Mitchellaneous ramblings

I'm back, bitches!!!

2012-01-18T22:38:00.000-08:00

OK, by popular demand (3 people)...I'm blogging again.

Right now, I feel compelled to tell you all about things that annoy me. I'm not talking about Republicans, I'm talking about things that actually matter.

1. People who wear glasses all the time. Especially people who wear the same glasses all the time. I have exceptions. If you're a single mother of 5 and you have astigmitism, oh, wait. Never mind. I'm pretty sure you qualify for government assistance and can get free contacts, or at least a few different pairs of glasses to switch shit up.

If you're a somewhat famous comedian, or an actress who has been in a film or two, I feel like you could possibly divert a few dollars to some contact lenses, some different glasses, or, for fuck's sake, some LASIK. REALLY? You make thousands of dollars per film, somewhat amusing commentary on VH1, or crappy commercial. The fact that you wear the same damn glasses EVERY TIME tells me this. You built your fame and persona on the fact that you're a semi-attractive woman with a decent sense of humor and a vision problem.

That was your thing..I get it. But at this point, you've played the annoyed mom and the indie teacher/principal a few too many times. It's time to get off the props and show your tits. (Totally kidding, that's a whole different blog). Did Angelina Jolie stop at the blood sucking, kinda kooky, sorta lesbian but seriously hot brother kissing tramp persona? Nope. She moved on the the humanitarian/husband stealing/foreign babyknapping thing. Well played. Did George Clooney move on from the mulleted handyman on Facts of Life to the mulleted girlfriend smacker on Roseanne? I think he did.

The fact is, you gotta move on in your career, and you've got to move on in your life. I've seen regular people I know (props to facebook) in pictures from 30 years ago. Their hair, makeup, and fashion are totally different right now, but their glasses remain the same. WHYYYYYYYYYYYY??

And really, Johnny Depp?? That hobo cheap glasses look you sport whenever Tim Burton isn't in your closet isn't working. Take the glasses, the hat, and the fucked up accent off and stop fighting the hot.

My husband has glasses I call "the deal killers", "birth control", "Oh, thank God, I get to go to sleep without you harassing me", etc. He's an attractive man, but those glasses make him look like he's the bastard child of John Lennon, Sally Jessy Raphael,Ben Franklin, and John Denver. PS...that would have been a crazy night in a hot tub. No. That actually had nothing to do with this post, but needed to be mentioned for his own good.

Anyway, your glasses don't actually make you look smart. They make you look like an asshole. Glasses in 2012 should be an accessory (Justin Beiber, Zooey Deschanel, and Justin Timberlake, you're doing it right). They should not be your thing.

Glasses people...piss off. I'd rather watch the Kardashians.

2. (I remembered this was a multiple post...did you??)
Awesome. I'm exhausted from this one...but stay tuned for my next rant about you saying..."TOO FUNNY!!!!!!"

Seriously, I know how to waste time better than anyone. ANYONE!!!

2011-01-07T17:06:00.000-08:00

So that's supposed to be a link. Booze Free January is getting boring, so I'm entertaining myself with this little number. Let all the early to mid 90's angsty pop line up, Imma knock 'em out of the park. For reals.

I'm in Love

2010-11-08T17:22:00.001-08:00

My birthday is coming up, and my gift from my husband was a sodastream machine. He found out about his kind present about half an hour after I bought it.

I love this thing and little J and I are OBSESSED. I like to drink sparkling water but feel guilty about buying all the bottles, and then throwing them away. You know, landfills and all of that. Plus, I find it to be a giant pain in the ass to lug the bottles home.

So while I was at Bed Bath and Beyond today on a mission to buy a new teapot, I came across this beautiful little thing. It comes with a CO2 cartridge and you just fill a bottle with plain tap water (or filtered water, which we use at home), strap it up to the machine, press a button a few times, and you have bubbles. They have lots of flavors. I tried the diet root beer earlier today and it was delicious. The kid had some Mountain Dewish type thing and also their version of Dr. Pepper. As a mama I dig that the flavors are not made with high fructose corn syrup and no aspartame in the diet versions. I'm pretty much a health nut, you know.

Which brings me to my next point--never again will I have the dilemma of possessing a delicious bottle of booze but no mixer.

Life is pretty much complete.

Ohhhhhhhh, THE PAAAAIIIIINNNNNN!

2010-11-07T21:18:00.000-08:00

I live in a house full of males. My husband is a man. My stepson, who is 24, is male. My son is 11. He also contains the Y chromosome. And my sweet dog, Buddy? Yep. He's a dude.

I'm the only chick in this house. THE ONLY FEMALE. So, while I have to deal with bearing children, working harder than any man while enjoying less than 80 percent of his salary, PMS, mood swings, body issues (come on...a fat guy is funny, but a fat bitch is...well....a fat bitch), female issues that are something I don't care to discuss, and the total physical lack of ability, thereby, responsibility to control the television remote whilst a man is in the room, I can never really, I mean REALLY, understand the bane of the male existence.

You know what the WORST thing EVER is to a male member of my household? It comes to pass at the kitchen sink. Seriously. These guys go about their business on any given day, eating in the house using plates, forks, glasses, cups, knives, etc. They mill about the home with the full understanding that there is food in the fridge, freezer, and in the pantry. Some of it they went to the grocery store and selected themselves, but most of it was dropped into the house by a divine act of culinary mercy, apparently. They don't know how it got there, but they throw it in the microwave with the divine masculenity inherited from their caveman ancestors. Hunters and gatherers, these ones.

Then, in all of their brazen glory, they freeze. If I'm lucky, they walk their empty dishes over to the sink. In my 2003 style McMansion, the sink is placed RIGHT NEXT TO THE BLACK BOX. Now, you see, because I have mammary glands, I understand that the aforementioned BLACK BOX is a magical mystery to men. They know that dirty dishes go into it and then end up clean in the cabinet or drawer, but they really don't know how it happens, and they really don't want to.

After a day of church, volunteering at church, grocery shopping with an 11 year old, dropping Tylenol off at my husband's workplace because he didn't think to bring any with him even though his leg has been in pain for months, cleaning out a closet and two cabinets, doing two loads of laundry and working on three separate deals for my real estate business, I went over to my friend's house tonight to have some girl time, I came home to dirty dishes both stacked next to the sink and floating on top of the soapy water I used yesterday to clean the past day's dishes and the countertops that were splattered with proof that my carnivore husband cooked for everyone but his vegetarian wife. I asked why the dishes were there, stacked precariously, as if someone was trying to define his manhood by building a large precarious tower that could only be fallen by someone born with my genetics (read, vagina). I was told, "Well, the sink was full of water."

Yeah, what was that crazy ass sink doin' all plugged up with that strange good smellin' soapy stuff in it? Nonsense.

So why am I the crazy bad person when I walk around the kitchen for three minutes and forty seven seconds (damn right, I counted, bitches!) screaming, "OHHHH, THE PAIN!!!!!!" while I rinse off all the dishes and put them in the magic black dish cleanin' machine?

Are you fucking kidding me? I work. I have to pay bills. Lots of them. This used to be a job uniquely tailored to people bearing a penis. I checked...I don't have one attached to me. Someone tell me why I have to be the one given the stink eye when one of these males can't find a steak knife. Listen, Shaggy, Scooby, and Scrappy. You used them, I used them. You went to work, I went to work. There is this fascinating lever on the sink that is used (by me, clearly) to turn on a flow of clean water. There are two bottles of dish soap sitting on the counter next to the sink. There is a FUCKING DISHWASHER NEXT TO THE SINK! Put your shit in there, put one of the magical tablets under the sink into THE FUCKING DISHWASHER and turn it on.

Let it rumble around (you know, that sound that makes it hard for you to watch sports without the TV on full blast) and wait for it to stop making noise. Then, when it's done, open it up (handle is right at the top) and put the clean dishes in the places in which you are accustomed to finding clean dishes. That's right---it's not a 20,000 piece jigsaw puzzle. It's not a pricing game on The Price Is Right. It's not the eternal question of why anyone would ever watch The View. Nothing here is difficult other than exerting four minutes of effort. (For the eldest of you, pretend it's sex. But I'll be happier at the end.) (Just kidding. Kind of.)

Seriously. Take the clean dishes out of the magical black box and put the plates in the cabinet from which you remove plates when you need to put food on a transporting device. Take the forks and spoons out of that silly little dividing box and put them into the other dividing box from which you remove them when you want to eat your Ramen noodles or other culinary delights. Take the glasses and cups off the top shelf of the box and put them into the cabinet from which you remove them when you are parched.

I'm not the bad person here when I tell you all that you are lazy bastards. I only gave birth to one of you (and really? After 11 years? Other than driving and paying for your own gummy bears, you should be pretty solid on your own). I'm not your maid, and if I am, we need to have a SERIOUS discussion about the pay.

The moral of the story? If you need me to spell it out, you weren't paying attention. Go scratch your balls. The rest of you get it, I'm pretty sure.

A Tale of A Lazy Girl (aka, screw you Amazon.com)

2010-09-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

SO, about a year ago whilst drinking, I was watching television and saw the ads for Flirty Girl Fitness. It's pretty much stripper moves on DVD to get you in shape. When I got the first package, I excitedly ripped it open and popped into the DVD player.

I tried to follow along for about 10 minutes, and then realized that it took a level of coordination far above that which I possess. I gave up, but the DVD was not totally worthless. I loaned it to my Mormon co-worker for a bachelor party. Not even kidding.

What I didn't realize was that the Flirty Girl was a subscription thing. Every month they keep sending new videos. They get stacked up in a corner of my kitchen until I move them to the garage. I'd call to cancel it, but I used my husband's credit card for the order, so it auto bills him. He has to make the call which he hasn't done. Gives us an excuse for a monthly argument. Keeps the marriage fresh, I guess.

Here's the bad thing, though. I pre-ordered Stacey Ballis' new book, Good Enough to Eat. I couldn't wait to read it. Amazon said I should expect it on Sept 9. That day came and went with no book, so I busied myself with "The Spinster Sisters" and "Sleeping Over", 2 of Ballis' previous works. (She's fantastic, by the way. Buy the books!)

So, by the time yesterday rolled around, I was pissed. I searched my email for the order confirmation, and Amazon had the balls to tell me that they delivered the mail on the 8th. I call bullshit....I checked the mail on the 10th before I left town for the weekend, as well as on the 13th when I got back.

No book! I was about to send a carefully worded email berating Amazon for their carelessness, but before I did that I decided to check the spot on the kitchen counter where my husband dumps all the mail, on the off chance that he got the mail while I was gone or the mailman brought it to the door.

Nothing. Just the stack of Flirty Girl DVDs. I picked them up to go place them with their brethren in the garage, when I happened to look down at the one on the top. It was from Amazon!

Stupid, stupid Amazon.com. What kind of fuckery is this, using the same packaging for my precious books that the fitness DVD companies use? That's not fair. How is one supposed to sort the important mail? Makes me want to cry.

Anybody know what barnesandnoble.com uses for packaging?

Some Apples Don't Fall Far From the Egotistical Tree

2010-09-15T09:20:00.000-07:00

"Hey, Mom, I know what I'm going to be for Halloween!"

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"I'm just going to go as myself."

"What? Why?"

"Really, Mom, what's cooler than that?"

"Oh. Point taken."

Here's an idea I can get behind!

2010-09-09T06:46:00.000-07:00

I don't know if they need to be banned all together, really, but I think that we should segregate restaurants and other public places. This is not the segregation of old, but something that actually makes sense.

How about instead of segregating people by race, or by smoking or non, we separate into two sections: with children and not with children.

As a mom, when I go out with my kid, I'm OK being surrounded by other families. We have a great time, me and my kiddo. He's my favorite person to hang out with.

That being said, when I need grown up time and I am paying someone to watch my kid so I can get out, the last thing in the world I want is to be seated next to someone else's squalling slobbery snotty brat. The only problem I have with my plan is any establishment would be hard pressed to find servers or other staff to work the kids only area. Cleaning up after some of these nasty beasts is a thankless job, to be sure.

Oh, and if you happen to be next to me with your kid and it annoys me, don't be mad when I give you all the stink eye. Handle your business and shut that kid up.

From MSN.COM: Having kids is depressing.

2010-09-08T16:52:00.000-07:00

My expert commentary? No shit.

Why is it so hard to pay my bills?

2010-09-07T17:36:00.000-07:00

Well, clearly you can't see that. Blogger.com/Blogspot.com is really Google's crappiest product. Especially as far as placing pictures go. But whatever. That's not the point of this post.

I've been trying to pay my bills online lately, in an ongoing effort to be more efficient. I'm turning 3 35 this yaer and I think I should start doing grown up things, like paying my bills on time especially when I have the money just sitting in my checking account doing nothing while I accrue interest on a car loan. Stupid. Lazy.

Here's my problem with it. Why the hell is it so hard? Every site has to have a username and a password with different criteria. Different number of characters, this one has to have at least one capital letter, this one has to have numbers and letters, this one has to have symbols and numbers, this one has to have the letters make 6 different words when the password's scrambled, and the other one has to be the name of your pet from second grade spelled backwards twice.

I go to your site once a month. That is all. I have about 9 bills that need to be paid online every month if you include utilities and other random bullshit I have to pay for. How the fuck am I supposed to remember 9 different passwords and usernames? Having a handy list of them stored on my computer seems to defeat the purpose of password protection, no? I'd use the same ones for every site, but the rules are always changing on me. So, generally, the "quick, easy option" takes me at least 10 minutes per site and a lot of frustration.

My thing is this. The bill is getting paid. If Bob owes me 10 dollars and Dave pays me the 10 dollars on Dave's behalf, I don't really care. As long as I get my money, I don't care where it comes from. I really don't. So why does Wells Fargo? In today's economy, they should be thrilled shitless that someone is actually TRYING to pay a mortgage payment, especially in the Phoenix area. They should send a masseuse to my door to collect the check and give me a quick 20 minute rubdown to thank me for a. having the money and b. being willing to pay them. They should send carolers. And really....they shouldn't make it so hard for me to pay what's owed.

Isn't that the government's job, after all?

Today's lack of customer service goes to.....

2010-08-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, Chase bank!!! You've just won a year's supply of badmouthing and bitchy side eyes from me!

Every time I go to into a Chase branch I see several employees standing around with blank stares, but almost never is one of them behind a teller desk. I often have to ask who can help me with my transaction. Usually, they give me a look like a dog who was just asked to explain the theory of relativity. You know, they cock their head to the side and pee themselves a little.

Yesterday, there were 7 employees standing at the teller desk. SEVEN. Nobody looked up and acknowledged my presence. I said, "Hi, where should I go to make a deposit"? SEVEN blank stares. One finally said, "Oh, well, I guess you could go around to the back to the drive through tellers. But I think they're helping someone."

Really? Really. I said, "But there are SEVEN of you!" More canine stares. One guy finally said, "Yeah, but we're busy right now". They may have been, but it sure as hell didn't look like it to me. I swear I would move my account if I wasn't so lazy.

This goes for every Chase branch I've been to in the East Valley, except for the grocery store branch inside Basha's at Crismon and Baseline, where everyone is always friendly and helpful. But I suspect those guys drink on the job.

Pride

2010-07-02T14:49:00.000-07:00

I just flipped the channel and found the author of this book on "The Doctors" TV show.

While I was eating chocolate chip cookie dough off a spoon.

So that felt great.

Arizona SB-1070 and Mitchellaeneous the crazy Cougar.

