed piece of paper, getting the robot buildin' urge and causing more carnage to those who dared screw with him.. (I left the story open to a sequel which I knew was good for book AND movie sales.)

I was quite a charming little 6th grader wasn't I?

other random musings just to fill up blog space....

*Is there pain like the pain that one experiences when one stubs ones little toe on the corner of a coffee table? It literally renders you speechless. You can't scream, you can't move, you just bite your lip and shed a tear. It hurts the soul.

*It is truly a shame that guys in my high school didn't look like Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles.

* I can eat bags and bags of Salt and Vinegar chips until my lips are white and my tongue has salt burn on them. Why? Because chips that smell like feet gets my stomach a' growlin.

* Instead of just sayin, "gross, there's bird poop on the windshield" my husband says:
"Did you know that birds poop their pee? Yeah, they don't have a regular urinary track so the green stuff is poop and the white stuff is pee."
me: "okaaaaay.... thanks?"
husband: "that's gross huh? you KNOW another bird that gross?? The blah blah blah......."
then he talks about some bird that pees on itself to keep itself cool.
Aaah, my husband. He just oozes poetic songs doesn't he?

* When my husband hacks a loogie, he lovingly calls it "Lung Butter." Again, the charm..it just OOZES.

...aaaaand I'm spent............

Spank it.

The Joyce Dewitt Phase

As most of you know, I'm growing my faux hawk out because I'm over my "straight but looks lesbian" hair fad. My hair has now officially reached "Joyce Dewitt" phase. I don't really mind really since I think Joyce Dewitt was the best "Three's Company" roommate ever. I think I might even don some super short blue shorts and a terry cloth top with no bra. (right) Damn I love Three's Company. (R.I.P.: Don Knotts. I'll miss you Mr. Furley.) I feel somewhat old knowing that TWO castmates from my all time favorite t.v. show are dead. What's up with that? Jack Tripper and Mr. Furley are suppose to be immortal. If Joyce Dewitt kicks to bucket, I'm going to need therapy.

* So the Oscars came and went. (yay Reese and damn you George Clooney for being so orgasmically charming..). I seriously need to stop watching the Oscars every year because that "L.A. Actress" part in me that I bludgeoned to death with my reality stick rises from the dead. I get this silly idea to just "give it one more shot." Forgetting the fact that every time someone says, "thespian" I have the urge to say, "Oh no, I'm straight...." AND that I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a needle dipped in tabasco sauce than go to another audition. (Cast of characters from my last audition:
-90 pound girl cheerfully regaling me with stories about her rapant bulimia,
-wierd yoga guy twisting himself into a pretzel in the corner of the room going "ommmmm",
-40 year old man asking if his "hair plugs" are noticable. I didn't have the heart to tell him his head looked like a corn field.
- metrosexual male spouting out his "impressive' resume to anyone that would listen.)
No thanks. But what about that Dolly Parton huh? How bout' them hooters?! Sure she may be sixty but the hugeness of her boobies never gets old.

* My Slim Fast Testimony:
Dear Slim Fast, Last week, I had reached a plateau in my weight loss and the needle on the scale was being a stubborn bitch, refusing to move for weeks! I regretfully lost my temper and yelled at Billy Blanks to take his double punch combo and his lazy eye and shove it up his sweaty Tae Bo arse. Just when I was about to reach for that bag of pork rinds smothered in gravy, you came to the rescue. Sure you taste like sugared potting soil and whoo nilly! You sure do give me the "fast poopies" but darn it if you didn't get that scale moving in the right direction again. Thanks to you, I'm sharting my way to a better body! THANK YOU Slim Fast!"

I'm usually very nice to folks who come to my door pitching "their religion." I don't necessarily agree with the "door to door" faith salesmen but whatever floats your boat, I'm sure it helps out a lot of people... blah blah blah. Sometimes I even take the pamphlet and have a look-see (although they never answer that age old question of, "what exactly DID Jehovah Witness and why is he the only one privy to the information???"). Today was a different story. First a side note (or warning): NOTHING gets the steam rising from every crevice of my body than somebody interrupting Maddy's nap. Not only because her nap equals a much needed down time for me but put no nap and being TWO YEARS old into the equation and you get a TOTAL MELTDOWN, from her AND me. Messing with my girl's schedule is like messing wit my emotions!
Anyways, today I hear the door bell ring TWICE in the middle of putting my girl down for a nap. I ignored it. The doorbell rang again and the dog started barking. Thankfully, Maddy had already fallen asleep, but I was pissed nonetheless. I mean, if no one answers the door after two rings, GO. AWAY. I answer the door and there THEY ARE with their pamphlets. I didn't even let them get a word in edgewise before my head spun 360 degrees. I spewed bile on their shoe, turned green, breathed a cloud of smoke in their faces and growled,
"I'm BUDDHIST!!! ARGHTHREHGTHEL BPOGPO LDOLCUNGGFRRRRBLE!!!!"
Then I started speaking in tongues and they ran away.
Hmph. Some Buddhist. Go meditate bitch.

* Have I ever expressed my EXTREME hatred for "METROSEXUALS" yet? Yes? Well here's some more. If I see another metro with the studded belt, the brand name jeans, half tucked in shirt, plucked eyebrows and shiny hair that required a straightener to get it "just right," I'm going to reach in and revoke his fuckin penis and balls with one good yank. You're a pussy. So you don't get to have a penis. They're two seconds away from bending over anyways, so you gimme those nuts sissy man. God forbid all the real men get weeded out and the pussification of America goes into full swing by the time my daughter is of dating age. I'm going to have to tell her stuff like,
"You know, back in the day, men didn't share his jeans or hair products with you.."
DIE ALL YOU RYAN SEACRESTS OF THE WORLD. Take that lovely Dolce and Gabbana belt you're wearing, fashion a noose and kill yourself before you get a chance to BREED. OR rip out your own nuts and save me the trouble.


This has been a public service announcement.

Fear The Midget.

"When A Midget Gets Excited"
A poem by yours truly,

When a midget gets excited,its quite a sight to see.
A dancy jig of midget feet with shouts of joy and glee!
"Tell us little midget, oh why do you dance so gay?"
"Because I heard Madonna was going to play at Coachella today!"
Oh my word, that IS big news, whatever did you do?
"I plunked down all my cash for tickets, because I am a stalker, true!"


Within minutes of the announcement, I bought tickets to the music festival and booked my room in a blink of an eye. My plan of attack is simple: show up early and take down big giant gay men who dare park their Brazilian waxed ass in MY SPOT. WHICH IS IN THE FRONT. Back up bitches and fear the midget.(Oh and afterwards, Brad was greeted at the door with howler monkey-like screeches and the midget jig {see poem above}. Is he the luckiest man in the world or WHAT?!?!?)

Onto other news......

* My neighbors are officially tapdancing on my last nerve. Last I checked, the laundry room does not say "Welcome Entire World! Do your Laundry HERE!" Yet, EVERY week, these bastards bring an entire country's laundry to be washed at our laundry room until the wee hours of the night. I guess the laundry door must also be slathered in bacon grease because it seems to slip out of their hands and close with a thunderous bang everytime they go in there. Oh and to add to their fine smurf blue decor they also decided that it would be a good idea to build an outdoor patio ..... with particle board. It peeks out at us every morning and says "Hi! I'm here to bring the market value of YOUR condo way below what you purchased it for. Have a nice day!" I wonder if they are aware that they live next to a hillbilly gun collector who foolishly taught his wife how to shoot a Magnum BFR with frightning accuracy?? Again I say, Fear the midget! >:D

* Just saw a preview for "The Hills Have Eyes." Before seeing it, I shrugged it off as the usual "scary" movie with a pretty enticing title, but nothing to back it up. But after seeing the preview, I sharted myself (and since I go commado, it made for a horrible mess). In a nutshell, it's basically backwood rednecks dipped in toxic waste who harasses an innocent family passing through town. Its so disturbing, I might have to add it onto my Netflix list when it comes out on DVD. (because let's face it, being parents means its a Netflix night, EVERY night. I REFUSE to get anal raped by a 14 year old babysitter who charges 15 bucks an hour to babysit.) Afterwards, I'm sure I'll be double checking the toilet at night to make sure that no radioactive rednecks gnaw on my ass for a midnight snack. (the only redneck that can do that with no consequences sleeps right next to me.) I just NOW got over the stupid Chinese meowing boy from "The Grudge." Damn you meowing boy.

* Riss mentioned this on her blog and I had to make additional comments on the grossness that is the "Diva Cup." I recycle paper, I recycle cans, shoot, we're even planning on buying a Hybrid car in the future. I'm as concerned about the planet as anybody out there; HOWEVER, I draw the line at washing my "menses cup" right along with my dishes to save the environment! Tree huggers everywhere, please STOP. Stop it right now before I have to shove your dirty Birkenstocks up your arse. Having your period is inconvienent enough without having to excuse yourself from dinner to empty your "diva cup." And nice try on naming it so eloquently but let's call a spade a spade shall we? "The Bloody Bowl" sounds more appropriate. Really, if you're going to be gross enough to introduce this product, have the balls to back it up with a realistic name so we know what to expect.

* My Elvis obsession is officially out of control. Yes, I love ELVIS. I said it, so there! I love him so much that I still get the shivers when I see him performing on the Ed Sullivan show from the 50's. That man was beautiful, regardless if he got fat and disgusting in the 70's, the majority of his life, he was HAWWWWT. rowf! To honor the gorgeousness that was this man, I've decided to dedicate the decor in our half bathroom downstairs to Elvis. (totally appropriate since the man died on the pot). I have recently purchased a set of Elvis bathroom accessories (Elvis toothbrush holder, soap holder AND cup) and I'm currently browsing ebay for Velvet Elvis' paintings and a velvet toilet seat cover. Yes, my gawdiness knows no bounds. But since the rest of our condo looks decidely "adult" ..(snore")..I have to get gawdy somewhere so the half bath it is! (Again, the hubby shakes his head in disbelief and scans the marriage certificate for some kind of 'Elvis/Madonna obsession" clause from which he could then escape the clutches of the midget. Sadly, no such clause exists! MUa ha ha ha!!!)

That is all. Class dismissed. Have a great weekend!

PART THREE: Go Snow GO!...no seriously, GO.

(Haven't read the carnage that led to our second wedding? well catch up already!! )
Part One
Part Two

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You are cordially invited to our second wedding.
Location? Missouri.
I can hear you all in unison screaming in my ear: "DEAR GOD WHY !?!?"
To try and explain WHY we thought Missouri would be a good location would fall on deaf ears because I myself, can't believe we CHOSE to do that. But at the time, we were doing it for family (mostly Brad's). My family is more than willing to travel anywhere because that's how we roll... Brad's family on the other hand.. well, not so much. Plus his grandparents were HIGHLY unlikely to attend if we had had it in California and Brad really wanted them to be there. So Missouri it was. Le Sigh.

Date: January 2nd, 1999
Again, explanation is very much needed because why oh why would anyone get married RIGHT AFTER New Years day where, most likely, we'd be knee deep in snow? You can blame this one on the Navy. Brad had the possibility of being stationed in Washington at the time so we had to rush the second wedding. Okay, we could have ..you know...... WAITED! .....but back then, had you told me about patience being a virtue, I would have replied, "Patience? What is this patience that you speak of??? Now get outta my way, I gotta wedding to fuck up!"
We could have moved to Washington and had the wedding after but remember, my family did NOT know that I was already married and would have had 500 baby cows if I had moved to Washington with Brad. (Now that I think about it, my parents shooting baby cows out their ass would have totally been worth seeing.. but there I go, digressing once more...is 'digressing' even a word?...whatever, moving along...) and finally, the biggest blunder of our wedding day...my wedding dress.

No one has seen my wedding dress after that wedding and no one will. You won't see sweet pretty pictures posted on this blog with me in my wedding dress, its not framed and lovingly hung with care in my home, in fact, I have not allowed my brain to even think about my wedding dress til' this very moment. If you accidentally stumble into my storage area and get a glimpse of this elusive"wedding dress"... I'm sorry, but I would have to rearrange some items in my storage area for your body.

My wedding dress is a whole other blog post in itself but I'll try to make a long, disasterous story into a short, albeit still painful, paragraph.

I got my dress made by a friend. She had made beautiful dresses before and in fact, had went to college with me for her Fashion Design degree. I told her the type of dress I wanted, which was similiar to that wedding dress in "November Rain" where it was short up front and gradually got long at the bottom.. not as foofy (Hey, midgets like to show leg any chance they get...) BUT my friend lived in Texas and was making my dress IN TEXAS, while I sat in California, hoping for the best. ( I KNOW. I was just ASKING for this wedding wasn't I?) I would call her every couple days or so and ask her how my wedding dress was going and she would say it was fine, going well, blah blah blah. I totally and completely trusted her. She had sent the dress to me in Missouri two days (yeah, TWO DAYS) before my wedding, so there I was, expecting a package in the mail.

Only a "package" never came.

Instead a Fed Ex cardboard envelope greeted me.

I thought.. okay, maybe this is the train of the dress? Maybe I have to put it together?
Nope.
It was THE dress.
It looked a lot like a white cheerleader's outfit.
No train. No anything. It was short. The end.
Crap.

I stood there with my mouth opened for hours. My poor best friend, who was also at a loss for words, was trying her best to make it seem better but all that came out of her mouth was, "bluh?"
Thank GOD that my sister in law, Sandra, was there. We made a quick trip to Wal-Mart, she got some material and "fashioned" me a train to cover my boody. (No I couldn't buy another dress because the mall was an hour and a half away and the roads had turned into an ice pop). It wasn't the best but at that point, she was Mother Teresa in my eyes.

The day of the wedding comes and my mom was not pleased with my dress; however, she could tell by the look in my eyes that this was not the day to fuck with me. I was beyond "not pleased" ...I was mortified. Brad looked great in his Navy uniform and me, well, I looked like I was going to break into a spirited wedding cheer. (I DO! I DO! Yeeeees, I DO! HOORAH!) So we got hitched again with friends and family and oh.. did I mentioned that whilst wearing my cocktail cheerleading uniform, it was -2 degrees outside?? Yeah. I couldn't feel my ass for 3 years. The wedding was quick but nice. I did double backflips down the aisle, led the audience into a rousing cheer and then took our vows ... (shhhh, for the second time). It WAS nice to share that moment with my family, Brad's family and my best friend, who was currently going to college in Mexico at the time and had come all the way to Missouri to be my maid of honor (Thanks boody!). I forgot all about my shotty wedding dress and treasured the moment..........