2010-06-30T22:21:00.000-07:00

Wow. The state of Arizona has come under fire for some choices in legislation lately. I'm coming down on the side of, WTF.....it's illegal to be an illegal alien. This is kinda easy for me, even being the bleeding heart vegetarian liberal that I am. I'm a white girl born in Montana who now lives in Arizona. That's seriously white, so I can't pretend to have any other perspective, so I'm just going to tell you how I feel from where I stand.

My ancestors (that I know of) didn't roll into the USA with a bankroll. They were traveling salespeople, bartenders, farmers, etc. They came here from several different countries in Europe. (I'm kind of an American mutt, and proud of it). Many of them were Irish, and despite the discrimination they faced, they stayed within the law and built homes and families. I'm sure I'm not exactly the decedent they were imagining, but I digress. They came here legally, they followed the rules, had kids, and got screwed on taxes like the rest of us. When some of them did break the laws of this country, they were prosecuted.

That's kind of the gig. You break the law, you get in trouble. If I jump the fence into, say, Taylor Lautner's compound, and do nothing but ask him to make my life better by photographing him with his shirt off, I'm going to prosecuted. I could fill out a lot of applications to get that job, and I could probably, with some work, build a resume and portfolio that would make me worthy of the job. It would be legal, and I believe it would be fucking fantastic.

But if I don't do the legwork, I'm just a crazy stalker willing to risk it all for what I want and maybe a check from TMZ. The difference between me and an illegal immigrant is that I will be prosecuted and spend some time in jail for my crime. The illegal immigrant will be offended when asked for identification for his crime. I will surrender my purse containing my high powered camera lens, my lip gloss, my ID and some small boxer briefs (I'm married...I'm not trying to touch the boy...this is for ART, people!) willingly. I know that I must carry my ID no matter what. They told me as much at the DMV when I got my driver's licence at 15, and they certainly told me at every bar I tried to score a Miller High Life from when I was 18-20 (again, I'm from Montana. Don't judge).

Arizona is trying to enforce a federal law that is already on the books. Is this the best way to do it? Maybe not. But a law is a law, and we need to have means to enforce it, especially when we have a state budget fat with English as Second Language teachers and short on music and physical education. We have emergency rooms full of immigrants who aren't here legally getting treatments for the common cold being treated at the taxpayer's dollar while people who have been working their legal asses off to pay for taxes, Medicare, Social Security, and health insurance are being bankrupt by co-pays and deductibles. We have hard working ranchers living on the border being prosecuted for protecting their land from trespassers. The majority of our law enforcement officers who have lost their lives in this area have done so at the hands of people who BROKE THE LAW to be in our country.

The other huge difference between me and an illegal alien is that when I break the law, nobody is going to throw a parade on my behalf. Nobody is going to rally in protest to protect the rights of a crazy camera wielding Cougar. Not happening. If I break and enter, my ass will see the inside of a jail (I'm pretty sure I could be Queen Bitch of said institution, but I'm not willing to take the chance). If I don't pay my taxes, I will be screwed. If I don't pay my bills, I will be screwed. I don't have the option of being deported back to Montana or to Ireland with a slap on the wrist only to come back with a new social security number, a different name and a shiny new lease on life.

Oh, and if the city of LA wants to boycott me, so be it. I will boycott every Hilton, Lohan and Kardashian you have to offer, as well as your shitty movies. Unless, of course, my boy has his shirt off.

Home Decor 101

2010-06-10T13:40:00.001-07:00

Wow, it's been a while since I've been here. So sad, but here's to new beginnings.

It was time for a new TV in my household. One that you can see a picture on. Mr. V finally convinced me to let him go for a plasma HDTV, 42' style. We got a great deal on it at Best Buy, which was cool.

He picked out a stand at Best Buy, but I vetoed it because it was black and our wood furniture downstairs is brown. I'm getting pretty fancy, you know.

So we went to a few other stores, and I didn't find what I liked, so I finally settled on a cheap one that I had to put together. I figured I could replace it with something I really liked in a while. But for now, this would look nice.

I took it out of the box. It's WAY lighter than it's represented in the picture. That would have been OK, but I have the assembly skills of your average 4 year old.

So what you see here is the press board facing up on the bottom shelf. Crap.

Like that's better than the black stand.

This boy

2009-12-18T11:07:00.000-08:00

Do you see this boy right here? I love him. He's ten and he sometimes smells bad and he sometimes does things I wish we wouldn't. But I love him. Because he's smart and funny and so many wonderful things. As we were driving down the highway today singing at the top of our lungs I looked over at him and captured a picture of his ten year old self to keep in my memory forever. Sometimes life is very, very good.

I <3 my friend Kristy.

2009-12-16T08:22:00.000-08:00

I love Kristy because she will do what the rest of us only dream about.

An Open Letter to 6:30 AM

2009-12-16T05:37:00.000-08:00

I've got 3 big letters for you, 6:30 AM. The first one is W, the second is T, and the last is F. Really 6:30, this is three days in a row now. Why do you wake me up? This is some serious insanity. Every day for the past several years now, we've slept comfortably in unison until the alarm goes off at 7:15. Did you hear that, 6:30? SEVEN FIFTEEN. That's 45 whole more minutes later than you. 7:15 is my friend, but you, dirty 6:30, are a huge problem.

You are an amazing time to roll over and snug my hand under my pillow. You are a great time to wake up temporarily and sigh about my husband lightly snoring and go back to sleep. My favorite thing about you, though, 6:30, is that when I see you I usually smile with the knowledge that I can go back to sleep for almost another hour and still have enough time to get myself and Jett out the door.

First it was Monday. I got up because I felt bad for you, 6:30. Maybe you've been lonely and needed some REM free attention. Then Tuesday. I figured maybe you wanted to make sure I got to my important meeting on time. I was irritated, but I cut you a little slack. But today, 6:30, I'm pissed. I'm giving you adequate warning, 6:30, if I see you tomorrow, the gloves WILL come off.

I Will Not Do Anything Nice For ANYONE this month!

2009-12-01T10:00:00.001-08:00

I saw this group on Facebook and thought it was a great idea. I said that I was going to attend, and I'm going to try very hard to do nice things for other people, especially because it's not really in my nature.

I'll have to say, though, that I was shocked when I saw that people clicked the "Not attending" button.

How could you look at that and say, "OH, HELL NO! I am not going to do anything to benefit anyone else all month long. Forget it." Not Attending. Really? It's not like you're being asked to pay a neighbor's mortgage or give them a kidney. Bring an old lady flowers. Sing someone a song. Buy coffee for a stranger. Offer to babysit a friend's kids. Not difficult, not expensive, just nice. Isn't that what this season really should be about? I say yes.

My first act of kindness will be to let these people know that they're assholes. If they're over the age of 21 and nobody has called them know that they're jerks, it's time that they're clued in.

Bad Economy? Where?

2009-11-30T13:00:00.000-08:00

The news is reporting that the economy is terrible and jobs are in high demand. But this person has a job working with money? Really?

It's bad photo quality. I was at my nemesis big box store when I happened upon this little delight. If Punky Brewster and Rainbow Brite were first cousins and able to reproduce, this is what I would imagine the baby would look like. The picture sucks, because I had to pretend I was taking a picture of my kid, but those are fingerless gloves. You have to have the fingers cut off so that you can see the chipped black nail polish. If you look really closely, you can see the rainbow jelly bracelets. You can't see the caked on bright blue eyeshadow, and you can't observe the cloud of confusion in the eyes, but it's there, trust me.

My point is, that I am aware of many seemingly normal people who claim that "There are NO JOBS! I can't get a job. Nobody will hire me." OK, maybe there's no jobs in your preferred field. Maybe there are no jobs that will pay you what you think that you're worth. But don't tell me that there are no jobs. I got some fries at Wendy's the other day and the guy was so special I could swear he was drooling. I'm sure they'd look at your application.

The most wonderful time of the year

2009-11-21T10:40:00.001-08:00

Well, the holidays are upon us. Thanksgiving hasn't hit but I'm being bombarded with messages about great Christmas gifts.

I was driving to work the other day and I heard an ad for laser hair removal. The gal on the radio proclaimed it the perfect gift for everyone on my list. Really? Isn't that kind of like giving someone diet pills and workout DVDs? Merry Christmas! I couldn't help but notice that you have a lot of unwanted body hair! Even if it doesn't bother you, it sure bothers me.

What else would be "the perfect gift" according to these guidelines?

Deodorant.

A framed map to AA meetings.

Condoms.

Singing.

A year's supply of Scope.

Lipo.

A gift card for a free makeover.

Cooking lessons.

Pro-Active skin care.

A gift card for a divorce lawyer.

The list goes on and on, but this is supposed to be Christmas. There might be a time and place to take your loved ones aside and point out their glaring flaws (or you could just blog about them), but this is supposed to be a celebration. Celebrate the good in people, just for a day. If you want to help, make it your new year's resolution.

ATM=Rocketship

2009-11-13T08:09:00.000-08:00

OK, white car in front of the truck. It's an ATM. The difficulty level is zero. It's not like it's brain surgery. It's not like trying to get a drunk person off the karaoke microphone. You stick your card in the slot, you punch in your numbers, and it either gives you cash or denies it. Props to you in the brown truck, by the way.

It just seems that every time I pull into a drive through ATM I'm stuck behind some asshole who's trying to apply for a home loan at the ATM. I like it when they start scratching their head and/or pick up the phone while they're there. REALLY? I just ran a quick Wiki search and ATMs have been in the US since 1973. This is not new. It's not like trying to teach grammar to a rapper. All of my energy becomes focused on stopping myself from jumping out of my car and pulling that person through their open window. And that's why I was late for work.

Wife of the year?

2009-10-31T14:37:00.000-07:00

My husband asked me very nicely to clean up the house a little this morning. He said, "It sure would be great to get into a nicely made bed tonight."

I immediately replied, "Well, then I guess you'd better have an affair."

It didn't go over well. I will have to try for the wife of the year trophy next year, I guess.

Just an observation....

2009-10-31T14:34:00.000-07:00

If this young man cared as much about grammar as he did football he'd be much better off. Change your priorities, sir.

DIY virtual tour

2009-10-27T10:50:00.000-07:00

Silly sellers. You don't need to hire an agent to sell a house. Not at all. See, what you do is you take a flipcam and walk around the house. Kind of like in COPS.

Here are some more tips from these sellers.

1. Don't use music. It's distracting. Eerie silence is way more enticing.

2. Randomly speak in Spanish in the background. It adds to the mystery.

3. Don't clean up or make the beds. People want to see how a house would look when they actually live there, not when you straighten up for company. Nobody likes a show-off.

4. Make sure there are dogs barking in the background. People like to know what a house is going to smell like.

5. People should walk in and out of the frame. Again. Add to the mystery. Do they live there? Do they come with the house? No one will know unless they actually come see the property.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8IDiqv4jG4

Enjoy.

This one speaks for itself

2009-10-27T10:42:00.001-07:00

I actually received this on an application recently.

Nothing more to say, really.

Social networking and your vagina

2009-10-15T23:23:00.000-07:00

I should not have to post this. I don't want to write about this at all, but maybe it needs to be said. I don't want to know when you have cramps. I want less to hear about the gory details of your uterine issues. Do you bleed like a popped leech? I don't want to know. Really. I can go my whole life without knowing that you flow like a UFC fighter's nose.

I like you, or I did at one point in my life. That means that I'm interested in where you are now. I went to high school with you, or I worked with you, or I dated your friend and we were forced into an uncomfortable conversation at one point ten years ago. That makes you my "friend" or my "tweep" or whatever we are to each other. The thing is, no matter what I thought of you then, I don't want to know about your "issues".

I work hard all day (OK, most days....maybe one out of three), and sometimes I'll hit the social networking scene for a break. My fat, bald, ex boyfriends' pictures always bring a smile, and I'm elated to see touching, adorable photos of some of my friends' kids, and to hear about those of you who have bothered to make something of yourselves. I'll even deal with you trying to make light of your kids' diaper issues. (Nobody really wants to hear that either, btw.).

But, for fuck's sake, I don't want to know about your period lasting +/-18 days, and/or the details of your colonoscopy.

I've never seen a fb status update from a man detailing why he couldn't get it up. When that happens, the world is going to end and I don't care what you write about. Flow it up, girl.

Until then, keep your "girl stuff" private. This is coming from a girl. If I'm this over it, can you imagine what your guy friends think? You're gross, bloody, sick, and moody. Awesome.

That's a burden that your family and close friends have to bear. I vomit a bit in my mouth when I happen upon your drama on my daily (read: hourly) breaks.

Just stop now.

Please??????

I have a new toy.

2009-10-10T14:03:00.000-07:00

Well, to be fair, I've had this toy for a while, it comes with Windows Vista. Anyway, I now have the ablility to take screen captures and write on them. My new co-worker showed it to me. He rolled his eyes at me. A lot. You know, because this is like how Perez Hilton has been doing since 2004 or so. I'm so up on technology. Whateves.

This was my first project. I chose a picture of my pretend boyfriend. I also have this picture up on my desk, because I'm 12. I'm probably going to end up in trouble now, maybe even sued, but this tool will be fun while it lasts. :) Check back often, I'm sure I'll be updating more. Oh, and please don't irritate me if we're facebook friends, because you may see yourself here. In other words, if you're annoying, you're fair game. Yay Me!

Why? WWWWHHHHHYYYYY?

2009-09-12T10:32:00.001-07:00

That's my artful reproduction of something somebody paid money to put on their vehicle. I was driving to work this morning and I was right behind this guy, and had that light not have turned green, you would have had a photo of the real thing. The ONE time that that effing light turns green...ugh.

Anyway, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that a sperm? To be fair, I don't remember if the sperm was happy or angry, but I know it had a face.

Anyway, this was on the back window of a piece of shit beancan Toyota truck. I had to wonder who would pay money to put this on his truck? Surely that money could have been better used to fix the dents in the truck.

Who do you think this guy is? I floated the drawing around the office this morning. One person said that he thought it was maybe someone who was trying in vitro, but I would hope that someone who was trying in vitro could at least afford hubcaps.

I think that it's some bitter dude who's paying some child support providing a cautionary tale: it only takes one aggressive swimmer (Oh, wait. Maybe the face was angry...or determined. Damn. Does that screw up my story?) to create a kid for whom you have to pay child support for the next 18 years of your life. That's probably why he has to have duct tape holding up stuff on his truck.

I guess my next question is, who's the lucky lady who's going to be the target for the next batch? This dude is obviously quite the catch.

I'm such a dumbass.

2009-08-23T21:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I wanted to be famous. I have some talents, but fortune and fame has thus far eluded me. I now have figured out the golden ticket. (I have yet to run this by Mr. V, but I'm sure he'll be fine with it).

I was perusing the latest issue of US Weekly when it hit me. I don't need looks, talent, or (God forbid) brains. What I need to to to achieve all of my childhood dreams is simple. I need a sperm donor and the desire to use my uterus as a clown car. That's right. Let's see how many actual people I can make my body produce. So far, I'm stuck at one, because I'm told that stepkids don't count. (Don't tell Jon Gosselin's bitches--they'd be devastated. Also, note that I'm proud that I had to google the correct spelling of Gosselin).

As I write this, I'm watching COPS (remote clutched in Mr. V's sleeping hand), so I'm pretty sure I'm not the worst parent in the world. My son would admit that I'm not the best parent either. I'm stuck firmly in the middle, but God Bless America--there is no vetting process for reproduction, even if I decide to have six embryos implanted into my body while having six other kids that the state pays for. Thank you, taxpayers. Somebody would let that happen. So, please. Let me get my lips done, and somebody promise me a post-irresponsiblebringingoflifeintotheoverpopulatedworldwhereresponsiblelovingcoupleschoosetoonlyhavethekidstheycansupportandcarefor tummy tuck and a reality show, and I'm in!!!

I mean, really. Who actually cares about the kids? I'll be famous and have enough money to afford Ed Hardy T-Shirts and staged vacations! But the plus side is that if someone like Gloria Allred intervenes, there might be enough cash stashed for my litter to have counseling. Really, it's a Win-Win situation for all involved.

This Thanksgiving, you can have the wishbone. Save the turkey baster for me!!

Now I get it.

2009-08-17T15:47:00.000-07:00

So there's a fast food restaurant close to my office. Their parking lot is always so packed that I've often wondered if they sell crack there or something. I drove through this morning for a diet Coke and a fruit salad, and judging by the teeth and skin of the gal who took my money I was wrong. It's not crack, it's probably meth. In this job market, do we really need to pull people off of http://www.facesofmeth.us/main.htm to serve us out food? I'm lovin' it.

You're more likely to go to jail than be President

2009-08-13T09:52:00.000-07:00

All right, kids of today. It's time for you little shits to learn a long deserved lesson. You are being brought up to believe that life is fair, and it's just not. You go to school and nothing is graded in red pen, because the administration doesn't want to hurt your feelings by telling you you're wrong in a harsh way. When you don't turn your homework in on time because you're a fat lazy punk who spends all of their time eating processed foods and playing video games, you get a second chance to turn it in without penalty. When you play sports, everybody wins and nobody loses. You all get blue ribbons, and you all get a trophy. At school, there are no leader boards where the top reader or the top math whiz gets called out for working his or her ass off, because it would make the stupid kids feel bad. God forbid someone is held up as a winner or gold standard to show others that having goals and working towards them is a worthy accomplishment.

I was told growing up that I could become President of the United States if I wanted to. It was bullshit then, but it's even more bullshit now. I'm not that old, but when I was young people lost. If I didn't do my work, I got an F. I sucked at sports because I'm as coordinated as a drunken bull moose, and I didn't win prizes for it. In fact, I really respect my parents for having the courage to tell me, "Honey, you're good at a lot of things, but dance isn't one of them. You look like a hippo up there. It's time to quit." True story. This came from my mom, and she was right. I could have spent years working on being a dancer while other people looked on and felt sorry for my clumsy ass, but I didn't. My mom had me stick my nose back in a book where it belonged.

There are a lot of people in prison right now, but there is only one President. (I'll have to say, though, that job fucking sucks. No way I'd want to do that now, but I'm using it as the example). There are hundreds of guys who make it to pro baseball, not millions. Only one person wins the Best Actress Oscar every year. There is only ONE gold medal winner per event in the Olympics, but we're teaching the next generation that everybody wins. We don't appreciate true talent in kids because we treat everyone the same. We don't recognize hard work because it would hurt the slackers' feelings. It's total shit.

If everybody wins, nobody has anything to work towards. We're raising a generation of pansy asses, and it terrifies me. It really does. These kids are someday going to go out into the real world, God willing. (Actually, they probably won't, because parents are letting their kids get away with living at home and sleeping all day without a job until they're 35. Yep, the same little gifted angel you thought would take the world by storm so you treated them with kid gloves 20 years ago is now smoking weed in your garage while you work your ass off to pay your bills and theirs. Congrats on that.)

Sorry for the tangent. Anyway, when and if these kids do get out in the world, they're going to get the shock of their lives. They are going to suck at work, they're going to suck at life in general.

It's up to us as parents to let our kids know when they're being little dumbasses, or they'll grow up to be big dumbasses. It's a guarantee from you to me. It's also up to us to praise our kids when they do something amazing, but wiping your ass and getting C's in school isn't amazing. Hitting a home run or scoring 100% is a big deal and praise worthy, but if everytime your little angel remembers to blow her nose into a tissue instead of her sleeve you throw a fucking parade she'll never learn that the world does not reward basic skills. The world only rewards hard work and true talent. And, of course, people whose families have a lot of money.

Somehow, he's still alive

2009-08-11T18:51:00.000-07:00

My husband is many things, but a morning person is not one of them. As I was frantically rushing out of the house today before my 8:30 meeting, he had just gotten out of bed.

"Hey, honey?" he said.

"What's up? I gotta get out of here!"

"What's that noise I hear when you walk?"

"Oh," I smiled. "That's probably my cute new necklace clinking as I move."

"No, that's not it. Walk again."

I did.

He said, the sound goes "woosh, woosh, woosh!"

Silence. From both of us. I finally broke it.

"Oh. That would be my thighs rubbing together. Thanks for pointing that out."

Diet starts now, I guess. Ugh.

Your ass ate your shorts. You didn't notice?

2009-08-03T21:22:00.000-07:00

Really? REALLY? There's no draft? There's no bunching discomfort? No problem in your netherregions (spell check does not recognize netherregions) that is more important than your conversation with your friend in Mom Jean Shorts (a topic entirely to itself...)? Insane. I saw the same phenomenon at the gas station today, but didn't have the opportunity to snap a photo. I live in Phoenix, which is a desert. I get that comfort can sometimes overrule style. I know this. But there is no possible way that your ass can eat your shorts on ONE SIDE only and you have something better to do than grab that shit and pull it out. No way. Insane.

Props for the glow in the dark sneakers, though. If you were ever to go running in the dark (my guess? You don't) they would totally work in your favor.

Yay! Awesome new ad!!!

2009-07-29T20:02:00.000-07:00

I was just checking the blog, and I found an ad that had a picture of a dude that looked like Jesse Metcalf with a serious case of gayface. I scrolled down and see that the ad is for something called "Is Your Man Gay?" Loving it.

I think that the ads are content related, so I'm going to go back over my posts and figure out what is homolicious in the past. (Spell check does not recognize homolicious. Odd). I don't think I've ever written on it. That's odd, because I have strong feelings about gay rights. I'm all for them. As Chris Rock said, gay people should be able to get married and be just as miserable as the rest of us. And straight people kind of negated the whole sanctity of marriage when it became OK to get drunk in Vegas and marry a stranger only to have it annulled days later.

Anyway, straight girls, if your man is gay, by all means, click on my ad. And gay men, if you're not sure that your man is also gay, you might want to check that out. Hopefully that quiz is as accurate as the scientific facebook quizzes that bombard my news feed.

Worst. Gift. Ever.

2009-07-21T13:10:00.000-07:00

I don't get a lot of gifts, so usually I'm thrilled to receive one. Really, I am. But Mr. V. got this as a gift this week, and we were a little shocked at who in the world would waste their money on this

little number right here. It's a wooden hand. It's an artist's model. Now, Mr. V. has been called many things, but an artist is not one of them. Well, maybe a con artist, but I digress. Seriously, what the fuck are we supposed to do with this? I just googled "Male Wooden Artist's hand model" and I see that something like this can go for over 30 bucks. What could I do with $30? Two good benders. Two tickets to a D-Backs game. Pay a poor person at my office to do a lot of work for me. Pay a co-pay at the doctor's office. Buy an outfit at Kohls. Buy a wardrobe at Goodwill for my pig of a kid who ruins all his clothes anyway. But I digress. Seriously, you know I'd prefer to use it on a good bender.

Being the family that we are, we decided to see what we could do with this piece of shit before we donate to a starving artist.

Here's what we came up with:

But the fingers are a bit too large.

Or:

But he does a remarkable job of scratching his own ass, no matter where we are or who might be watching.

Or:

But that really would take away a lot of my fun. (Kidding, kidding. If you've ever met my child you'll know that he is desperatley lacking in discipline.)

Or, one he came up with himself after being the model:

"Hey, Mom, you could smack me across the face with it!" Nice. I'll have to say, though, the kid's acting is about as good as his hygene. Leaves something to be desired.

Since we rejected all of those ideas, here's how we're proudly displaying the hand on our kitchen table:

Parents of the year, 2009. Hell, yeah. What would you do with the damn thing?

Define "cushion"

2009-07-10T12:25:00.000-07:00

Hey, City of Mesa!

I'll give you my opinion. That's the stupidest fucking name for a speed bump I've ever heard.

A cushion is something on my couch that makes my ass feel enveloped and cozy. A lump of concrete on the street that makes my car bounce, jars my neck, and screws up my alignment is not the same.

Just so we're clear.

An open letter to CVS

2009-07-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

Hey, CVS.

I needed some painkillers today, so I swung by. The pharmacist said that it would take 2 minutes to get my drugs. I know that meant 5, so I asked to use their bathroom. I'm on a diet that requires me to drink a lot of water. I haven't lost any weight, but I have to pee constantly, so I have that going for me.

The pharmacy tech lets me in to the employee area. It's all top secret with a coded entry door and everything, so I assumed that the restroom would be clean. Certainly you wouldn't buzz, say, homeless people back there to bathe in the sink, right? You have to use some discretion.

Nope.

The place was dirtier than the outdoor restroom at a gas station. There was filth everywhere. I didn't really know if I was at a meth lab or a drugstore. That was some nasty shit. You need to do better than that.

I did, however, appreciate the fact that cleaning products were sitting out on the shelf, so I was able to clean the bathroom before using it. Good call on that. I hope I didn't interrupt any science experiments your filthy ass staff were working on.

Converse? Really?

2009-06-08T01:01:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I blogged. It has, to be sure. I had some bitchiness that I just needed to get out of me tonight, so I wrote about how people can't stand to portray themselves as smarter than your average 5th grader. It's a huge problem for me, because I can tolerate almost anything besides people being OK with basic grammatical errors. It's just my thing, but, again, I digress.

I signed up for Google ads, because my horribly popular (mostly with my mom) blog is read often (by my mom). They sent me an email, and I signed up. It wasn't because a blog read by my mama would let me retire. I just thought it would be interesting to see what kinds of ads they threw on my very important blog based on my content. I saw some real estate stuff, which is fine, because my career is my passion. My blog followers (hi, again, Mommy and my husband!) know that if I could choose a job, I'd be a stand up comedianne or an actress, but I really love what I do now. I'm working on my stand-up, but I can't imagine not being in real estate somehow, someway.

I still have not gotten to the point. It happens. Bear with me. Or don't, because you're super busy clicking on my Converse ad. I think it's super funny that I, the bottom of the pyramid, even in a high school of 180 people in a town of 3,000 people, am sponsored by Converse, and my dad didn't even get a photo credit. I had no idea that I clicked on my own blog when the ads had something to do with athletes, and that's why it's funny to me. I am to sports as Adam Lambert is to heterosexuality. I am to marathon running as Phoenix is to a blizzard. I am to serious as Angelina Jolie is to post-partum bloat. I am to pole vaulting as Oprah is to.....welll.....pole vaulting.

Just funny to me. Cllick on the ads, tho, friends. 998 more of you do it and I make .40 cents.

An Open Letter to Papa John's Pizza.

2009-03-08T11:29:00.000-07:00

To the doughheads whom it may concern:

I like pizza. I really do. Papa John's is not my favorite, but I can deal with it. What I can't deal with, however, is your new "plan-ahead" ordering service. Mr. V and I were watching TV this morning and saw your commercial. Same as all pizza commercials (skinny people who couldn't possibly eat pizza on a regular basis being elated when the cheese gets all oozy) when Mr. V said,

"Did I read that right?"

I missed it, so thanks to the miracle of DVR (as an aside, I feel that messing with the constitution of the United States is a huge mistake, but if we are going to tinker with it, I think everyone should have a DVR. It's excellent for those of us who don't have the attention span required to watch television) we rewind. Sure enough, there it was across the screen.

ORDER UP TO 21 DAYS IN ADVANCE!

Pizza. Seriously. What kind of GD fuckery is this? I went to the website to investigate. I thought maybe this was a prank against those of us who choose to stay home and watch bowling on a Sunday morning instead of more worthwhile persiuts.

"Cash orders can be submitted 21 days in advance and credit card orders 3 days in advance. You can even choose the specific time you'd like your order to be ready or delivered. Place your order now and forget about it. We'll remember for you! Take advantage of Plan Ahead Ordering today!"

I can't think of an occasion for which I'd need to place my pizza order 3 weeks in advance. Are you rationing the pizza? I had a client who lives in a small town who told me it caused quite a stink when their local cafe ran out of pot pies before 6PM, but I don't see that kind of ire being raised about a Papa John's pizza. Even if one location runs out, there's another one 2 miles away. There's also 80 other kinds of pizza available in the Phoneix metro area. It's true.

And what do you expect us to do? Count down to this shit like it's Christmas? "OK, Hon. I just placed our order! Our pizza will be here in 3 weeks!" We'll all stand around the calander and make big red X's over the days, one by one, until the smelly fat guy in the green polo shirt three sizes too small shows up at our door with the long-anticiapted pizza. It's not necessary.

I would like to end this letter by requesting that you inform anyone who actually uses this service that they are total tools who need new priorities, much like a grown woman who just spend a chunk of her Sunday writing this garbage.

-M

PS, I would totally understand if you were running Howard's Pizza, the undisputed pizza champion of the free world. I would make reservations for that any other day of the week.
But Papa John's? I don't think so.

Open letter to celebrity perfume whores

2009-03-05T21:56:00.000-08:00

To the Whores It May Concern (to clarify, I'm pretty sure they're not concerned).

Paris Hilton. (I should at least wrap my fingers in Saran Wrap before I type this).

Britney Spears (whose music I admittedly adore. I'm just that stupid. I get that I'm a hypocrite. A little. Maybe a lot. Get over it. I write a blog read by 5 people. I can do what I want).

Celine Dion. (not technically a whore, as she's been with the same geriatric bearded guy since she was 13. So that's normal.)

JLo. (To those of you not down with the lingo, that's the twice, possibly thrice, divorced Jennifer Lopez.)

Beyonce. (Love the music. I also have a huge ass. I also have a huge ego, but haven't taken it as far as copyrighting my alter ego. Sacha Mitch does have a ring to it, though).

All right, ladies. (I use that term very loosely. Y'all know about loose.)

I DON'T WANT TO SMELL LIKE YOU. STOP TRYING TO SELL ME YOUR PERFUME. (Or, as you call it, FRAGRANCES).

I'm a Montana girl. I can deal with smells. Cows. Cowboys. Dead things. Marias Fair Carnies ($5.33 per hour to set up and break down rides. Terrifying. Not attractive. But I can deal with the smell as I spend hundreds trying to win my kid a 12 cent prize.) Doesn't mean I want to smell like it.

What I can't possibly do, though, is pay money for your fragrance. Seriously. WTF. Paris, I make good money. I can get a $200 manicure, a $4 wannabe dude, and chihuahua piss all on my own. Doesn't mean I want to smell like it.

Britney, I love you, but if I want to binge on Everclear, Marlboro Lites, and Cheetos, I can do that all on my own too. Doesn't mean I want to smell like it.

Celine Dion? I can be bat-shit crazy and be with a dude 50 years older than me. For fuck's sake, your man makes Mr. V look like a child. The difference is that Mr. V and I had a normal courtship. We worked together, we drank too much, and we made out in a car. That's the way it should be. He wasn't 80, I wasn't 12. I'm down with some crazy. Doesn't mean I want to smell like it.

J. Lo. I also have a big ass. I also have inappropriate thoughts about Ben Affleck. I also have a singing voice that might have qualified me for the Sunshine Singers at Meadowlark Elementary in Shelby, MT. (Just so you know, Mrs. Burns, I'm glad you're one of my Mom's best friend now, but it would have been awesome if you gals were pals back when I didn't make the Sunshine Singers. I believe I would have made the cut out of guilt. Which is the best way to get anything in life. Duh.) You can act as well as Miley Cyrus. Doesn't mean I want to smell like it.