Right. Who the hell am I kidding?! The whole time I was taking my vows, I was wondering if Brad's grandma had a nice shot of my ass from where she was sitting! So lets wrap this shit up.

Yes, both our weddings sucked big hairy balls! (I wrote to Oprah about possibly giving us a third dream wedding but that bitch won't return my calls and really....a restraining order Ms. Winfrey?? I think someone is overreacting.)
Yes, we could have waited.
Yes, yes yes, we SHOULD have waited.
Yes, we should NOT have planned the wedding around what other people wanted.
Yes, we SHOULD have had it on Sunset Cliffs, where Brad proposed.. that would have been romantic as shit...sniff sniff...
Yes, a thousand times YES, I should have braved the icy roads and gotten another dress.
Yes, I KNOW I should not have had the wedding dress made by someone three states away.
I know, believe me I KNOW. Yeah, yeah yeah. We're stupid.


BUT if I told you right now that we were planning a THIRD wedding, I bet you guys would all line up to go just to see what we'd fuck up huh???


That's what I thought.


Sadistic bitches.


.....now go lick your fingers off, you've got Cheetoh crap all over them!

PART TWO: "Easy Bake Wedding"

So it was decided! Brad and I were off to Las Vegas in his beat up Mustang with his friend Woody as our witness. It was during a Fourth of July weekend, meaning it was hot as balls. Our drive over there was one of the single most unpleasant experiences I've ever had in my life. As we approached the "lovely" Mojave dessert, with all it's grandeaur of nothingness, Brad's car began to look as if it was going to overheat, so OFF with the air conditioner and DOWN with the windows. It felt like I had stuck my face in the devil's hot ass, but we had no choice. Put the windows down and get dried up like beef jerky or put the windows up and sweat it out like a whore in church. Jerky it was! When we finally got to Las Vegas, we were dusty, grumpy and hungry. Thank you God for the freezing cold casinos and the $ 1.50 rib eye steaks. After eating and drinking about a gallon or two of water, we had the other difficult task of finding a hotel on Fourth of July weekend. (Did I mention that we were YOUNG, STUPID and BROKE???) Luckily, we found a "motel" off the strip. ONE ROOM, for all THREE of us. On the way up to our room, we had to duck a few bullets and kick off some crack addicts that were climbing the banisters. The room had two luxuriously lumpy queen "beds" (pretty much mattresses on wooden pallets) and the bathroom had very decorative artwork! (there was a handprint on the wall that was either done with paint, blood or poop, we all said paint but oddly enough we didn't come within 10 feet of the "art".)
The next day was our wedding day! Fourth of July! Even though we didn't really consider it our "real" wedding.. this was pretty much going to make it official and FOREVER. We wanted to look semi-nice. However, when we stepped outside at 8:00 am, it felt like an easy bake oven.!
115 mother bloody degrees!!! So, the nice outfits stayed nice (inside our suitcases) and we decided on these outfits instead:

I know what you're thinking:
STRAIGHT UP MOTHER EFFIN PIAMPS!

We basically ate breakfast, went to the courthouse, signed our names in blood and got married at "The Chapel By The Courthouse." Coincidentally, the courthouse was named "Courthouse By the Chapel."
Okay, no it wasn't.
It should have been.
I digress.

We decided to walk around Las Vegas before going home. (cough cough.. pivotal point in the story.. cough cough) While we parked at one of the casinos, Brad noticed why his car appeared to be overheating on the way there. There was a leak in the radiator but it didn't seem like anything "Stop Leak" couldn't handle. So we bought it, put it in there, leak appeared to be gone. Unbeknownst to us, Woody who had been "sharing the car with Brad at the Navy base noticed the leak a few MONTHS ago and just kept putting "Stop Leak" in it instead. He promptly forgot about the leak up until then but was too afraid to tell Brad that most likely, there was a gaping hole in the radiator.
Just before it got dark, we headed home.
Well, we tried.
We didn't even go 60 miles before the car's temperature needle hit the "holy shit I'm hot" red mark. The car was seriously overheating. We pulled over at a nearby construction site and pondered our situation. Thankfully there was a security guard nearby and he let us know that the construction supply manager was on the premises. He could probably get us some more Stop Leak from one of their supply rooms, which would probably get us as far as the next gas station.
Phew right?
Wrong.
The supplies manager: 1000 years old.. and SURE, he had the keys to the "supply garage" alright....somewhere in his 75 pound keyring, which had about 500 random keys. About 4 years later, he FINALLY found the supply room key.
Phew again right?
Nope. Lady luck was being a drunken bitch to us on this night and was passed out in her own vomit somewhere at the Bellagio Hotel.

Moses comes back from the supply room with PEPPER. No Stop Leak as promised because he "couldn't find it" so he just got us pepper.
Thanks jackass.
Which, technically, you could stop a small radiator leak with pepper. But in our situation, we needed at least a jar of pepper to go anywhere. But noooo, he gave us tiny, miniscule, atom sized packets of pepper.. the kind where you have to use four packets to see if you even HAD any pepper on your food.
Desperate, we got a styrofoam cup and started ripping those babies apart, collecting whatever pepper atoms we could into it. (Meanwhile Moses had wished us luck, gathered up his tablets and continued to lead the Jews into the Mojave) We got about one small handful of pepper, which was about as useful to us as a handful of shit. But we put it in there anyways and decided our best bet was to go back to Primm, Nevada, which was about 15 miles from where we were. Thankfully, most of the ride was going downhill. and we got to Primm on pepper, sweat and sheer momentum. Once we got there, it was pretty late and there was really nothing we could do but stay one more night. I DID mention we were broke right? Brad and I spent our "honeymoon" sleeping in the car. Woody in the passenger seat, Brad in the driver's seat, yours truly in the backseat. A cozy little family we were.
Nothing could POSSIBLY go wrong right?!?! What could possibly go wrong?!?! We were sleeping, we were safe in an RV/Trailer parking area of the casino. It should be all good right?

AAH, but you know better than THAT by now.

So we were all sleeping, exhausted by the crazy day we had. Feeling kind of nice since the temperature had dropped down from 115 to 90 degrees, with a light breeze going through the car.

Yeah, we were feeling good until .....

It began to RAIN. (I swear I CANNOT make this shit up...)

Not just sprinkle sprinkle spit spit piddly rain.. but buckets and buckets of water POURING into our vehicle! We attempted to roll up the windows, but oh wait.. we need the keys to turn on the car so the automatic windows could work BUT....

WHERE ARE THE KEYS?!?!?!