Beyonce. Big ass? Check. Pretty? Me too. Mulit talented? Of course. I actually like this bitch. However, we have one other thing in common that's a problem. No, it's not Jay-Z. My problem with her is not her ego. It's not like you're Tyra Banks, fool. That's a whole other blog. What Beyonce (Sasha Whatever to you) and I have in common is that our moms have sewing machines and are not afraid to use them. While my mom used her mad sewing skills to lead 4-H groups and dress my sister, brother, dad and I up in matching cowboy outfits for all of Kevin, MT to see, your mom used them to make you and your BFFs look matchy-tonight we're gonna party like it's 1991-we're wearing almost nothing designed by yo mama-matchy. Feel bad for you. Doesn't mean I want to smell like you.

The thing is, I'm just not down with smelling like skanky celebrities. I would love a comment about a famous person you'd love to smell like. I actually effing dare you.

So let's hear it. Who do YOU want to smell like?

Who are you to judge, CVS?

2009-02-23T13:57:00.000-08:00

I've pretty much had it with "club cards" in general. I live in a big city, and every G.D. chain store has a stupid card that they expect you to carry around with you so they can collect your information and big brother the hell out of you. Maybe I don't think it's any one's business how often I enjoy the Champagne of Beers.

So I'm at CVS yesterday with Jett. He had some cash to blow and wanted to get some candy, and I was having bad mom guilt because I'm kind of a slacker, so off to the store we went. Nothing better than obtaining the love of a child through letting him spend 3 bucks on Starburst.

I was just waiting for Jett to make his choice, and then I saw them. For me, nothing says Easter like sweet, sticky Marshmallow Peeps. Oh, and the whole Jesus rising thing was very impressive, of course, as well. But I was drawn to my peeps like an addict to a crack pipe. I picked them up and carried them to the counter. I was so euphoric I even paid for Jett's stash. Of course, the counter lady with the excessive eyeshadow said, "Do you have a CVS card?" Or maybe they call it an extracare card or some bullshit like that. Either way, I don't carry all of that tomfoolery around. I was, however, fortunate enough to be stuck in line behind some 108 year old woman with a face like dough buying gas-ex. She, of course, carried allllll of those cards around. I even saw her pass for the opening day of Ellis Island, I think. I got to wait for her to dig through all of the crap in her purse to get out that red card so she could save $.20. Fuck.

Back to the present. It's my turn, and of course I don't burden myself with the card. The cashier rolls her eyes and sighs. "Could it be under your phone number?" I consider telling her that it's not actually 1974 and there is no need for your waistband to hit your bra strap, but I just rattle off my digits. So Jett and I save about 45 cents. We're effing elated, let me tell you.

And then I get a receipt as long as a roll of toilet paper. What's at the end? A coupon for Alli. I'm sorry, I came in for candy for a very healthy little boy. What makes you think that I would want a coupon for a diet pill that's side effects include your ass blowing up and/or dripping without notice throughout your day? Maybe I am the kind of gal who could walk around the block and not eat so damn much instead of talking your drugs. Just because I spend $4.45 (before my valued customer discount) on some candy during the Easter season it doesn't mean I need to go on any kind of a diet.

Oh, but they could have had some hidden scale under where you stand to pay. In that case, point taken.

You better believe I brought this up in the middle of the store in my super quiet voice. It's a good thing that Jett still thinks I'm funny. He's 9. I give him 1 more year until he won't go out in public with me again.

I'm just so confused.

2009-02-04T10:10:00.000-08:00

Recently, Jett and I were walking, hand in hand down the street right in front of his school. It was, in my mind's eye, a lovely picture of a boy and his mom at that stage right before a boy starts to pull away from his mommy. It was a sweet moment in my otherwise cynical life. Turns out, the construction workers driving by didn't see it exactly that way.

They whooped out the car window, and I heard one of them yell, "HOT PUSSSSAY!" Seriously. That happened. Gross.

My question for them, and for those of you that like to yell suggestive comments at random women on the street, is what did you expect to happen? Did you hold out some hope that I would fling my child into the bushes and hop into your 1971 Toyota Hi-Lux (google it)? That missing front bumpers make me wild with passion? That missing front teeth on grown men do the same?

Or maybe you just wanted me to flash you. How would that work, exactly? "Here, honey. Hold Mommy's purse so I can show these strangers my boobs." What are the chances that ANYONE would do that?

Or maybe you were just fishing for a compliment. Maybe you had a rough day installing toilets and wanted me to shout something back about your caulk.

What is the success rate with this? I mean, one would assume that it works sometimes, otherwise the behavior wouldn't occur, would it? Are there women in the world that fall for this? Let me know your experience with it. I have to know.

9 year olds are awesome!

2009-01-26T19:43:00.001-08:00

I haven't written in a while, but I do have some great stories stored up. This one is from the beautiful mind of Jett....

My neighbor and dear friend Lorraine is watching Jett after school these days while I work. Lorraine and her husband, "The Donald", have a 20 pound black cat named Salem who is quite evil. It's not an evening at their house if Salem doesn't bite me. He's actually a beautiful animal, but he's pretty mean.

I picked Jett up tonight and Salem was standing right there. I told him that Salem liked to bite me. Jett looked at me with his big eyes and said, "It's OK, Mommy, it's just his inner stink."

I said, "His what?"

"You know, Mom, his natural inner stink."

"Umm, do you mean his instinct?" I asked.

(Long pause...)"Oh. Well I guess that makes sense. Because Salem doesn't actually even smell bad from the outside."

An open letter to my former neighbors

2008-12-15T20:33:00.000-08:00

Dear folks who used to live down my street:

Seriously? WTF? If you didn't understand, I mean What The EFF? I'm sorry that your house was foreclosed. I am. I know that there are a lot of circumstances that could lead to that situation. I'm a Realtor (R) ;) , I get it. I've heard every situation. I understand that there is actually, possibly, a 20% chance (or so) that the foreclosure was not a direct result of poor choices on your part. Maybe you got screwed on an ARM loan, maybe you lost your job. I get that. I see a lot of people through my work who really got a rough break. I feel for them and I help them every day, because that's my job, and I actually do care about the 20% of people whose situation is not a direct result of their own terrible choices.

Most probably, though, you're an asshat who worked a minimum wage job, bringing home 1200 bucks a month and you bought a 300K house thinking that nothing could possibly go wrong. Nice choice of linoleum, by the way. I always think that if I was going to buy a house that I could never, ever, ever pay for, I would get all of the upgrades, but that's neither here nor there, is it? The thing is, you got pissed. The mean, scary bank came and stole your house through no fault of your own. You were probably asking someone if they wanted fries with their heat-lamped burger when the sherriff put the notice on your door. I feel for you. You stuck your head in the sand and did not contact a company (like my own, with a stellar record for short sale negotiation for people who do, in fact, care about their futures) to help them with a short sale.

You chose, instead, to screw over the bank who gave you the credit to buy the house down the street from me. Excellent work. You screwed the bank. I also appreciate what you did to my ever sinking property value, as my husband and I still work our asses off to pay our well thought out 30 year fixed mortgage. If you were part of that 20% of good people who got a bad deal, I would hold no hostility at all towards you.

I don't think that's who you are, though. Here are my clues.

1. You didn't try a short sale. I've checked MLS records. You didn't.

2. You punched holes in your walls and broke out windows. I really don't blame a frustrated person for taking it out on a little drywall, or maybe even one window. Things happen. You knocked LOTS of drywall and about every other window. That makes you an asshat.

3. You took a shit in the kitchen sink. Don't lie to me, I know that was you. The listing agent may have tried to cover it up with a little Reynolds Wrap (R) ;), but I know what you did. Shitting in the kitchen sink propels you to fucktard status right away. YOU PINCHED A LOAF IN THE KITCHEN SINK. You are a fucktard. I just looked up fucktard on Wikipedia and saw a picture of your defication. (not really, but I'm thinking of making it so).

I've seen a lot of things in my career as a Realtor (R);). I've seen used condoms hanging from vents (could be asshatery, could be a forgotten momento of an excellent evening...who am I to judge?). I've seen toilets removed (raise your hand if you would buy a used effing toilet. No one? That's what I thought). I've seen feces on carpeting (maybe pets....gross enough...but I never investigated if it could be human. Eww). I've even seen used condoms pinned to bulletin boards (certain bastardry, as you'd see it when you moved your life-sized Star-Wars posters out of the house). But you SHIT in the kitchen SINK. Unnnnn-gooood, fucknut. You can't paint that any other way.

I'm glad I'm a judgemental bitch that never invited you to my parties now. Kiss my fancy ass.

To treat 27

2008-12-14T17:43:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry if you're not amused. You don't have to be. I'm thinking that you didn't actually read what I wrote if you fell that I'm trying to be someone that I'm not. I have never tried to hide where I came from. I know I grew up in a trailer in Kevin, MT. I had a pretty great childhood there if you want to know the truth. Never have I tried to hide that. My parents took great care of three children on limited funds and they worked their asses off. In fact, they still do. My parents are not white trash, although I've always been a little proud that I myself lean that way. I shop at Wal-Mart and refuse to put on airs for anyone. If anyone knows me at all, they know that I value someone who is real over someone who gives a shit about who designed your purse or how much money you made last year. I detest people who are overly materialistic almost as much as I hate the most hypocritical members of the religious right. If you knew anything at all about me you would know that.

Also, you might want to consider using your real name or some identifying information if you're going to throw stones. I don't hide who am, and it makes me sad that you feel that you have to hide who you are. ESPECIALLY if you're going to bring something horrible up from the history of someone I never met who is not even a blood relation. I'm sorry if what he did hurt you or someone you care about. I don't condone it and I don't really know what happened, but I never cared to meet him either because I think that what he did was abhorrant. With that being said, I have about as much to do with that as I had to do with slavery or the assassination on JFK.

While I'm proud of where I came from and carry that with me, I think that people have an obligation to better themselves. Everyone should be educated, formally or informally. I believe that one should attempt to present oneself to the world in a presentable manner. There is no excuse for dressing like it's 1984. You can get presentable, stylish clothes at Wal Mart, Savers, or even Goodwill. Trust me, I have. You'll actually save money by not ratting your bangs like you're auditioning for a Def Leppard video (I still love e'ffin Def Leppard, by the way) because you don't have to buy a new can of Aqua Net every day. Our society is what it is, I can't change that. I will, however, mock those who offend or irritate me, and they will mock me as well. It's all about freedom of speech. I only ask that if people come to my forum to mock me, they identify themselves when they did it. Fair is fair. If I was going to piss in your snow, I'd write my name.

I might be 12. Now Matt from t-mobile knows it.

2008-12-14T13:29:00.000-08:00

My crackberry broke 2 months ago. Even though the kid at the T-Mobile store assured me that the Curve was far superior to any Blackberry model I'd previously owned and hated, I knew it would suck. I had places to be so I got the damn thing anyway. I should have trusted my gut instead of some metro dork in a pink t-shirt with too much hair gel. Grr. The new Curve broke a month later. A new one was shipped to me (that's a whole new story which might go here another day). Then I got angry. I realized that none of my ring tones were on my phone! I paid good money for them, so I called T-Mobile tech support. I love T-Mobile tech support almost as much as I love my Neighborhood Wal-Mart at Sossaman and Guadalupe.

Here's how the call went:
Annoying automated voice: Thanks for calling T-Mobile! I'm here to fuck up your day! How can I help you?

Me: Err...tech support?

AAV: Pay my bill? Is that correct?

Me: No. (Why would I want to do that?) Tech support? (I'm shouting now, of course).

AAV: Order new equipment? Is that correct?

Me: Get me a Representative.

AAV: I'm sorry. I need to know what the problem is so I can get you to the right department?

Me: JUST GET ME TO TECH SUPPORT, YOU ANNOYING BITCH!

AAV: OK. Let me get you to a representative! (Awesome. It responds to curse words. I'll keep that little tip under my hat for next time. I'm good at swearing. Again, see below).

So a tech dork named Matt gets on the line. I explain the problem and he says he can help. Oh, good.

Matt: OK, I see that you have several downloads that you've purchased.

Me: Right, I've spent good money on them, and I want them so I can continue irritating my co-workers. (Nobody's ever accused me of being a nice girl.)

Matt: OK, we can only send 10 per day. We've got to narrow these down. Which do you want?

Me: (thinking this might get really embarrassing, really fast) Er, what do I have to choose from?

Matt: Well, let's see. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go?

Me: Oh, yeah. I need that one. (Fun 80's pop--ya really can't go wrong. Choose Life t's, tiny white shorts, frosted tips. And we didn't know George Michael was gay.)

Matt: What is this? Shrek-My Butt is itching?

Me: Ohh, send that one too. (I do my Shrek voice for him) It's for when my brother calls!

Matt: (I can actually hear him smirking now) Baby Got Back?

Me: Send it! It's a special request from my sister! (The Bashor girls are a little bootylicious).

And on and on it goes. Others I've paid for include "Bet On It" from High School Musical 2, "My Prerogative" by Miss Britney Spears, "When I Grow Up" by the Pussycat Dolls, "Bitch" by Meredith Brooks, some Nelly Furtado, and a little more Britney. Classy. I paid money for these. What the hell was I thinking?

My favorite part was when Jett came in and the dogs started barking. I said, "Sorry, my son just came home from a sleepover". Matt said, "You have a son? Oh, wow, I thought you were a lot younger than that." Nice. I now share my shame with you.

Sure, feed my narcissism.

2008-11-23T15:24:00.000-08:00

*Note--I wrote this earlier at work and it somehow did not post so I must re-create it. That blows.

**Also note--no one at work was surprised that I knew how to spell narcissism.

I was running late last night and in need of some low-cost and conveniently located groceries. Quality fell to the bottom of my list, so I went to what shall forever be known as my nemesis, but you may know it as the Neighborhood Wal-Mart at Hawes and Guadalupe. I went in in search of ingredients for Green Goddess Pasta (also knew how to spell Goddess, natch) and some tofu to make some other dishes.

I could not find the tofu or the fresh basil anywhere. I went in search of that mythical creature, the Wal Mart employee. After a few laps (needed the cardio anyway) I found a couple of guys shooting the breeze. One was wearing a green vest, and one was wearing a tan one. I asked where they keep the tofu. He looked at me like I was crazy for a moment. In that pregnant pause, I wondered if he was looking at me like that because he'd A)seen me fall down in public B)seen me do karaoke, or C)do both at the same time. It happens--don't judge until you've sang a mile in my spiked heel boots. He didn't look familiar, so I could only surmise that his judgement of my sanity was due to my affinity for fresh produce and soy protein. "We don't carry tofu," he managed.

"Isn't this a grocery store? How can you not have tofu?" I questioned. He again gazed at me like a deer in the headlights. I cocked an eyebrow (in my head, I looked like Hope in Days of our Lives but to the rest of the world I probably just looked like I had something in my eye) and spun on my heel, but not before I noticed that the guy in the tan polyester blend vest was a manager. In what world does looking confused qualify you for a supervisory position? Scary. I think my chihuahua is qualified for that job.

I went to check out and was shocked to not be behind a line of white trash buying cartons of cigarettes and money orders for bail. Yay, me. I was actually greeted by the cashier, a jovial (by jovial I mean obese, but smiling, and missing a few teeth, but making up for that with a really nice rainbow scrunchie). She was ringing up my purchase when she was typing in the code for some produce. When she rang my zucchini up as a cucumber, I was nice when I corrected her. I guess that's an easy mistake to make, but I couldn't help but miss her smirk when she fixed it and the zuc was .23 cents more than the cuc would have been. Then, she grabbed my kale. If you don't know what kale looks like, it's a dark leafy green vegetable that one would not mistake for a head of lettuce. That is, unless, the one in question is my cashier. She rang up the bushy stalks as "Head Lettuce". Yep. I corrected her again.

She looked at me and I could tell she was a little embarrassed. She said, "Sorry, I don't eat a lot of vegetables." In my head I was all, "Really? Noooooo...." but yesterday was the 21st and I try to be nice to strangers on the 21st of every month. It's a new thing I'm trying.

She looked at my spread of groceries that grow naturally from the ground, and her look turned skeptical. "You really gonna eat all of that?" I confirmed that I was planning on it.

She got that confused look on her face. She did it just right--she's got to be due for a promotion! Or if Alaska's looking for a new governor...but I digress. Just for fun, I said that I would not shop there anymore because they didn't carry tofu again. The confused look stayed, and then she tilted her head. Maybe she is as smart as my chihuahua. Her eyes narrowed and she said, "Hey, are you from California or somethin' with all of this kinda food you eat?" Really. I swear to God I didn't make that up.

"No," I said, "I'm from Montana. Just trying to eat healthy." More confusion on her part. If a promotion is not forthcoming, I at the very least nominate her for employee of the month honors. Then she chuckled and said, "I think that people from Arizona and Montana don't eat no tofu". Sigh. At least I agree. Because if you say they don't eat no tofu, that means that in fact they do eat some tofu.

I left swinging my grocery bag and feeling like the smug little bitch that I am, and all was well with the world.

October 31, 2008

2008-11-23T15:23:00.000-08:00

A money saving tip for these trying times

The economy, the economy, the economy. It's the topic of many conversations, and we're all trying to save where we can. You know how much I love you, so it should be so surprise that I'm going to pass on a tip to save money.

It turns out that if you forget to mail your Southwest Gas payment, they send a nice man out to your home to collect it, thus saving you postage. It worked for me! I do, however, feel obliged to tell you that this only works if you happen to be playing hookey from work and are there when the guy comes to your house. He had some ominous looking shut-off device in his hand, and things could have been bad if I wasn't there. Luckily I was, and the check and the bill were buried in my briefcase, where it's been for 2 weeks. I thought I mailed it, but I was wrong. But I still have that stamp, sucka!

September 3, 2008

2008-11-23T15:22:00.000-08:00

Mmmmmkay, how coincidental is it that I crafted my last blog about white trash and then I found a new show that I love called My Big Fat Redneck Wedding on CMT? I guess it has to do with the laws of attraction. I'd like to attract wealth, success, and the dude who plays EJ on Days of our Lives (It's OK, my husband and I have a deal where he's concerned). Turns out I might be sending the wrong voodoo vibes into the universe, because of that winning powerball ticket, a lucrative business connection or a foxy British actor who has a dickens of a time keeping his shirt on, the universe sends me this little gem. Who's seen it? I guess it's been on for a while, but it just jumped into my life last night.

Let me tell you, it's awesome. The groom in cammo. A skeet shooting bachelorette party, the cumulation of which is the bride's pickup being pushed into a Georgia swamp and subsequently towed out by a larger truck, presumably owned by a family member of the bride and/or the groom. A hog hunting bachelor party. (Nothing says 'I can't wait to be your bride' like 'There gonna be a lotta folks here tomorrow, so ya better bring home a hog for the meat for 'em. We'll figger out howta cook it). After the wedding, why dance? Let's jump in the truck and run 'er through the swamps! It's just a little too much for me, and that's what makes it so special. I've set the DVR to special alert for this show. I love it.

I do need to clarify that I don't come from a wealthy background. I come from a small town in Montana where wedding invitations are printed in the local newspaper and the whole town shows up at the reception at the Elk's lodge, necessitating a ticket system for drinks, because an open bar for the hard drinking town of Shelby would break even the most extravagant Hi-Line wedding budget. (Did I just hear a 'Hell Yeah?) from those of you who've been there? My Phoenix friends can't believe that I've been to pot-luck wedding receptions. A wedding can be, and I believe usually is better as, a community event. There is no reason to go into a huge amount of debt for what essentially is a party, a celebration of a committment, that, let's face it, has less than a 50% chance of lasting. I don't mean to minimize it, but if it's entered into the right way, the marriage is the good part, and the wedding is a symbol of the intetions and a public display of the love and support you and your spouse have for each other, as well as a way for family, friends, and whatever deity you choose to give their support to the union as well. I get all of that. I hope that all of the Billy Bobs and Sarah Janes of the show are blissfully happy forever. I do.

There is, however, a difference between the touching, community style, budget friendly weddings of my hometown and what I'm seeing on this show. It's really about the amount of mud and dirt that are essential to the success of the celebration. Many of you have either had or attended small town weddings. How awesome are they? However, thinking back to those weddings, how many people got mud smeared on their bodies as part of the celebration? How often were monster trucks going through mud part of the festivities? How many of the receptions involved chasing a greased pig in a dirt corrall with the goal of being the first to catch him and put a T-shirt on him in the hopes of winning the grand prize, which I swear on all that is good in the world was ten dollars? SPOILER ALERT--if you watch the episode I saw, it's not really fair, because the bride announces the hog wrangling competition, entices all of the guests with the ten dollar prize, and then says that she gets to go first and does not give up until she gets that little bastard. I don't really think that's fair.

I think I got off topic. Imagine that. 'My Big Fat Redneck Wedding' is my new obsession. I read that the couples get $2500 for allowing the show to film their wedding, but I still don't know why they would subject themselves to that. My wedding was really nice, and no mud was critical to our day, but I'm sure that there would have been some embarrassing moments if a film crew was there. Cheap champagne swigged out a bottle, anyone? Going on TV to cement your status as a redneck is a totally different ball game. I don't get it. But I'm going to keep watching, because I'm waiting for the blessed event between these two lovebirds:

I just hope the wedding can be squeezed in around Bristol's busy schedule.
a

Things that are more white trash than me. August 28, 2008

2008-11-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

Now I know for sure that there are people more white trash than me. The fact that the following products exist is proof.

What is too WT for Michele?..

I think you can get your name sewn on in metallic thread. Perfect for holding a carton of Misty Light 120s and a bottle of Boons Farm wine. You can fit lots of Charlie perfume and blue glitter eyeliner in here as well. Be careful with the cans of Aqua Net around the chain smoking though. I believe it comes with separate interior pockets. One is custom made for food stamps, and one is made for lottery tickets. One wouldn't want to mix the two.

http://www.mnmcharms.com/store/WsDefault.asp?Cat=PURSESANDMORE&Sub=9&isThumbs=Yes&Thumbs=100

All of the shit available at the above link. There are no words. They look like a home ec project gone horribly wrong, but these are being sold for money. To be fair, if ya click around that site some more, there are some super craveable items available, so check it out--but after you give me some feedback on this blog. It is the online business of one of my friends on here. I went to look to support her, but you know what a bitch I am. It inspired a blog. Sorry Amy. Most of your stuff is cute. These are fucking ridiculous.

****NO PHOTO HERE TO SPARE YOUR EYES********
Spandex clothing made for people with a BMI of 27 or more. If you don't know what a BMI is, yours is probably above 27. No offense, but tube tops or miniskirts are not for you. NOOOOOObody wants to see this. Ladies, here's a good rule of thumb. Your skirt should always, ALWAYS, be longer than it is wide. That's a fashion tip from me to you.

All jean shorts on men drive me crazy. There is just no reason for it. At all. Men have so many options for shorts. This should not be the one. Ladies, most of you can't pull this off either, especially the cutoffs.

If you must purchase a 10 dollar T-shirt or possibly a license plate frame to proclaim that you are classy, you without a doubt are not classy.

See also....

Woah. This is more disturbing than it should have been. I searched for this image because everytime I've seen someone wearing an 'I'm bringing sexy back' shirt, my first thought is, 'When? Not now, clearly'! But I'm concerned with the amount of items in CHILDREN's sizes with this logo. Although I do see a lot of plus sized folks squeezed into children's sized clothing, so maybe this makes sense.

Moustaches. Very few men can pull these off without looking like a wannabe 70's porn star. Let me think of who can do it well. Oh, it's no one.

Other bad hairstyle choices would include, of course, the much maligned mullet, but I would be remiss to exclude the bald man with a ponytail.

Ladies, it's your turn.

Mall bangs. Wall o' bangs. No good. You're about 20 years late and I don't know what the hell we were thinking then. What kills me is that people are still taking the time and effort to create this shit. Seriously, just roll out of bed and stick it in a ponytail. Save yourself some time. Same me some time, so I don't have to spend 5 minutes pondering if you have a mirror and/or a clue as to which decade you're in.

Now, I have one that's up for debate. Side ponytail? I think it should come back. For reals. What do you think?

I went searching for a lady with the feathered hair, but could not resist this. What the fuck is this, seriously? There are no words.

OK, just kidding. She's white trash, but I still love the bitch. Gimme gimme More, Britney.

Last one: People who read my blog and like it and don't thank me, or people who read my blog and don't like it and don't take the time to tell me it sucks. So let me have it. What do you think should make the next installment?

August 29, 2008

2008-11-23T15:17:00.000-08:00

This one features a photo of me that I really like. ;)

So I went to Claire's today because it was right by where my co-workers and I went to lunch. I'm a bargain Betty, so I headed straight to the back where everything was 10 for $10. LOVE IT!!! I totally have a bracelet that is silver and sparkles like a disco ball. That rocks my socks.

But then I bought something from the front of the store. I was drawn to this black necklace with a thingy hanging down in the middle. It looked familiar....but why??? I racked my brains and figured it out. I've had some back problems lately and nothing really is better than some old 90210 on Soap Net. Gotta love Donna, who dressed like a hooker, looked like a crack baby and got good looking guys while remaining pure as the driven snow. Or Andrea, the brain. Of course she's good at high school. She's 30. But whatever.

So anyway, remember when Kelly was in rehab and she befriended her ugly little roommate, Tara? Well, before they go to the party at Brandon's house (AKA KEG West), Kelly let Tara borrow 'her favorite necklace'. But then Tara went psycho with jealousy because their hot doctor liked Kelly, regardless of the fact that she just got out of rehab for being a coke fiend. Everyone loved Kelly--she had magical powers. Except one of her magical powers made Valerie want her castoffs. That's just gross. Why did they all have to date within their little group? It's really icky if you think about it. It's a big city, for the love of God. Find someone else with whom to exchange bodily fluid.

All right, so when Tara got crazy and became stalkeriffic, one of the first real signs is when she ripped Kelly's necklace off and let the beads fall to the ground. Very symbolic, right?? This necklace that I bought at Claire's looks just like the one Tara broke. So here it is.

I'd like to give a special shout out to Soap-Net for making this blog possible by re-running 90210 episodes on hangover mornings.

August 24, 2008

2008-11-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

Title: Woah. That's Creepy.

You Have a Choleric Temperament

You are a person of great enthusiasm - easily excited by many things.

Unsatisfied by the ordinary, you are reaching for an epic, extraordinary life.

You want the best. The best life. The best love. The best reputation.

You posses a sharp and keen intellect. Your mind is your primary weapon.

Strong willed, nothing can keep you down. Your energy can break down any wall.

You're an instantly passionate person - and this passion gives you an intoxicating power over others.

At your worst, you are a narcissist. Full of yourself and even proud of your faults.

Stubborn and opinionated, you know what you think is right. End of discussion.

A bit of a misanthrope, you often see others as weak, ignorant, and inferior.

What Temperament Are You?

How can the answers I provide to 5 simple questions pin me down so completely? My ego is famous, and I'm super fun and ambitious, and also very very smart. But I do have to wonder if everyone who gets this result could actually be as smart as I am, because I feel that would be a statistical impossibility.

In other news, I've lost 30+ lbs since February when I was effing huge (once again, the pizza and beer weight loss plan failed!), so I'll be putting photos of myself up soon. I would like to drop 15-20 more. We'll see how that goes. My sister calls me a shape sister. Scary but true.

What else is new? I hurt my back and have been pretty sore for a few weeks now. At first it was nice to take it easy from work and enjoy the Vicodin, but 2 days is waaaaay too long for me. I am pretty pissed that it's not getting better. I might need a new physical therapist, but the one I go to now has candy at the front desk and the boy who does the rubdown is super cute and kinda dumb, just how I like 'em. So what's a girl to do?

Jett is awesome. And by awesome I mean a crazy little pain in the ass. He's in 4th grade this year and is liking school better. I couldn't figure out why until this conversation.

Joe: What's your teacher like?
Jett: She's pretty!
Joe: Oh really??? (Notices the stink eye from his wife and adds) Like your mom?
Jett: Well, yeah! But she's not as old as my mom and she's not as fat as my mom either!
Joe: I need to get more involved with you, Jett. Maybe I'll come help out at school.

Swear to God, Joe went to his first curriculum night ever last week when I was stuck at work. He confirms that Jett has good taste in women.

Otherwise, Jett really is a great kid. He's growing up, but he's still just the funniest person I know. Still refuses to cut his hair, but since he's got it bad for his teacher, the showering and brushing of the hair are not as big of a fight.

I've just been working my ass off lately, which is why I haven't written much for you to enjoy. The housing market is tough, but there are some great deals to be had right now, so I'm enjoying what I do. A lot.

Well, that's a long one. Leave me some comments so I know you're not all dead.

2008-11-23T15:14:00.002-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvpo_8ppHSg

So I came across the Old Kids on the Block video the other day, and I have to say that I like the song. It's fun, and I like cheesy pop music. Plus, I like singing along to the whole 'Woah-oh!' part. I will even admit to making a goofy white girl dancing face and awkward hand movement while doing it. But watch the video, if you dare. Joey and Jordan look pretty good, I'll give them that. Donnie has not aged as well has his brother and looks embarrassed to be there. He's got that whole, 'I can't believe I needed the money bad enough to sign back on to this. You must notice, though, Jordan's brother and the one that looks like a monkey are hardly in it at all. The monkey one--I think it's Danny, has gotten himself all tattooed up but does not quite achieve the gangsta effect he's looking for. Then poor Jon; it's bad enough that his brother was always the 'hot one' and he had to live with that all his life. I'm gonna get a nasty comment here by mentioning that my sister can totally relate. Still, I never made her dance in the shadows! Seriously, watch this! They are not in the party scenes much, and then when they're all dancing in their matching white metrosexual suits those 2 guys are way in the back and you can barely see them. So sad. Anyway, what irrelevant pop culture stuff are you noticing this summer?

June 18,2008

2008-11-23T15:14:00.001-08:00

From the mouths of babes...

My son is about the funniest person I know, and if you've met him you know what I'm talking about. Here are just a couple of examples.

Allison, one of my partners in crime from back in the day, was in town with her kids a few weeks ago. Jett and Allison's daughter, Riley, were looking through our high school yearbooks. Jett looked up with huge eyes and said, "Mommy, you were class clown?" I said that I was, and he gave me a puzzled face and said, "Huh. I just don't see it, because you're actually not that funny. You yell too much to be funny." CLASSIC.

Then, on Sunday, I got out of the shower and was getting dressed when I heard my husband getting on Jett's case about something. As it was Father's Day, I decided to go out and keep the peace. I said, "Hey, guys, what's going on out here?" My son looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, "Oh, Mommy, Joe's just over-reacting again." What a kid.

June 8, 2008

2008-11-23T15:12:00.000-08:00

Why, Molly, Why???

This is going to be a short one, but the topic needs to be addressed. I'm watching Pretty In Pink for the 87th time right now, and I just got to the part where Andie debuts that pink frock she puts together to go to the prom. What a fucking disaster that dress was. One could argue that she was just a victim of the 80's, but I don't recall that dress ever being attractive. I remember my friends and I just looking at each other in disbelief whenever we saw that monstrosity. It's just not OK. And what's with Andrew McCarthy's hair at the prom, and "If You Leave" by ELO extended to a 15 minute song? Crazy.