All three of us were scrambling around the car looking for the elusive keys and we could NOT find them. We finally had to resort to holding up our blankets against the windows lest we drown in the car. First Moses and the thousand keys and now, Noah's Arc. I half expected some locusts to swarm the car and fly us over a cliff.
When the rain finally subsided (thank God it was a wierd flash flood thing and only lasted for about 10 minutes), we were still wondering where the keys where. Woody thought that maybe we dropped it somewhere near the trunk, since that's where we were last when we got the blankets out. As soon as Woody jumped out of the car to check....
Clink!
What the?!!?!?
Clink! clink! clink!
"Woody, that sounds amazingly like there are keys in your pocket. Are the keys in YOUR POCKET!?!"
"ummmmm.....no?"
(he made a sad attempt of sneaking the keys out of his pocket and dropping it on the ground!)
At this point, Brad started chasing Woody around the car vowing to use his head as a hood ornament.

I was in the backseat, laughing so hard that I almost peed my pants.

Woody survived with his head still intact. It was 2:00 am at that point and Brad was too tired to chase him around the car for the 5th time, so he lucked out. The next morning, Woody called his mom and had her wire some money to him. We ate some food, got a makeshift shower in one of the casino bathroom, bought a new radiator for the car and went home.

Yep. That was our FIRST wedding. Our second wedding (with the family, church and the whole big tadoo) would OF COURSE be better than this one right?

Ahhh but you know better than THAT by now....

TO BE CONTINUED...................

"I Thought You Said We Were Going To Get Ice Cream?!?!"

Inspired by Alyson's engagement anniversary post, I felt the need to document my own personal story; however, just prepare yourself. Whilst Alyson's story is full of love and covered in a sweet candy shell, mine is equally full of love but covered in bright orange Cheetoh dust.

Let's open the bag shall we??

Rewind to me graduating from college and attempting to get a job near Brad because, let's face it, he's hot and when a midget scores you, we clamp on like a dirty leech. A couple weeks before I graduated I was visiting Brad in San Diego and he suggested that we should go get some ice cream after an early dinner and go to Sunset Cliffs to watch the sunset. This was a usual date for us as we were young and broke, so it didn't set any bells off. But there was ONE mistake on Brad's part. He mentioned ice cream. FIRST. So when he pulled up to Sunset Cliffs, I panicked, thinking that he had forgotten about the ice cream. I sweetly reminded him that we should go get some ice cream first THEN go to Sunset Cliffs. He brushed me off and said, "We'll get it afterwards." My head went into a tizzy.
"Um, but you said ice cream... excuse me.... ahem... a thousand pardons sir.. you did say, OUT LOUD, ice cream FIRST. "
Way to kill the romantic mood yes?
He finally shut me up when we walked out to the cliffs and I noticed he looked like he was going to vomit and laugh hysterically at the same time. Bent knee precariously on the edge of the cliff, ring presented, enthusiastic yes, kiss kiss, hug hug, take in the moment.... then of course, I pulled a Monica and yelled out into the ocean (and to others trying to have a romantic moment around us). "I'M ENGAGED!!! A WHOO HOO!" I should have also yelled; "Can you believe this guy is getting INTO THIS??? WISH HIM LUCK!!"
Fast forward a couple months later, I had just gotten a job at a modeling agency and was due to start in a couple weeks. Visiting Brad again, we were discussing what our living situation would be when I moved. I told him that I wanted to get an apartment BY MYSELF and we would live together when we were married. I mean why buy the Lucky Charms when you can get it from the leprechaun for free right? But I mostly wanted to do that because I had never ever lived WITHOUT boys. I wanted to live in my own apartment, have it smell CLEAN and, dare I say, "vanilla-y." I longed to look into a bathroom sink that didn't have a five o'clock shadow. I wanted a testosterone free home.. bad.. at least for a little while. BUT of course, money (or not having any) reared its ugly head. Brad jokingly mentioned getting married in Las Vegas in secret so that he could get an apartment advance from the Navy and we could save some money for the actual wedding, with him kicking down half of the rent. But then I thought.. what the hey?!? We're engaged anyways, what's it gonna hurt doing it a couple months early? (8 MONTHS early to be exact.. oh and did I mention that I hadn't told my parents that I was even engaged??? Basically my parents will always think I'm 8 and imagining the look on my mom's face when I told her I wanted to get married at 22 made my butt pucker.)

So off to Las Vegas we went!!!!


To Be Continued........................(damn, dontcha hate when that shit happens??)

Raisins are Grape Corpses and other troofs...

* Raisins ARE dead grapes. Its basically a grape with all its life dried out of it, yes? Enjoy your box of grape corpses and the grape elderly (the raisins with a little bit of plump leftover from their former life). I'll pass. (really I just don't like raisins... but that's the reason I like to give to people who question my judgement)

* Michelle Kwan's nose is NOT of Asian descent. I'm pretty sure she borrowed it from Walter Matthau.



* Batman is NOT a super hero. Superheroes, by and by, posess powers that others (humans) don't. Batman has no super powers. To avenge his parent's death, he donned a batsuit, made a belt full of nifty crimefighting stuff and enlisted the help of a 16 year old sidekick, whom he dressed in rainbow colors. He's not a superhero. At best, he's a extremely agile mental case with "Brokeback" tendencies, in dire need of therapy.

* Vegetable feel pain! This was a eyeopening fact, brought up on Debi's blog:

"1) To Vegetarians, Vegans, Uber-vegans, microbioals, and raw eaters...
If scientists eventually prove that plants can feel pain in a different but just as significant way as animals, what will you eat? p.s. They are getting really close to proving exactly that."

I was so happy to hear about this study and I personally can't WAIT for this to happen. I would love to throw some cabbage trimmings on them and make signs like: "PLANT KILLER!" and "SALAD IS MURDER!". I reserve this to the most extreme of vegans of course, who push the vegan way of life as I try to eat my double bacon cheeseburger in peace. I have nothing against regular ol' vegetarians who just like to eat veggies.. eat up! and while you're at it, you want my broccoli? (ew).

* My right thumb bends wierd. Check it out:

What is up with that? My left thumb is extremely embarrassed and refuses to hang out with my right thumb. Can you blame it? (I know I'm convincing you people more and more than I'm a midget circus freak... oh and I KNOW you are loving the short nails and no polish look. I call it "lesbo-chic".)

* Midget circus freaks are cooler than you.

* Carrot Top is a scary woman and his date, Steven Segall is a douchebag.


* Women's farts stink. Men's farts smell more like a city sewage pipe has leaked into your house. Or someone took a fat dump in the middle of your living room.. either way, guys SCHMELL.

* Power Bars taste like wood shavings, glue and ground up aspirin. I'm eating it right now as a substitute for chocolate. Which is a lot like using a cow pie as a substitute for a pillow.

* Everyone in England looks like Mr. Bean.

* Everyone in France can suck it. (I'm specifically talking TO YOU Miss French Bitch with a foot long French bread up your ass. The conch who decided that sighing and rolling her eyes while I try to order my quiche (IN FRENCH) was proper customer service for Americans. Don't be hatin' on me because you're country is full of manginas, ready to bend over to whoever the dominant country happens to be! Just get me my quiche' biznatch and try not to get your armpit hair in it)

* The more errands I have to do, the more I feel the urge to blog.

* Anything in San Diego ending in "-berto's" means they have some damn good carne asada burritos that be talkin' to your other end about 2 hours later. (right Kim?) It's alright though. Metamucil has nuttin' on these burritos. Keeps a girl regular! OLE!

* It takes an average of 413 licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. No joke. Some "scientist" (ie: guy in his 30s who still lives with his mom and has decorative samurai swords displayed in his apartment/basement) conducted this study.

* .. AND finally, I like to shamelessly promote myself:

Buy a T-shirt from me ( more designs coming soon) or skip the formalities and just send me some good ol' cash. I promise that all proceeds will go to a charitable cause. (me).

Boo Effin Hoo!

Yesterday, I was watching the movie "Just Like Heaven" with Reese Witherspoon and as it came to an end, my throat was choked up and my tears were precariously hanging on to my eyelashes. If it was sad, it would have been one thing, but it was a "happy, how how sweet" tears that I was daring to shed! What the?!?!!?
I honestly don't know what's happened to me. Prior to having a child, I really wasn't that emotional, even for a girl. I didn't really cry at anything but weddings.. and I felt like a jackass even doing that. Having three older brothers meant that crying was.... well.. for girls. I wanted to be like my brothers when I was small, meaning I liked to cross dress way before it was even popular and crying was simply not an option. In fact, nobody in my family, including my mom, were very emotional in a "boo hoo" kind of way. (but emotional as in "I'm going to kick your ass, I need anger management classes" kind of way, yeah, we had THAT in the family, - HI DWIN! HI MOM!)
When I was a teenager, my emotions got the best of me from time to time despite my attempts at holding back the wrath of teen hormones. I remember my mom or my dad looking at me like I had grown a third eye during these crying fits. Anything triggered it. From talk of what I wanted for breakfast to my dad asking me to put some oil in my car. During these "episodes," they would ask me, "Why are you crying??" Not in a sympathetic way either, it was mixed with impatience, morbid curiosity and digust. A lot like when you find out your parents actually have sex. (EW, not they don't! ...immaculate conception, immaculate conception....) But I gave them a break. They are boy-friendly parents, when a girl was thrown into the mix, they didn't quite know what to do with me, especially when I turned into a teenager. The boys got acne- The End. I skipped the acne and instead, I cried over nothing, had an addiction to the phone, had a crushes on different boys every week, I needed a bra, I had my period, etc. etc. I'm sure if it was up to my parents, they would have preferred that I got the acne instead. But after teenage angst passed, I was back to my normal, butchy tearless self.
BUT NOW, I cry at everything! I'm not even exagerrating when I say EVERYTHING. Damn that Oprah, damn those sad breast cancer walk marathon commercials, damn that Sally Struthers and those poor starving kids, damn that animal police show, damn every chick flick movie ever made!!! DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! My tear ducts have opened and they won't stop leaking!!! I am now the prime target for people who are looking for "sponsors." Not that I'm against sponsoring, in fact, I sponsor a woman in Nigeria, But in this emotional state that I'm in, I'm bound to sponsor everything and everyone, until WE NEED a sponsor! Brad had to do some "tough love" on me the other day. He turned the channel on the t.v. because I was mid-dial to sponsoring a dog at the ASPCA. He did allow me make a small donation to ease my guilt for not saving every abandoned dog in America.
I'm secretly okay with being a crybaby, because its still a normal kind of crying.. more sympathetic and not like blubbering over things "that hurt my feelings" type of crap. And really, I was accepting my newfound tearfest as a good thing. BUT THEN I realized I truly had a problem when I kind of teared up during the last episode of "Beauty and The Geek." (YES, I WATCH the show. Spank it.) I'm sucking in every "don't judge a book by its cover" lesson that Ashton Kutcher is shoving down your throat but the toppers of all toppers is that one of the beauties actually fell for a geek (after his makeover of course.. which revealed that he was quite the hottie underneath his pocket protector). This week, one of them got eliminated so the lovebirds had to say goodbye to one another. Guess who was choking back the tears?

Someone help me.

Tube Steaks and Bitchy Cows.

I'm sure it's common knowledge to everyone that a guy will whoop out the jello jiggler if there is a remote chance that they'll be getting some poontang out of it. However, I'm here to tell you that this fact isn't ENTIRELY true. Back in college we (Hi Mary And Belinda!) learned that guys will whoop it out for ANYTHING even when sex isn't remotely possible. We stumbled onto our scientific project by accident, as we jokingly hollered at a couple guys to whoop it out for my friend Mary's video camera. When all SEVEN of them did it with no questions asked, we were intrigued and asked ourselves.."hmmm...I wonder how many..???"
The vast volume of guys that wagged the willy for a bunch of strange girls in a public place were astronomical .. even AFTER informing them that we were videotaping strictly for kicks and they weren't getting any ill nana from ANY of us. Guys STILL whooped it out with groups of their friends, guys whooped it out solo, guys we rejected earlier at the club whopped it out for us later, guys whooped it out even though their purple headed yogurt shooter were no bigger than my little finger! (you can actually hear one of us choke back laughter on the tape as one guy "amazed" us with his attached pencil). Mind you, all of our in-depth male studies were documented in public parking lots of a club or bar, but even THAT didn't stop them from yanking their chain. My friend Mary still has that infamous "documentary" somewhere in her house. Movie showings are usually reserved for bachelorette parties or pretty much anyone who asks about it.. shiiit, we're not picky.. it's not US on the tape! Plus the director's comments are well informed, scientific and funny as hell.

Onto another story...

I refuse to give biatches anymore "second chances." I'm specifically talking about this skank I used to work with in Satan's Den. From the FIRST minute I met her, she was a effin' conch..the kind that no Lord Of The Fly wants to blow.... But I had to work with the obnoxious cow, so I made nice. Despite being a condescending snatch, who wore her clothes five sizes too small, (much to the joy of all her co-workers who had to witness "the eclipse" when she bent over to file her paperwork SEVERAL times a day,) she had her moments of normalcy and I thought her bitchiness had a lot to do with working for Satan. So I gave her a chance. I thought, she might really be a nice person deep down inside. I went out dancing with her several times and it was totally embarassing for all parties involved, except her. Her "going out" clothes were worse than her work clothes. The best description would be a roast beef (her ass) with a band aid on it (her skirt). I'm not even exaggerrating on how big this girl was (topping 180 CONSERVATIVELY) and how little her clothes were (size 5's)oh and she was about 5'2 tall. The worst was she walked around like her shit did not stink and bitched about EVERYTHING.

"It's too crowded in here"...(duh bitch you're at a club)..
"I can't believe that guy talked to me...(I couldn't believe it either, did you EAT him? Where is he??) ..
"It's hot in here. I'm hot" (might have something to do with the human blubber coat you're sportin' there chickadee).."
I'm hungry" (like hell you say. YOU'RE hungry??? no way.) ...
etc. etc. etc.