Anyway, Andrew McCarthy is on Lipstick Jungle now and he's still pretty damn yummy. And a young Gina Gershon is in this movie as well. Ya know, Bill Clinton, I don't blame you at all.

Anyway, watching that movie made me feel all young again, like when I used to hang out in Jessica's room with her giant Michael Jackson poster and her huge watch clock that hung on her wall. The Michael got replaced by the New Kids on the Block. I wonder if that's when it all went wrong.

One ought not drink and Blog. April 27, 2008

2008-11-23T15:11:00.000-08:00

Open letter to Wendy, "Customer Service Manager"

Dear Wendy,

Do you remember me? I was the gal at the neighborhood Wal-Mart grocery store at Hawes and Guadalupe that was wise enough to give you a promotion on Saturday evening.

No, I wasn't the 77 year old snowbird from Iowa who didn't understand why you wouldn't take an out of state personal check for some Metumucial and Depends and some other random shit and had the 48 coupons for products you were out of, although I had a good time standing in line behind her for 20 minutes while she debated with the new girl who can't figure out the scanner at the register. I really didn't mind that, because I've been working a lot lately and that 20 minutes gave me some time to catch up on some celebrity gossip and breaking misleading Soap Opera Digest headlines for which I would have otherwise not have had time to read.

Now, Wendy, CSM, you just weren't paying attention. Remember me, the person with clothes made in the 2000's? Really? No, silly, I'm not the woman in the sweatpants with the strategically placed hole in the ass that allows a perfect view of the stain on her underwear.

Oh, Wendy. Now you're being silly. I'm not the woman whose daughter was in my son's first grade class who has always facinated me with her tenacity in getting her girls up early enough for first grade each morning to shower, dress, and create the 80's ratted bangs on their head resembling a bear claw each and every morning as success in the third and first grade, respectively, depended on such an outdated, ugly, hairstyle. Kudos to her for that and also the weight gain she's achieved since our last meeting, but I'm not her.

Wendy. How could you not know? I'm not the Cholla broad with the screaming kid and the dead in the eyes older woman pushing her cart. I do, however, appreciate her presence in the Wal-Mart this evening superceded my boredom with the question of why anyone would completely shave off her eyebrows, and choose instead to awkwardly draw rainbow arches over her eyes with a 2 pencil while allowing a 5 o'clock shadow of natural eyebrow to dominate her face superseded my annoyance at your empty shelves, especially in the diet Coke plus section of your fine, filthy establishment.

Wendy, Wendy, Wendy. How could you not remember me? No, trashita. I was not the meth face with the super long hair purchasing 8 cans of tuna, a tub of discount formula and six packs of Salem Lights.

WEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDDDDDDDYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! You must recall the attractive, pleasingly plump, professional gal with braces. Right! That was me! The woman who spent a long day at work today and rolled into your shitshack of a workplace on her way home to pick up some groceries and some booze! It is Saturday night, after all.

What I didn't realize, however, was that sometime in the several months between my last hellish experience with your workplace and this evening was that you no longer put the hard liquor in the alcohol aisle, but you put it behind the customer service desk. Was this your idea, you foxy minx? Because one thing that I truly love after a 60+ hour workweek is having to stand in not one, but two separate lines staffed with trainees. My definition of awesome really is standing behind stinky people in line for 20 minutes. That rules, and I know that you and your company recognize my desire to stand there reading your magazines and playing the grocery store drinking game for as long as I can. What is the grocery store drinking game, you ask? That's the game I play every time I go to a store. You have the coolers with bottles of soda and water at the front of your store. In my best effort to restrain my frustration at your crappy mind game of going through all the trouble to build 10 lanes, yet only staff two of them, at best, at any given time, with checkers who make a turtle with a Valium problem seem like a speed demon, I've created a distraction. When I pull my rickety cart into line, I grab a beverage out of your cooler. If, while waiting in line, I can consume the entire potable prior to your checker touching the first item I've selected to go home with me, I stash the bottle amongst the gum and beef jerky at your prestigious workstation. I feel that I shouldn't have to pay if I can consume 16 ounces of a non-alcoholic beverage while I stand in your line to pay for my 100+ dollar purchase. I don't try to down the diet Pepsi or the water as if I were a freshman frat boy with something to prove, but a girl can get a little thirsty in the long, dry, minutes spent standing on your glazed concrete lines. By the way, not as a judgment of any kind, but just out of curiosity, do you actually TRY to match the eyes of your employees to said glazed floors? If so, well played, Wendy, well played. You have succeeded.

Really, though, Wendy, I'm not trying to stir anything up with you. I understand that you chose a stressful job at a store that doesn't give you benefits. So obviously that's not your fault. You chose to wear a lighter colored green smock than the rest of the staff at the Neighborhood Wal-Mart indicating your superiority over the rest of the employees. (As an aside, the fact that you've hit 40 with most of your teeth and a $10.00 an hour position with the burden responsibility and a title haphazardly stuck on your name tag with sticky letters, and the fact you chose to accept this position of leadership obviously with no consideration for yourself or your family really does speak volumes for who you are as a person). ((Oh, by the way, I should mention that the size 18 khakis on your size 26 ass does wonders for your cameltoe, and I assume you're working hard toward that goal, so congrats on that as well!!)) I totally get that your job and your status in the world has nothing to do with any choices you made in your life. So do your thing, beyotch!

All of that having being said, I do have one little issue with you and your competency as a "Customer Service Manager". I'm not going to bring up the fact that I have a huge problem with your hair. That's not true. I have a huge problem with your hair. Your she-stache is your gig. Most women can't actually grow that much hair on their upper lip, so I applaud you for your effort and your individuality.

I know that you have your job at the neighborhood Wal-Mart and your position therein as an accumulation of the amazing choices you've made thus far in your life, and I obviously respect you for that.

We've gotten this far, and I think that you truly understand that I appreciate your position of power at the Neighborhood Wal-Mart. Here is my big problem, Wendy. It's really not that I spent over 20 minutes in line for my regular groceries. That might have been cool, but I really don't like the fact that I had to go stand in another line at "customer service" (which must be a great joke for you Wal-Mart employees! L O effing L!!!!) to grab a bottle of rum AFTER I was already in your lines to pay for the rest of my stuff.

Now, did I mind that the kid at the deli just started this week and didn't know how to use the meat cutter? Oh, wait. I did mind. Nobody was there to help a 16 year old use sharp objects. Now did I mind that the one bottle of booze I needed was trapped behind a counter with 3 WM (I think that we're close enough, now, Wendy, to call the Wal-Mart the WM) . I also didn't love that the cashier was left alone on her third day. (That would be the cashier at the regular line and the one at customer service line that I had to wait in for 15-20 minutes while my frozen groceries melted while I was waiting for a little bottle of rum that I wanted.)

Really, though, Wendy, I have to tell you my 1 problem. It is your hair. You have a position of power at a store that sells hair dye. Sadly, I feel that anything they sell there would be better than what your hair looks like right now. What you have going on right now is super frizz (the WM sells anti-frizz serums) and a horizontal rainbow of every shade of fake red that there is. Don't get me wrong, Wendy. The cameltoe and the she-stache are totally working for you, but your hair looks like Bozo the Clown drank V-8, pomegranate juice, and cherry Kool-Aide, and threw up in horizontal stripes on your head. That is not OK. You're better than that. You know it. Find a way to bring the Miss Clairol home with you.

Once that is handled, or maybe before that's handled, if you overhear a girl like me thanking your employees for inspiring me to work more so I can shop at Basha's, you might want to ask why said girl is so upset instead of rolling your eyes and then pretending like you're deaf. GO GO WM!)

Anyway, Wendy, what I'm saying is that with your looks and personality you should…………uuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm……………………..not take 10 bucks an hour at Wal-Mart for granted.

March 25, 2008

2008-11-23T15:09:00.000-08:00

Stupid.

I’ve been busy, so I haven’t had a chance to comment on the governor of NY and his hookers. I shall take a moment to do that now, but my comments are directed not to Gov. Spitzer but to his wife. Silda, why would you stand there on the podium looking constipatedly supportive of this asshat?

Now, let’s say you have a Clinton-esque arrangement; or sort of an open marriage. You know, like the kind where it’s cool if an intern blows your husband. That’s one thing. I understand that most laws and moral rules do not apply to the very wealthy or elected leaders of the United States, but your husband crossed the line. Not only did he sleep with a hooker, he really overpaid. Those are things that you shouldn’t stand up for. I might be willing to forgive my husband if he was, say, completley drunk out of his mind and he hadn’t seen me in a few months and he slipped some girl in AJ 100 bucks to help him out. (Note to Mr. V--I said MIGHT and the forgiveness would be even more painful than the disease you would probably catch from said hooker. I don’t recommend you try it.)

But Silda, Silda, Silda. I don’t care what your husband told you, and I don’t care if diamonds were falling out of his mouth while he was trying to convince you to stand by your man. He not only cheated on you, he did it with a hooker. He not only cheated on you with a hooker, but he paid at least 4 grand a pop. That’s just stupid. I don’t care if her pimp claims that her powers are "Magical". No romp if worth 4 grand. Your husband is an idiot, and that can’t be forgiven.

Also, I just read that you have 3 daughters. If you want those poor girls to have a shot at being somewhat adjusted adults, you better pack ’em up and get ’em out of there. The lesson that they’re learning is that adultery is cool, and high class hookers can be instant celebs if they’re outed for getting it on with the wrong guy.

Monday, March 3, 2008

2008-11-23T15:07:00.000-08:00

Don’t allow me near your electronics
Current mood:diabolical

My last week has been a total nightmare. I was so ready to get back to work after being out of town and sick for all of February that it was time to buckle down and see who needed to buy a house or some kitchen supplies. And then, disaster struck.

On Tuesday, my Blackberry broke. By broke, I meant I could recieve calls and make them if I knew the number, but my screen was effed up 90% of the time. This is strange, but even stranger considering my last Blackberry broke when I was in Montana. I had to remove the battery and a bunch of little metal pieces fell out. I was able to McGeyver the thing together to make it function, and it held from the time I got to MT to the time I returned from Vegas. So I called TMobile at that time and got a new phone. When it arrived I was TKO'd by strep throat, bronchitis, and ear infections in both ears, so I didn't get the new phone up and running until Monday. Then it crapped out the very next day. No access to text messaging, email, the internet or my address book for most of the time for the last week. No good.

Of course, you can't just call the phone company and tell them they sent you a clunker and get a new one right away. You have to spend hours on the phone with several folks for whom English is not a second language trying to tell them your story over and over again and having them trouble shoot for you. I've learned by now to ask the person who answers if they are, in fact, BlackBerry tech support before launching into my tirade. They tell me yes all of the time, but half of this time I ramble off the whole thing and then they tell me that they're actually not BlackBerry tech support and have to transfer me. How many of you don't know what your job is when asked? I don't have time in my life for that. If someone asks me if I'm a doctor, I say so. I don't wait till they show me their boils oozing with pus and then take it back. Assholes.

So then I get the right person on the phone. Of course this is the person with limited English skills and a bad attitude. They sigh and say, "OK. Now what I need you to do is turn the phone off and wait a few minutes and turn it back on." Really? Like I hadn't thought of that myself? I'm an intelligent person, not your collegue at T-Mobile. Sometimes I tell them that I don't like them and that I'm going to hang up and call again in hopes of reaching someone who might be able to help me. I think they like that.

Also fun is the voice recognition gatekeeping system they have before you can get to a representitive.
Annoying lady computer: So, how can I help you today?
Me: BlackBerry Tech Support
Computer: Okay. Check your balance. Is that right?
Me: NO.
Computer: All right. Try again. Tell me the reason for your call.
Me: BLACK BERRY TECH SUPPORT!
Computer: Okay. Check minute usage. Is that correct?
Me: BLACK FUCKING BERRY FUCKING TECH SUPPORT!
Computer: Okay. I'll get you to a representative. (This they understand, I guess.) In order to better serve you, enter your phone number.

Then they make you enter the last 4 of your social. Then you're on hold. Then a live foreigner picks up and asks you for your phone number and the last 4 of your social. Why do I have to enter it if they're going to ask for it again anyway? Sigh.

So by Thursday evening, I finally got a hold of someone who I thought might help. He had me plug my phone into the computer and we were going to work on re-installing software as a last ditch effort. While we were working on that, I got a blue error message screen and my computer turned off and tried to re-start. It failed. I tried everything I knew, but my laptop is dead. I was scared about that because as you may have read I really haven't worked for a month and I'm poor as hell. I was OK until I talked to my friend's husband. Her nickname for him is tech support. I told him what was going on and he said, "Ohhh, that's bad".

That's when I started drinking heavily. A Realtor without a phone is a bad thing, but a Realtor without a computer is way worse.

Fade to Black.

Friday morning, my hungover ass got dressed up and took my computer to the Geek Squad at Best Buy. I felt and looked like hell when I got up, so I took a lot of effort into getting dressed nicely, putting on makeup, and fixing my hair so the Geek Squad dudes wouldn't think I was a white trash moron and take me seriously when I explained the problem. The looking good proved to be a mistake when I had to stand in line in my seriously cute shoes that kill my feet for half an hour. The boys had me tell them my story, and they thought that my hard drive probably had gone out. They gave me an estimate of about 400 bucks to fix my 600 dollar computer. For real. But I had to go for it because I needed a lot of data that was on this computer. I had some fun with the cute little geeks.
Geek: What do you use the computer for?
Me: Mostly porn, but also a little illegal overseas gaming.
Geek: Jaw drops.
Me: I'm kidding, hotshot.

Obviously, the time in line had weakened my resolve to not appear white trash.

Also fun:
Geek: OK, We'll diagnose this and give you a call back and tell you what we're going to need to do and what it will cost.
Me: I'll need to know when you're going to call me.
Geek: Why?
Me: Because I'll want to resume drinking heavily about an hour before that call comes in.
Customer next to me who did not make any attempt with her appearance: Awesome. Let's go do some shots right now.

Sadly, I had to work so that didn't happen.

On Saturday, I decided I needed to use a computer in my home, so I decided to get the desktop the kids used working better. This proved to be a mistake. About 15 minutes into the whole thing, that computer decided to stop recognizing the internet connection. I shit you not.

So, if you're keeping track, that's 1 BlackBerry, 1 desktop, and 1 laptop in the span of 5 days. I'm a menace to electronics.

The good news is that my laptop is back from the Geek Squad. I got out of it with just a virus, so it only cost me 160 bucks for diagnosis and backup. I had to wipe my hard drive and re-install everything, but my computer is working really well now. Yay ME!

The new BlackBerry arrived moments ago, so I should be pretty functional by tomorrow, thank God.

The kids computer is still having problems, but that's gonna have to wait. I can work again. I shall post last night's tech support with Qwest in another blog because this one's long enough.

Feb. 4, 2008

2008-11-23T15:04:00.000-08:00

Your Captcha

WTF is this about? A Captcha? Who the fuck named this, Flava Flav? It's ridicuous. I know that I have A LOT of time on my hands right now, but I'm pretty sure that those of you requiring me to type in some crazy code prior to leaving a comment have enough time to delete comments you're not OK with. In fact, I'm sure that it takes you less time to delelte an unwanted comment than it takes my drunk ass to figure out the letters in the swirling little box. Asshole.

Some of my favorite people on Myspace require this stupid ass thing. What is wrong with you? Do I have to walk a straight line for you to be my friend? A lot of you would never have been by friends had you required me to walk a straight line. Don't be an elitist bastard. Fuck the Captcha. Don't let Flava Flav win. Be strong enough to click your mouse on "delete my comment" all by yourself. Can you handle it?