But I gave her yet ANOTHER chance and let her tag along with my friends and I to watch No Doubt in Las Vegas. I knew it was a mistake when the first thing the conch said when we pulled up to the hotel was,
"Where's the bell-boy? I never carry my own luggage!" (she had two bags).
I told her "Welcome to Never, now grab your bags and quit bitchin!" AND THAT pretty much set the tone for the weekend. We tried to discreetly take her to the mall and "suggest" club attire, (IE: cover YO big ASS biatch).. but NOOOO, she had her quote "hoochie outfit" ready. It was such a terrifying sight that my brain is refusing to remember the horror that I witnessed. When all of us wore our comfortable clothes for the drive up, she wore a tight baby tee that afforded a view of her attractive dunlap flap coming out of her shirt for the four hour drive. Her jeans were so tight that when she took them off at the hotel, the side seam from the jeans had left a RED MARK down her leg. When all of us wore flannel pjs, she busted out her "Chrissy Snow" ruffle nightie that barely covered the roast beef. She bent down in front of Debi at one point and I think Debi's eyesight is just NOW coming back into focus. Salami fitting fashions aside, she was a queen sized bitch to everyone, INCLUDING my friends whom she barely knew, the hotel bellboys, maids, waiters (which pretty much means that she had her share of loogy covered dinners!) and anyone else that dared crossed her Orca ass. The topper of all toppers was when she ruined a perfectly awesome "No Doubt" concert by claiming that her "blood sugar" had dropped and she was feeling faint. Meaning, the lazy cow didn't have her regular cheesebuger fried in bacon grease in the past half hour so she was starving. So we had to RUSH out of the venue and get the stay puff marshmallow girl her lard IV lest she lose weight or something. Unloading her fat ass back at her barn after the trip was one of the best moments of that trip and a relief on my Jeep's shocks.
NEVER AGAIN with being nice to bitches! NEVAH EVAH!

Phew. This was suppose to be random blog.. but I got all caught up in memories of co-worker bitches and wagging willies. So typical.

" Green Acres is the place to be...."

I still don't know how this worked out...

Brad: Missouri country boy.
Elaine: Filipino city girl.

Brad: Would rather go camping with the "bare essentials," (knife and matches..seriously, he's gone camping with just THAT and had a better meal than I did at home..)
Elaine: Travel overseas and order room service all the live long day.

Brad: Prefers to stay home.
Elaine: What comes before part B??? PART-A!!! ...... babeee!!

Brad: Quiet and gets to the point
Elaine: Can sometimes be heard from space, prone to rambling about a whole lotta nothing, often sidetracked by glittery bright things within view.

Brad: Likes the Sci Fi channel and country music
Elaine: Likes to laugh at him for liking the Sci Fi channel and will listen to almost anything BUT country music.

Brad: Reads hunting/fishing magazines and westerns novels
Elaine: Reads celebrity trash mags and Stephen King

Brad: Longs to live in a log cabin in Alaska
Elaine: Longs to live someplace tropical where alcoholic drinks with cute umbrellas are abundant.

Brad: Logical, scientific, good with numbers.
Elaine: Observes the night sky for any UFOs flitting about and makes up full fledged, dramatic stories about random strangers at the mall.

On paper, it appears that were are SO NOT a match. In fact, had I met Brad during my high strung, obnoxious high school years, we really would not have gotten along. Only because back then, I was used to wearing the pants in the relationship and I was young, demanding, STUPID. Anyways, thank god I matured a bit and OH yeah, I got drunk enough at that bar to pinch Brad's ass. Okay, so meeting Brad was kind of a fluke. I had just gotten out of a long relationship and wasn't really looking to jump into another one. I hardly thought that the cute guy's butt I had pinched at that seedy bar in Tijuana was my future husband's! But here we are, 8 years strong and that butt is still as pinchable as ever. So in the spirit of amore' and Valentine's day, here's a list of why my husband rocks da house.

1. He is evidence that you can have brains AND brawn. A nuclear engineer (in the Navy) who is now a construction foreman because he refuses to be a "pencil pusher" (as he puts it) and still respects a sweaty hard day's work over prestige.

2. He's my hillibilly Emeril and short order cook. The man can cook up some grub! After a hard day's work, he washes his hands and cooks dinner for his daughter and kitchen disabled wife and enjoys every minute of it.

3. He wears the pants (yay!) but lets me borrow them on occasion.. for novelty's sake....

4. He is IN LOVE with his daughter. After having Maddy, he's decided that he wants all girls from now on. I love how they both greet each other when Brad comes home from work. She yells, "DADDY!!" he yells, "Baby!!" and they both give each other big hugs. Later, when Brad takes off his shirt, she demands to run around with her shirt off also, so she can be just like her Daddy.

5. His "Todai" dance, when we decide to go out for some sushi. I must tape it because he looks a lot like a polar bear..if the polar bear had the inclination to dance after gorging on a seal.....

6. He goes outside of himself to try anything and go anywhere, even though it doesn't come naturally for him. (he's from Missouri.. which doesn't really coincide with the word "change" and where driving a half hour to go anywhere is considered a long ass drive.)

7. How he embraces my family and our culture. He has an "Honorary Filipino" card in his back pocket... along with a dried up lumpia...

8. His smartass attitude and sacrastic sense of humor. I laugh hard at least once a day.

9. Play that funky music white boy. Brad's a dancing machine and isn't afraid to break it down when the mood hits him.

10. His bluntness.. which could easily be construed as rude. (I like to think he's just honest, but lacks a "subtle filter"). If there is an annoying person within hearing range, Brad, in a very no nonsense manner, will tell them to please shut the fuck up. Or my favorite saying, used primarily at his job... "if I want your opinion, I'll just ask, "hey dumbfuck, what do you think?" Seriously. He's just blunt. really. Otherwise, he's a super nice guy..

11. The man can build a building but can't call "Domino's" to order pizza. Seriously, he has like phobia about it. I'm the designated pizza order-er.

12. He has a slight case of social anxiety disorder but refuses to believe there is such a thing. I think its kind of funny/cute when he gets all stressed out about social situations and bites his
non-existent fingernails.

13. He picks out really good, romantic greeting cards. He doesn't write me poetic sonnets because somehow, he always find a card that says it all. Meanwhile, I pick the cards that are completely inappropriate and has the word "gyrate" in it.

14. He almost always manages to bring all the groceries into the house with just one or two trips. I don't know how he does it but I think he could work for a circus somewhere.

15. Babies love Brad and Brad loves babies.

16. How he is passionate and dedicated about anything he loves. Almost to a fault. For example, when the man fishes, he will wake up at 4:00 am and happily fish all day long, with no breaks. He's never been late for work and is usually the first one there, even when he had to drive two hours from L.A. to San Diego. (with working starting at 6:30 am).

17. He's secretly vain. At one point, he requested that I quit buying bar soap because he preferred the "loofa thingy" and liquid soap combo.

18. He can make gravy from scratch!! Okay, I know that's probably not a big deal but to me that's practically magic.

19. Brad's a do-it yourself-er. He can fix cars, build a bookcase and cook a lasagna. I know, I'm always referring to his cooking skills but as a self proclaimed food whore (what up Riss!), I can't tell you how lucky I got nabbing a guy who cooks. (otherwise it would be a toast and top ramen dinner every night!)

20. He takes excellent care of me when I get sick. One time he made me chicken soup (from scratch) and a grilled cheese sandwich, which he cut up into little squares so I could dip it into my soup. Seriously, this guy had me at ..."Hello..what do you want for dinner?"

I could go on and on but really, what I'm trying to say is:

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY BRADDLE BUTT! ;)




(hee hee.. to everyone else, feel free to call my husband Braddle butt when you meet him. He loves it. I swear).