January 27, 2008

2008-11-23T15:03:00.000-08:00

Redundancy
Current mood: satisfied

I drove over to my ex-husband's hood to pick up my son today. While we were on our way home we were stopped at a light and I saw a Planned Parenthood. This was noteworthy as you don't see Planned Parenthood (the clinic or the action of having kids on purpose) in Arizona that often. Now, that's certainly not noteworthy or blogworthy, but then I noticed something else. In the same strip mall, there is a large indoor fun center for children called Jungle Jim's. I took Jett there once for a birthday party, and I think it can best be described as a poor parent's Chuck E. Cheese. Nasty little bastards running around all over that place with runny noses and stuff. I had to go straight home and shower.

Here's my thought though. If people were to go to Jungle Jim's for maybe an hour I think that their birth control needs would be handled. Planned Parenthood would not need to raise any more money because nobody would ever want to have sex again after spend a little time at Jungle Jim's. If every time a guy was about to get some lovin' the image of a fat, slobbery child covered with mucous coming for them, they'd lose their ability to perform right away. I should run for office. I'm a pretty smart bitch.

January 25, 2008

2008-11-23T15:02:00.000-08:00

Lasting Love
Current mood: pirate

Rock of Love 2.

Flavor of Love 3.

What is wrong with the world when upstanding citizens like Bret Michaels and Flava Flav can't get it right on the first try (or second)? VH1 presents them with a slew of classy gals, all of whom would be perfect candidates to bring home to Mom, and somehow it doesn't work out. Pole dancing, baring your breasts as a form of introduction, and binge drinking to the point of blacking out and/or public vomiting on their own usually result in matrimony, so when you put them all together, what could possibly go wrong?

Whatever. I'll be watching on my endless mission in life--to seek out people whose very existance makes me feel better about myself.

Oh, and in unrelated news, why am I suddenly digging the fug that is John Mayer? Who knows?

January 16, 2008

2008-11-23T15:00:00.000-08:00

This sucks too.
Current mood: grumpy

Def Leppard is going on tour to support their new album and bringing their friends STYX and REO Speedwagon. I would totally go see that. Call me lame, but I'd be all in. But I can't go.

Jen Lancaster, one of my favorite authors, is going on tour to support her new book, and I would love to go swill chardonnay in the same room as her. But I can't.

Why, you ask? Because I live in Phoenix, the fifth largest metropolitan area in the country. Home of fantastic weather all winter long, but largely ignored by those I'd like to see.

Know what I can see? I can see Smuckers Stars on Ice. What the fuck is that? Grape Jelly on Ice? No thanks. I can also see your grandpa and his black socks and white tennis shoes, since every old person in the world comes here for the winter. We get nothing cool here, no offense to your gramps.

I'm going to have to go on a road trip to Nampa, ID, so I can rock out. After that, I'll hit Chicago to stalk Jen, bottle of wine in hand.

Another one I love. January 3, 2008

2008-11-23T14:51:00.002-08:00

Why I have voicemail.
Current mood: aggravated

All right, it's time for another lesson for assholes.

I have a cell phone, and I have a home phone. When I'm busy or away from my phone, I have a fab little feature called voice mail. Here's what you do. You listen to me say I'm not available, then you talk into the south end of your phone. You tell me who it is and why you're calling me and if you want me to call you back or not.

Seems pretty easy, no? Then why the fuck to some of you call, hang up, and call right back? If I wasn't able to pick up my phone or I didn't feel like talking to your retarded ass three seconds ago, what in the world makes you think that the circumstances have changed? I really don't like the sound of a ringing phone.

Now, your decision to call back must be based on a couple of assumptions. I shall now shatter these for you.

1. She deaf. I should call again and she'll eventually hear it.

This is false. I am not deaf. If I have my phone turned off, or leave it somewhere and decide not to retrieve it, this is on purpose.

2. Maybe she didn't realize it was me.

Maybe I did, fucktard, and that's precisely why I didn't answer.

3. She's drunk and can't figure out the buttons on the phone.

All right, I'll give you that one. But that's for the best, because if you are, in fact, a double, triple, or more caller, I'm going to tell you right then and there that I never want to speak to your annoying ass again.

4. Maybe it has nothing to do with Michele. Maybe I dialed the wrong number the first time.

Sorry, asshat, this one doesn't fly either. My name is clearly stated on my voicemail.

The bottom line is, just do what it has said on every answering machine or voice mail since their inception. Leave a message. If I want to talk to you, I'll call you back. If you know me at all then you are aware that my social skills are limited and sometimes I don't call people back because I'm just a bitch. If you don't know me that well, now you do.

Go call someone else, and remember--My cell phone is for MY emergencies, not yours.

November 9, 2007

2008-11-23T14:51:00.001-08:00

Hi Chubby!
Current mood: uncomfortable

Something is wrong with my body. For the past week I've been working out for an average of 2 hours a day and seriously watching what I eat, and as my reward my pants are now tighter. That's right. Tighter. I have to admit that I'm feeling the endorphins and I don't want to kill everyone I see, at least not on sight, so that's a good thing, but I'd prefer to get the benefits of losing a couple of pounds for my efforts. I've even been going to classes at the gym. For those of you familiar with my total and complete lack of coordination, balance, and athletic ability in general, I invite you to visualize me doing Latin Impact aerobics or Cardio Kickboxing. Laughing yet? OK, because it's about twice as bad as the picture in your head.

So I'm down on myself and feeling extra round despite all of my efforts, and my angelic little son wanders down the stairs. I look at him, smile, and call him by the nickname he's had since he was 2 months old. "Hi, Bubby!" I say.

He runs into my arms and says, "Hi Chubby!" Just great. I don't know why I bothered to teach him to walk and talk.

October 25, 2007

2008-11-23T14:49:00.000-08:00

An open letter to the people who live across the street
Current mood: restless

Dear Sirs and Madams: (I use sirs and madams because there are a minimum of 6 and a maximum of 43 people living in your house by my best count)

I remember a couple of years ago when my stepdaughter's boyfriend bought a new car with a great stereo. He brought the car over to show us right after school and turned up the stereo for all of one minute and one of the women who lives in your house came out and screamed at us. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, we'd never met before, and you're screaming at us for the noise. Nice way to introduce yourself.

This leads me to wonder what I should do when someone in your house has the garage door open at 8:30 am and proceeds to use the world's largest vacuum to clean out their little Kia for over half an hour. It's a KIA, for the love of God. I can vacuum my whole house in half an hour, but it takes you longer than that to show a KIA who's boss? You're lucky I abstained from drinking last night. I'd be hungover and seriously kicking your noise polluting, OCD early bird ass.

Secondly, you're either holiday people or you're not. If I have to look at little bunnies and plastic eggs all over your house at Easter, 82325 flags on your yard for the better part of the summer, ceramic and plastic little animals for the rest of spring, and whatever else you decide to put all over your yard the rest of the year, I think it's pretty shitty that you pretend nobody's home when my kid comes and rings your doorbell in a Power Rangers costume on October 31, don't pretend that none of you are home. I don't care if you don't believe in Halloween. Would it really kill you to toss a snickers bar to some little kids?

He's still going at it on the Kia, BTW, and I'm writing this as I watch Dirty Sexy Money online (does anyone else love that show, or am I the only shallow one here?), so I'm not doing this very quickly. Asinine, especially considering you can drive 5 miles down the road and there's a place you can pay the guys 10 bucks and they do the inside and the outside of your car in less time than Skippy is spending today.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I think you're really irritating and I don't like you that well. You aren't part of the awesome, friendly neighborhood I so enjoy. But, I will thank you for the newspapers my little boy nabs from your driveway for me on occasion.

Jett. From October 22, 2007

2008-11-23T14:48:00.000-08:00

More random thoughts
Current mood: amused

From the beautiful mind of Jett:

Me: I made cookies!

Jett: Store cookies or real cookies, like from a cookbook?

Me: From scratch. I used the cookbook.

Jett: First time ever, huh, Mom?

Now that made me feel fantastic, but not as fantastic as when we were driving back from the zoo last Friday. I was on the phone with my mama, and I told her that I took Jett to the zoo and bought my dogs some more flying monkey toys that drive us insane but the dogs actually love. I said I was making a push to be nominated from mother of the year. From the backseat I hear, "Mommy, you're always mother of the year."

I was so happy as I repeated his comment to my mother that I was about to burst, until he finished his thought, "Of course, you are the only mother I have."

Oh well. I do love that boy!

August 12, 2007

2008-11-23T14:47:00.000-08:00

I was just going about my business of watching 'Chelsea Lately' clips online (because I do love Chelsea Handler) when one of those damn M&M commercials came on. Let me just say this to the M&M people. I don't need candy with hair. It's creepy and wrong. Candy with hair is what I find in the couch. It's nasty and covered with God knows what. It's a bad thing, not a good thing. Not the association they should be going for.

And what's with the song? 'This is the day/Your life will surely change'. Why? If I eat M&Ms my life will change? Really? Will this be the day my jeans no longer zip over my flabby abdomen? Will this be the day you can no longer tell that there is a difference between my calves and ankles? Will this be the day I get a compliment on my third chin? Tell me.

M&Ms in general just piss me off. They're candy. There is an entire store on the Vegas strip that is all M&Ms. What grown woman REALLY needs an M&M T-shirt? Or home decor? It's candy, for fuck's sake. That's all it is. Candy. A little bit of chocolate covered in a sugar shell. It's not a cure for cancer. It's just candy. And some assholes are spending their hard earned money on this shit. Who works the double shift at 7-11 in the hopes of saving up enough cash to spring for some M and effing M juice glasses? WHO????

You can even go online and make yourself as an M&M. Why would you want to do this? Why? Oh, I have a reason actually.

Now I'm an M&M. EAT ME!

One of my favorite Jett-isms, July 23, 2007

2008-11-23T14:46:00.000-08:00

Jett again.
Current mood: amused

Oh, do I love my kid.

Last night, 9PM.

Jett: Mom, I need you to tuck me in now.

Tired Me: Jett, you're not a little kid anymore. Do you really need Mommy to tuck you in now?

Jett: Yep, I do. I'm not a little kid, but I am still a kid.

Me: When are you going to be done being a kid?

Jett: I dunno. I'm still going through my shenanigans. When I'm done with those, I'll be done being a kid. But right now, you still need to tuck me in.

Tough arguing with this logic.

Monday July 16, 1007

2008-11-23T14:45:00.000-08:00

My life might now be complete.

I knew I was shallow, but until now I had no idea. I try to pass myself off as sophisticated, and although I'm a pretty smart girl, my tastes lean towards the ridiculous as far as entertainment is concerned.

I'm not going to write a whole lot tonight, as I'm very tired (and yes, 100% sober for those of you who keep track). But I've found my new gospel of guilty pleasure. MySpace, America's Next Top Model, US Weekly, and Flavor of Love Girls, I'm sorry, but you must step aside. Rock of Love, I'm yours!! If you haven't seen this show, adjust your schedule. It's a must. It's on VH1 and it is a beautiful story of 25 lovely ladies competing for the affections of Bret Michaels of Poison fame. The girls are mostly aging and/or pathetic drunks, and Bret's eyeliner and long hair is done better than all of the broads. I just saw the first episode, but previews for the rest of the season were shown, and let me tell you, this is must see TV. Drunk women making asses of themselves on TV always make me feel better about myself. Because I always, ALWAYS, make sure there are no cameras around.

I will be glued to my set watching as these aging wannabes fight each other and the cruel march of time across their wrinkly faces and brand new boobies. I love me a televised train wreck like the small town girl I am, and I'm looking forward to feeling like shit every Monday from here on out because new episodes air on Sunday at 11 and you know I'm not missing a minute. Yes, Bret, I will stay in this house and rock your world. But just until my husband sends me to a mental institution without late night cable TV.

A personal favorite from June 16, 2007

2008-11-23T14:44:00.002-08:00

If........then
Current mood: drunk

Oh, look. I'm blatently ripping off Kyle who blatently ripped off someone he knows. So there. But I'm not nearly as hot as Kyle, who is an answer on my quiz, so I don't think he'll be brokenhearted.

If your BMI exceeds 27.........then shorts and/or miniskirts are not for you.

If you do not know what a BMI is.....then you need to find out, fatty.

If you take off your shoe in a crowded restaurant on a Saturday night and wave it aroud and say, "My flip flop looks funny because my feet sweated so much today"...then you are my son.

If your mommy then proceeded to drink the last of the Captain Morgan's at Chili's......then you are also my son.

If you have read all of my blogs........then I am sorry for wasting your time.

If you've read all of my blogs and haven't left me any comments....then you are an asshole, because you have all of that time on your hands and can't even bother to tell me what you think.

If you notice my boobs on my new profile picture before you noticed I was probably drunk at the time it was taken.........then you are a pervert, but that's OK. I do have nice boobs.

If you are sleeping on the couch after consuming copious amounts of cheese puffs while your wife becomes even more intoxicated....then you are my husband.

If you are fucking awesome and make me laugh till I cry.....then you are Chelsea Handler.

If you are 50 and have fake boobs and wear a tight tank top while you sweat your ass off at my gym every morning...then you need to cut that shit out.

If you are over 70 and are wearing a turquoise speedo to swim at my gym in the morning....then you are just as offensive as the aforementioned nipple queen.

If you are that 70 year old guy....then don't be offended if I run to the Wal-Mart across the street and spend 10 bucks on some trunks for you.

If you are 21 years old and live in my house and can't even pay your own cell phone bill and car insurance....then you're my stepson and you should move out and get a life.

If you weigh 270 lbs and your elbow bled all over the carpet in my family room and made my house look like a crime scene as I slept last night.......then you are my big fat dog.

If you are my seven year old son's friend and you come to my house.....kindly take a shit at your own home prior to coming over. Or at least learn to wipe without hitting the seat. (sadly, this is a different friend than the one who smeared shit in my son's closet months ago).

If you are at the helm of a white trash family of 8 in the east Mesa area of Arizona....then you and your spouse and all 6 of your inbred kids don't need to go to Wal-Mart together on Saturday. Draw straws to see who stays home with your spawn and keep them away from the rest of us.

If you are my new favorite author.....then you are Jen Lancaster.

If your biggest concern if the airplane on which you are traveling goes down and you die is if I come over and clean your house before the wake and you communicate this to me via email....then you are my friend Lorraine and I love you because you're a priceless original.

If you're Lorraine......then straighten your shit up before you leave.

If you're in the greater Phoenix area next weekend......then you need to come to my house because my friend Allison will be here and she's the only person in the whole world that makes me look sane.

If you come to my house next weekend......then I promise not to wear my bikini if you BYOB.

If you don't BYOB........then you will see what someone with a BMI hovering around 27 looks like in a bikini.

June 8, 2007

2008-11-23T14:44:00.001-08:00

Paris Hilton

I don't fucking care.

Isn't there real news they could report on? Is there a major airline problem on the east coast or a space shuttle launching somewhere? Fuck. This world is insane.

May 29, 2007

2008-11-23T14:42:00.000-08:00

More random thoughts.
Current mood: curious

The other night I was watching "The Girls Next Door" on the E! channel. I'm kind of an insomniac, so when I can't sleep, I turn to cheesy reality TV. As I laid in bed wondering if Hugh Hefner was going to approve his girlfriends' nude photos for Playboy, the show cut to commercial. Ah, the suspense in the life of three gals between the ages of 20-27 who are all dating a 112 year old man. The first ad that came on was for the new Nancy Drew movie, starring Julia Roberts' teenage niece. Is this the best the Nancy Drew marketing people can do? Are they seriously thinking that their target audience is the same as the people who are watching "The Girls Next Door?" I don't think so. It's like playing a tampon commercial during the Super Bowl. You're really not hitting your demographic. It's like showing condom commercials during Star Trek marathons on the Sci-Fi channel. Why spend money trying to sell things to people who don't need the product? I'm just saying.

Also, how many people get down to the bottom of the list "current mood" when they're posting blogs? I usually find something in a-c that will suffice. Maybe they should switch it up a little. Maybe I should use my computer for actual work. Huh.

Posted May 22, 2007

2008-11-23T14:41:00.000-08:00

OK, seriously?
Current mood: cranky

I get a little frustrated by the lack of personal responsibility in today's society. I heard a commerical on the radio today that said, "Are you buried in debt? It's not your fault." Come again? How is it not your fault? Did the people from Visa force you to obtain a credit card? Did the people at the mall hold you down and force you to sign the credit receipt and take all that crap home with you? It's your fault if you're in debt. Deal with it.

I was at my son's baseball game the other day when I overheard one of the moms bitching about how irresponsible her older daughter's orthodontist is. Come again? Turns out, the orthodontist gave her 9 year old Invisalign, and the child lost the mouthpiece after a week. Now, in my mind, the child is at fault for losing it. I remember when kids in my school would lose their retainers and have to dive into the cafeteria trash to pull them out. It's what you did. It seems to this mom that the school employees should have done that for her child. Really? You think that eight bucks an hour is enough money to dig through trash because your kid threw away her shit? I don't think so. But the real kicker is Mommie Dearest is enraged at the orthodontist. I'm really confused here. Did the 9 year old make the appointment to get her teeth fixed, ride her bike down to the office, go through the consultation all by herself, decide on Invisialign and write the receptionist a check for 5 grand? I didn't think so. You or your husband OK'd it. It's your fault, and it's your kid's fault.

I heard on the news the other day that a consumer watchdog group is suing Burger King because they're not removing TransFat from their food. They're still going to cook your fries in it. I know that stuff is bad for you, and that's why I choose not to eat fast food.* It should be up to the individual as to how they decide to poison their bodies. And don't tell me that people don't know that BK food isn't the healthiest. Even without all the media coverage, we should know that if a food product is dripping with grease that penetrates the cardboard container and the paper sack in which it's served, it's probably not good for us. That's a personal choice. It's not Burger King's responsibility if your ass is too big to fit in a chair with arms or your arteries are as hard as my countertops. It's your fault for thinking it's OK to King size it every time.

It's time for us to suck it up and realize that we have to pay for our mistakes. The life we lead is the direct result of the choices we've made in the past. Don't like being broke? Stop spending $250 on a pair of jeans and $5 on a cup of coffee every morning. Don't like your kid losing expensive shit? Don't buy it for them, and if you do and they lose it, smack yourself and then smack your kid. Don't like being an elephant with a heart condition? Eat a little more salad and put the fries down.

*Fast food consumption is, of course, necessary when hungover. Duh.
**Oh, and it's not The Miller Brewing Company's fault I'm a big fat drunk. It's mine.

Posted April 27, 2007

2008-11-23T14:40:00.000-08:00

Title: I might be funny, but Jett's way funnier.
Current mood: amused

I totally love my kid. I'm going to my friend's wedding on Friday night, but my husband can't go becasue he has to work. Boo. So I told my seven year old son Jett that I wanted him to go with me. I said, "Do you want to be my date to DeeAnn's wedding?"

He looked straight at me and said, "Mom. You're 31 years old. Shouldn't you have a date that can at least ride in the front seat?"

Posted March 8, 2007

2008-11-23T14:39:00.000-08:00

Title: Scientists are overpaid.

So a new study shows that women are three times more likely than men are to be talking on their cell phone while driving. Same scientists just discovered that women are more likely to have vaginas while driving too. That money should have gone to cancer research or something.

Posted Feb 15, 2007

2008-11-23T14:38:00.000-08:00

Title: You can fool some of the people some of the time, but the rest of us know you're an asshole.

This blog is dedicated to those of you who think you're fooling people with certain strategies you employ to try to make the rest of the world form an opinion about you. I'm here to tell you that you're not fooling most of us, and I'll tell you about the offending behaviors.

1. So you drive a 10 year old forest green minivan with the paint falling off. I'm sorry about that, I really am, but sticking large yellow and orange flames on the sides of it doesn't make anyone think you're cool. I'd even bet that your kids are made fun of by their friends when you drop them off at preschool.

2. Low rise jeans do not make you look good if stuff hangs out the top of them. By stuff, I mean your underwear, your ass crack, and fat that squishes out creating the "muffin top" effect.

3. Talking loudly on your cell phone doesn't make anyone think you're important, but it does give you the stench of desperation. It does, however, give me the right to laugh at stuff you say. My friend Holly tells a nice story about how she overheard someone talking about their STD on their cell phone in at a store. Sometimes discretion is adviseable. Unless you're talking to your granny who's hard of hearing, quiet it down a little bit or, God forbid, wait 5 minutes until you get in your car.

4. Also relating to cell phones, who the fuck goes to a bar and talks on the phone all night? That's really sad. Apparantely you didn't get the message that drinking and dialing should occur after you leave the bar.

5. Tying a sweater around your waist doesn't conceal the fact that you have a fat ass. It actually draws more attention to the fact that your ass is fat. You might as well take a big neon arrow and point it at your backside. If you're somewhere and you get hot, is it really that cumbersome to just carry the sweater?

6. If you are a famous person and you go out and get drunk in public in a short skirt with no underwear, your vagina will end up on the internet and nobody will feel sorry for you. In fact, most people probably think you're a whore. That's just the way it is. You make enough money to buy some underwear, go do it. If times are tough, I'll let you know that JCPennys has some on clearance for $.97 a piece. Get your malnourished self there, or send one of your minions for it.

Posted Feb 11, 2007

2008-11-23T14:37:00.001-08:00

1. Gnarles Barkley on the Grammys. I like the song, but I'm sitting here watching it, and the whole thing is just giving me the heebie jeebies.

2. I was watching a cooking show this morning with Jett, and Paula Deen was making cookies. Jett, with big, seven year old eyes, asked me, "Mom, you can actually make cookie dough at home?" Well shit. I know I'm not that domestic, but I didn't realize that it has been so long since I've made cookies that my kid didn't realize they didn't only come premade from the store.

3. A couple of weeks ago, when Joe made dinner, Jett mentioned that many of his friends had a "hot meal" almost every night, and he thought that we should do that more often. I had to remind him that TV dinners, Ramen, and Spaghettios, especially when served with green beans, qualify as hot meals.

4. Brown smeary stuff on the soap dispenser in my downstairs guest bathroom after Jett and 2 of his friends were here all afternoon. If you've read my previous blogs, you know that I've had incidents with children and inappropriately smeared shit before, so you'll understand my panic. I was happy to realize though, that it was chocolate from the aforementioned cookies that the boys helped me bake. Thank God Jett is making better friends.

5. Jett remembers where I parked the car more often than I do. The day you realize that your child's attention span is longer than yours kind of sucks.

6. I bake pretty good cookies. Who would have thought?

7. Jett made me choose the "current mood". I was flipping through the list and he said, "Mom, choose crazy! You're crazy!" Duh. But I think I should point out that I'm doing the best I can with this one kid I have, and I'm not having any more. Society, you're welcome.

Posted Jan 26, 2007

2008-11-23T14:35:00.000-08:00

All right. Some people have been pissing me off lately, so here we go again.

1. If you take my shampoo and conditioner out of my shower and take it upstairs to yours, you'd better bring it back. I don't enjoy starting my day by stumbling into the shower only to realize, when I'm soaking wet, that I have to use Joe's cheap ass shampoo and have nasty, tangly flyaway hair all day. It's especially irritating when I asked your ditzy ass two days ago if you needed me to purchase some exclusively for you, which I may point out was very nice of me since you're 18, not going to school, not working, and living in your filthy pigsty of a room for free. You're lucky to have a home, let alone a stepmother kind enough to provide you with premium hair care products. Just so you know, both of the straightners will remain hidden today, because if I have to have nasty hair today I think it's only fitting that you do to.

2. If you weigh over 200 pounds and you wear a sweatsuit that is head to toe purple, you will look like Barney. This is not my rule, folks, this is a rule of the universe. I'm just trying to help by letting you know.

3. Fashion designers should not be allowed to make skirts or shorts that are wider than they are long. Think about it. Also, spandex should be outlawed for any purpose other than undergarments unless the wearer is a competitive athelete. No matter what you look like, it's not OK to sit at the table next to me at Red Lobster in your spandex shorts.

4. If you must bring your young child to a movie that's rated R, please put a muzzle on them. I understand that it might not be great parenting to put a muzzle on your kid, but you suck as a parent already by letting your kid see the movie that's rated R. Your kids are going to end up in jail, rehab, or therapy anyway, so muzzle them so I can enjoy the film.

5. If you are 20 years older than me and very unattractive, and you choose to hit on my fiance in front of me, I am allowed to laugh right in your face.

6. Stop jumping on every song just because a music channel thinks it's cool. Fergielicious? The beat's good, but think for a minute that someone actually had to sit down and write those lyrics ("I be up in the gym just workin' on my fitness", seriously??) is proposterous. Plus, I'll admit that I would kill to have her body, but someone should tell her that she looks kinda like a drag queen.

Posted Dec 12, 2006

2008-11-23T14:31:00.000-08:00

So I'm kind of a grumpy girl today. Here are the reasons. If you're one of the offenders, kindly take note.

1. If you're too important to answer your own phone, at least leave your own outgoing voice mail message. I've been coming across this a lot lately. I'm very busy, and I'm actually becoming rather important in my line of work, but I can't imaging becoming so effing important that I can't leave my own message. If you called my cell or office number and some dude's recorded voice came on and said, "You've reached Michele's line. She's not available, but leave a message and she'll call you back as soon as she is able," wouldn't you think that I was an asshole? You'd be right.

2. If you have voice mail, no matter whose voice is on the outgoing message, you should return your calls. This is another head scratcher. I get this a lot from lenders with whom my clients are signed. The lender doesn't get paid unless she does her job and I do mine. When I leave a message for the VP of customer care at TMobile, a company craptacular enough to deserve an entire 10 page ranting blog by me, I don't expect him to call back. But when you lied to our mutual client and they're crying to me on the phone and you don't return my messages for 2 days, that's inexcusable. What makes it worse is when you finally pick up, on my 18th call in 2 days, and act like you didn't know I was trying to reach you. Jerk.

3. If you have nowhere to go and absolutely nothing to do, please respect the fact that I might. This goes out to all my homies who are inevitably in front of me in line. I stop into Walgreens because I need something that just can't wait. I choose a drugstore because of the convenience factor. I figure that if I hit a gas station I'll get stuck in line behind someone who's counting their pennies for their morning 40 of Mickey's or someone who needs the cashier to check 35432422 lottery tickets in order to reward the customer with their $4.00 prize. Time consuming, and I'm late. Grocery stores are out because it takes forever to park and get in there, and there's always 22 lanes with one cashier manning all of them and 44 people with full carts in front of me. Said cashier usually stands there sadly staring at the line of people wishing 1. that she'd gone to college after all, and 2. that her manager would send reinforcements. So that leaves a drugstore as the only possibility for smooth sailing. So if it's you that is arguing with the cashier that your $.20 cent coupon needs to be honored, just know that I hate you at this moment. Step aside and duke it out later.

4. If you're the mean older lady with short grey hair and glasses that works at the front counter of CVS at Sossaman and Guadalupe, please quit your job. You're mean and nasty and slow. And yes, everyone else there does scan the CVS card in the drawer to give me the discounts when I don't bring my card with me. You guessed it, I don't have a card. You're freaking Einstein, but I don't want a card, I just want you to swipe yours. You're a bitch to me at least twice a week and you should not be working in customer service.

5. If you think all Real Estate agents are the same, go ahead and think it. It's your money you're losing. I shouldn't need to explain this, really. Most of the folks I've represented lately have gotten their houses for at least 10K under appraised value. On the last deal I wrote up, the sellers lost about 13K simply because their agent didn't pick up the phone after I looked at the property with clients in 1 week. Yay for me and my buyers, but I still gotta wonder how I can key into about 100 houses per week and get 4 calls for feedback from seller's agents. Think about it, and let me know if you want more info.

6. If you're about 7 years old and you're at my house playing with my kid and you poop your pants, let's take care of it ASAP. Accidents happen. I get that, I really do. In a perfect world, you'd make that happen in your own house, but if it does happen in my house, you gotta let someone know. It is not appropriate to sneak upstairs, throw your shitty pants into my kid's closet (nice work hitting the wall with it), and burying said pants under other stuff. I know it's hard to believe, but after a long day of work my favorite thing to do is not come home and hunt all over my house for your shit. Seriously. Also, don't deny it. Even if you take the pants off, if you don't clean your ass I can smell you. I know it's you. And if you were grossed out by this, remember that I have a digital camera and chose not to use it.

7. Sometimes spellcheck is appropriate, and sometimes it doesn't matter. If you're blogging on myspace or posting bulletins or something, fuck it. No one cares. But if you're writing the PTA newsletter for an elementary school, run that shit through. There is nothing scarier than a letter home from my kids school that I can't read because the spelling and grammar errors are so horrific. Don't tell me that if I can do better then I can join the PTA. I tried that, and most of those bitches can't be told they're wrong. eVen if theyr nooslettur's luk lick this. The only way I'd go back to the PTA is if there was an open bar. This rule also applies if you're doing some sort of advertisement. The most common offender is the misused possessive, i.e. "two beer's for the price of one!" OK, that might be a bad example, because I'll show up for cheap drinks no matter how stupid you are. Ask my last boyfriend. However, it's a rule of mine that I will not patronize a business that isn't careful enough to have a fourth grader proofread their ads. That's just me.

8. If I ever get this bitchy or frustrated again, someone should slap me and send me away. Preferably to someplace that has 2 for 1 beer's.

First posted May 25, 2005

2008-11-23T14:06:00.000-08:00

Wow. I can't believe my little man is finished with first grade. He is getting so big, and he's so smart he amazes me. Of course, he lives in a house full of adults and he repeats a lot of the stuff he hears, so he has an advanced vocabulary. Some words are better than others. For example, I feel like he's smart when he says something like, "I didn't realize we were out of cereal", but I cringe when he says, "Mom! I just took a picture of Bruiser humping Winston". Another example--"I don't know if I want to go to Hunter's. I'll consider that option." Good. "Why is Joe taking so long at Walgreens? Oh, he's probably in the booze aisle." Not so good. Oh, well, what are you going to do?

The school year wore my little soldier out though. He got straight "3"s on his report card. Our school uses a system of grading from 1-3. 1 is like an F, 2 is anywhere from 65-93 percent, and 3 is 94 or better. So he did well. But isn't that the stupidest grading system in the world? A 2 is anywhere from a D to a B. If my kid is getting all D's, I'm going to cut the TV and get him a tutor. But if he's getting all B's, we'll just modify slowly. But all 2's? Who the hell knows what that means? Ah, public education. I think it's only that way through 2nd grade, and I'm pretty involved with his education so I'm not that worried.

Yesterday was the last day of school, and he got out at noon. A couple of his friends came over to swim, and Joe was off yesterday, so we all swam the afternoon away and had a great time. I went to the gym at about 5, came home at 6:30 and fed Jett, and then he went upstairs. I checked on him at 7 and he was out cold in his bed. Of course, it would stand to reason that since he doesn't have school anymore he'd go to bed on time and wake up early. But, it's after 8 and he's still in bed, so it must have been the swimming and the sun. I'm going to go get him up soon. I miss my little monkey ;)