Brown And Bubbly?

Did anyone else notice this campaign for either Coke or Pepsi (one of those two soda monopolies) ? It was "Brown and Bubbly." That was their "genius" advertising slogan to pitch to the American public during the Superbowl. Really? What drunk advertising executive came up with this slogan? It sure as hell doesn't make me think of soda. When I think of "Brown And Bubbly," I'm thinking of....

* The shit squirts. The kind that happens when you eat prunes and down a pitcher of Metamucil. Powerful, gut wrenching squirts, enough to lift a 300 pound man off the toilet seat and cause some spillage.

*Raven Samone. Because hey, let's face it, that girl is as bubbly as they come!

* Eating brownies, taking five shots of tequila and seeing what "brown and bubbly" concoction I can yak into the toilet bowl a half hour later.

* The dirt, puke, piss, alchohol MUD slush that accumulates on any given dance floor in Tijuana, Mexico. (not that I've ever BEEN, but I've heard stories......)

OH HELL who am I kidding!? Brown and bubbly reminds me of POOP.
Wet, watery, unapologetic poop.
It's hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact that someone got paid for basically describing diarrhea. Can I do that too? How about "yellow and warm"? Is there a product that could use that slogan? "Thick and bitter?" "Dry and crusty?" "Sour and creamy?" (That's a good one for yogurt!) I've missed my calling apparently. I could totally be an ad exec! I'm just shooting those babies right out of my ass as fast as I can type it!

Speaking of poop.. you know what makes me uncomfortable right down to the hair of my chinny chin chin? (it's okay, I don't have chin hair.. I wax.) Singers who sound as if they've been constipated for five years. Bruce Springsteen, Michael Bolton, Bryan Adams.. those types. Whenever they sing, you can see that vein in their forehead from outerspace. I think this type of "straining" should be reserved for heavy metal, punk or any "angry" type of music, because it fits the song perfectly. However, a love song and pinching a loaf should never resemble one another. I can't imagine being a girlfriend/wife to one these guys. Because YOU KNOW they've serenaded them at least once. I would be so incredibly uncomfortable if it were me. Because first, I hate being serenaded to. What's the proper etiquette for the "serenadee?" Sit there and smile? Can I sing along? Hum? What if you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the song? Can I check my email? Is it okay to read a book during the song? Can I make requests? Do I have to applaud at the end? I don't know! It's too awkward to have someone serenade you, let alone look like they're going to go dookie on your shoe while doing it. Serenading is only cool if you do it ala John Cusak with a boombox over your head, playing your love song of choice.

Did I just blog about poop?

Okay, I'm off to have a tall glass of brown and bubbly now! I bid you a DOO DOO.

(...damn..knowing when to stop was never one of my strong traits... )

B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

"Banana" is defined in the dictionary as a noun (the actual fruit) and a verb (crazy). There is however; another meaning for the word "banana" and today class, that is what we are discussing. "Banana" within the Asian/Filipino community can also describe one whom is of Asian/Filipino descent but "acts" decidedly Caucasian. (Bananas are YELLOW on the outside, WHITE on the inside, eh ? eh? learn somethin' new everyday dontcha?). This is a term I'm quite familiar with as it was brought to my attention in 7th grade, that I was a "BANANA." I asked around as to what a "banana" was and my brother finally enlightened me to my new moniker. I didn't really know where to go with this. Should I be mad? Offended? Should I "reevaluate" my relationship with my culture and my people???
I probably should have reacted in SOME way.. but honestly, what could I do? I couldn't change the way I "acted," I couldn't get all new, %100 Filipino enriched friends overnight, so I resigned myself to being a banana. Plus, the fact that those who called me a "banana" (behind my back mind you.. PUSSIES!) were Filipino sure, but born in Downey or someplace in the U.S. Technically, there were the REAL bananas. I was born in the Philippines (I at least had THAT under my banana belt!) and had the fortunate blessing of having parents who believed in that saying, "When in Rome..." I came to America, read a few books, made a few friends (I didn't even pick Filipino friends exclusively! Can you believe that?? I mean Filipinos were few and far between in Kansas, but I should have tried harder, I know.) and got rid of the accent.. I thought that was what I was SUPPOSE to do? DAMN IT. Why didn't anyone tell me that this was the path to being a banana?!? I had been duped.
I have tried numerous times to try and pinpoint the exact moment I started to unknowingly walked the Banana Path and really, there are a lot of things that could have done it. First, my parents. They never informed me that I should only hang out with Filipinos or to make Filipino friends. All they told me was to be nice, be polite and make friends. Good lord! They practically threw a banana suit ON ME! Shows you how much those two know! Second, I could blame my best friend Judy, whom I met in 2nd grade and is still my bestest friend. She was Hispanic and unknowingly introduced me to another culture, other friends of different descent and so on. I could also blame the fact that I am probably the only math retarded Asian alive and therefore did not have many classes with fellow Asian peeps, as I was too busy counting my fingers and toes in consumer math. I could blame Superman (Christopher Reeve) for looking so damn sexy in his tights and standing there with all his Caucasian glory, influencing me at such a tender age. I could blame so many things but I soon realized that being described as a potassium rich fruit wasn't the worst thing to be.
So whatever, I'm a banana. I guess I "act" Caucasian to some people.. whatever the hell that means.... I'm proud to be Filipino but why do I have to "act" a certain way or be friends with only certain types of people to convey that? I don't think I could do that even if I TRIED. I'm just being me and unfortunately, its a little too "Go Whitey!" for some people. I do need to brush up on my Tagalog (although my "Tag-lish" is EXCELLENT) and I COULD learn how to cook Adobo at some point since Brad likes it so much, (first I just gotta learn how to COOK). Otherwise, being a banana isn't so bad. It filtered out a lot of idiots from even crossing my path and I have met and gotten to be great friends with many people of all different races, which also meant being exposed to different types of FOOD.. and really, that's THE main benefit of embracing differences isn't it??? OH and like a true banana, I HAVE A BIG GIANT CAUCASIAN HUSBAND WHO COVERS EVERYTHING IN GRAVY. God Bless America!

So everyone, bananas and purists alike, let's all hold hands and sing:

"This shiiit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!"

See? Even Gwen Stefani wrote a song about me!

Scaredy Cat

I wasn't really planning on blogging until Monday because, to be honest, I'm a little scared that I am addicted to the internet. I just noticed that I could not escape the lure of my laptop. Everytime I passed by, it begged me to check my email (even though I had just checked it one nano second earlier), it begged me to go on ebay and search for stuff I don't need, it called to me from any room I was in, taunting me with possibility that this was the day that my Google Adsense finally generated so many clicks that I made enough to quit my job...it was scary, so I decided this weekend, I would lay off the internet. It almost worked except Brad and I had the brainiac idea to watch "The Grudge" at 9:00 pm tonight, knowing full well that we are a bunch of sissies that sleep with every light on in the house after watching a scary movie. So here I am, scared shitless, lights blaring and blogging so I can get that damn asian kid, that "meows" in dark corners, out of my head.. Oh and lets not forget his mom that "scuttles" down the stairs.
Damn I hate that shit! The best way to scare the living bejeesus out of me is to "scuttle." No scuttling!! Just back up with that scuttle mister!

A long time ago, Shannon had tagged me and I specifically held off on completing my obligations as a tagee for such a situation like I have tonight. Here we go and cross your fingers that after I do this, I'll be able to go to sleep AND turn off the lights...
I forgot the name of the survey, I'm pretty sure it wasn't "Foursome" because first, that's too obvious and second, well that's just too many people to have in bed with you. (Shut up. you KNOW you were thinking it when you heard "foursome!" Admit it! ........please don't let it be just ME, ......

FOUR JOBS YOU'VE HAD IN YOUR LIFE:
1. (first job ever) IKEA Ballroom Attendant. (do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT let your kids play in those bin of balls...when kids puke or pee in them, the janitor simply goes to the "area" of the mess, clean up the balls that are OBVIOUSLY stained and then run a mop through the rest of the balls...ick).

2. Modeling agent's assistant. IE: coffee go getter, Fed Ex package sender, faxer and everyone's bitch....)

4. Ad Copy Writer for Satan's den.

5. Editor for a P.I. company.

FOUR MOVIES YOU COULD WATCH OVER AND OVER:
1. Pretty Woman (Shannon, remember when we snuck into this movie and I said that the "old guy" ..Richard Gere.. was kind of cute for being old?.. we were such rebels)
2. Perfect Storm.....it has mind control over me.
3. Shawshank Redemption, cuz' the guy mucked through shit to escape.. that DESERVES to be watched at least twice!
4. Friday.. I know every line to this movie and I'm pretty SURE that Brad and I use at least one line from this movie every day.... so sad.

FOUR PLACES YOU HAVE LIVED:
Philippines, Kansas, Rowland Heights, CA. San Diego/Oceanside, CA. ( I specifically omitted Missouri because it was just like a long boring "vacation"before realizing "what the?" we're vacationing in MISSOURI, lets get out of here!!!)

FOUR TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH:
Friends, King of Queens, King Of The Hill, Family Guy

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON VACATION:
Several places in Europe, Rosarito, Las Vegas, Palm Springs - all involved some type of alchohol consumption and karaoke.. does it still count as karaoke if you sing loudly on the street while walking back to your hotel ? damn, I was such a lush.

FOUR WEBSITES YOU VISIT DAILY:
Several favorite blogs, The Superficial, Madonnalicious (shut up), Engrish.com

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS:
ONLY FOUR. Sheesh! Chicken Alfredo, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Orange Chicken and Biscuits and Gravy.

FOUR PLACES YOU'D RATHER BE RIGHT NOW; Italy, Hawaii, Jamaica, in yo momma....(sorry Riss, I had to copy your answer, I'm feeling unoriginal today... ;0 )


Okay, I think I can go to bed now .. but I don't know if I'm turning out that light.......

Working out SUCKS, but being chubby really BLOWS.

For almost two weeks now, I've been getting up at 5:30 am to put in my workout before Maddy wakes up. It sucks because all I really want to do is stay in bed a bit longer. But it must be done, because you know what sucks even WORSE? Finding a top you really like at the store, grabbing what you deemed to be "your size," and upon putting it on, you realize you bear a close resemblance to Jello ......stuffed into a condom. Clothes shopping usually ends for me right there. I then move onto something less proned to give me a heart attack. Book shopping at Barnes and Noble.

I've heard many people "poo poo" on my renewed vigor for working out. "You're not even fat!" Okay, true.. I'm just cornering on the chubby side. However, if I went by what people told me, I would never be "fat." I know how friends and family are.. they'll tell you you're not fat when you're wheeling yourself into the grocery store in one of those motorized scooters and your ankles start to resemble a side of ham. "Oh, you're not fat, you're just big boned."
Riiight. Big boned. Sure. With a whole lotta meat wrapped around it.
That's like saying a fart is just "air." Yeah, packed up against shit!
(Okay, so the two sayings have NOTHING to do with each other, but I just wanted to type that out.. hee. "packed up against shit" hoo boy.. that was rich! What? I'm funny. Shut up.)
Anywhoo.. back to the subject at hand.
I know it's up to me to give some tough love to myself when putting on clothes turns into a game of, "which outfit won't make me look like a potato??" ( Cue Jeopardy music ).

Plus, I'm short. Super short. So short that in Ohio or Utah or someplace, I would be considered a handicapped person (under 5'0"). I would be deemed worthy enough to park my car right up on Target's front door, depending if I could reach the pedals of my car to even make it there.
So let's look at that equation, shall we?
Super Short + Fat = OOmpa Loompa
Yeah. No thanks. That equation right there has me waking up in a cold sweat at 5:00 am.

Also, I remember fondly going shopping for clothes and not even trying them on because I KNEW they were going to fit. (although, shopping for clothes and NOT trying them on will never happen again since being pregnant shifted my legos around, some parts are just never going to be the same, even if I get back into shape.. ie: I have hips now!) Point being, I liked the freedom of being in shape. The freedom to just sit the fuck down and not worry if you're belly was sticking out too much, the freedom to get that cute bathing suit because it looks CUTE on YOU and not because it was the only bathing suit that offered enough coverage for your ass AND didn't look like a tent. More importantly, I want the freedom TO EAT. I know it sounds like such an oxymoron; getting in shape so you can eat. But when you're in shape you can AFFORD to eat. When you're an oompa loompa you're pretty much limited to cottage cheese with a side of potting soil. I love food and I want to eat dammit, what's the price for my love of eating? Sweating it all off afterwards of course. That way, I can be a clean slate when that basket of gravy covered, fried chicken strips dares cross my path.

Oh and what about health you say? yeah, that's nice too. But I'm not going to bullshit, I'm not old enough to "worry" too much about my health. Nothing is horribly wrong so I rarely worry about my health. I figure, EVEN if I work out for completely the wrong reasons, health is evidently going to be the bi-product of working out. So why sugar coat it? I'm not working out for health. I'm working out to up my hotness factor. MILF baby. Or as Shannon said, "SAHMILF baby!"

Finally, my main motivation lies in the fact that I'm going to be THIRTY this year.
(Hold on...gonna have to let THAT sink in..................phew......thirty.. wow............)
Anyways..if I don't step it up now, its just going to get harder and harder the longer I wait. Plus, how "milf-e" will I be if I wait and got in shape at 65? I'd be a GILF! Ew. There's a reason that GILF's don't exist.
Because... just, EWWW.
I promised myself no crash diets anymore either. I did that last year before going to Cabo and as satisfying as it was to see fifteen pounds shed off in two weeks, (although I was STARVING and was two seconds away from holding up a Krispy Kreme..."Gimme all your jelly donuts! make it snappy.. and throw in a few of those custard filled ones if you know what's good for ya!) it wasn't so satisfying when it popped its ugly 15 pound head on my stomach and ass about two days after I got back. AND it brought its friends a few days later, Mr. 2 pounds and Mr. 5 pounds.

I DO remain firm on my stance that working out sucks. I don't see how I could ever "love to workout" like some people do, because "I love to sleep and eat" a whole lot more. But I keep fighting the good fight because the "Working Out" card trumps the "Oompa Loompa" card everytime!