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Ass-Flavored Cold Medicine and Other Fascinating Observations

I have spent the better part of my week sulking on my couch because of this ridiculous cold.  What cold?  The one that my freeloader brought home and so graciously shared with me.  Anyhow, in addition to squatting and sulking, I made good use of my down time and analyzed commercials as they played over and over again on my television. 

I’m pretty sure I just got dumber.

I can’t help it.  I’m compulsive.  With the sinuses not working properly, I’m certain that there has been a lack of oxygen supply to the part of my brain that tells me to ‘mute’ the television and ignore the stupid people.  I don’t know what happened but all of a sudden I found myself calling bullshit on certain claims. 

I will not argue the fact that advertising companies out there have a job to provide the best possible message to the viewing public.  But do they have to be so incredibly far-fetched that it just makes you NOT want to buy a product?

According to NutriGrain, if I eat one of their bars while fully dressed in expensive clothing, hair done and makeup on in a gourmet kitchen with the sun shining through my kitchen window; over a pastry (which by the way, I’d have to special order in to get a pastry that delectable), then for lunch I will eat a picturesque chef salad, I will push my kid on a swing (instead of sitting on a bench sucking down a monster size cup of java) except my kid is ten and if I’m pushing him on a swing, then I’ve definitely failed as a Mom if I haven’t taught my kid how to push himself on a swing.  Either that or I’m coddling him too much.  In addition to this, for my late evening snack with my perfectly chiseled husband, I will eat a giant bowl of bigger-than-life strawberries and my model husband and I will cuddle and coo and giggle all night because I chose to eat a cereal bar.

The makers of Midol claim I can manage my PMS symptoms by taking their pill.  It helps with bloating, cramping, fatigue and headaches.  Yes, for the lucky women who don’t spent the majority of their “time of the month” strategically placing their uterus and ovaries back into their proper positions, this pill might bring some temporary relief.  I love how the commercials show the women skipping around in a mini-skirt, smiling.  Can we not have Frumpy Fran sporting menstrual sweats and a baggy shirt while carrying a 14-pound bag of chocolate and bottle of wine? 

Apparently I’ve been using the wrong tampons as well.  I should switch over to Playtex since they are so trustworthy.  There is nothing I hate more than not being able to confide in my tampons.

Nationwide is on my side.  Really?

My dentist is nowhere NEAR as good looking as the dentist that is promoting the Crest commercials. 

I also need to ‘man-up’ and drink Miller Light. 

My favorite commercials (sarcasm) are the, “Were you injured in an accident? Do you need a gazillion dollars? Call Attorney Rip Uhoff and he’ll get what’s yours.”  Then all these poorly paid starving actors come onto the screen and begin to tell you how Rip got them hundreds of dollars. 

My last question, why do beer companies use the following characters for their commercials?

 How come beer commercials never show this?

Because it’s not appealing.  Really? Why not? What’s not appealing about that?

I get it.  Beer commercials are geared towards, men.  Men who like women.  Men who watch football.  I have yet to see a commercial portraying women sitting around watching football throwing back a tallboy.  It could happen.  Some of us like football too! 

I think it’s only fair that if men get to watch bouncy girls with beer, women should have this, promoting chamomile tea?

These are all things that crossed my mind while vegging on my couch sucking on cough drops.  I’m sure that with my uncanny ability to dissect everything and blow shit up bigger than what is necessary, I am digging my own hole by blogging about commercials.  But, that is what happens when you’re full of liquid ass-flavored medicine and are forced to watch endless hours of news and talk shows. 

I’m all out of clever.  This will have to do for now until the fog clears from this head cold and I’m able to write about something more stimulating.

Reality Check, In the Hardest Form

I’m the first person to admit that I complain, whine, bitch, moan, hiss and on special occasions, have a tendency to claw.  My bite is worse than my bark and I have no problem expressing my disgust for stupidity, selfishness, condescending behavior and overall assholeness (yeah I think I just made that word up). 

I’m about as wound up as they come.  I let miniscule things bother me; I tend to become stressed out over stuff that I cannot control.  I get worked up over sports commentators that trash-talk our local college football team.  I panic when my starting line-up for my Fantasy Football team doesn’t perform well.  I spew green foam when parents get into pissing matches on my son’s football field.  I worked myself up so much the other day that I actually forgot what I pissed off about. 

It all seems so trivial today. 

Lindsey I’m-a-Druggy-Pathetic-Role-Model-For-Young-Girls Lohan and her “issues”; Paris and her issues, NFL players and their inability to drink responsibly and catch a cab home, the bitch that lives next door to me that mows her lawn at 9 o’clock at night when my kid is sleeping, the punk kids who drive at mach 10 down my street when there are little kids playing.  It all seems really ridiculous and insignificant given what I now know.  

God, Buddha, Allah, whoever you want to believe in, The Higher Power that is out there tests us daily.  Maybe not financially, or spiritually, or even physically, sometimes it’s mental.  Sometimes it’s our integrity, honesty or trust.  Our fears could be tested or our faith.  For whatever reason we are tested, for whatever circumstance, I’m a firm believer (or at least have always been) in, there is a reason this is happening. 

A little girl.  A vibrant, energetic little girl, with loving and compassionate parents.  Both very involved in their church, community, and the lives of their kids.  A little girl with two other brothers and one sister.  A little girl, that I have never met, but I have seen run like the wind and twirl around unabashedly in the practice fields where my son meets 5 times a week to play football.  The little girl I’ve seen shrieks with excitement, smiles bigger than sun, moon and stars and giggles with a strong animated tone that becomes contagious if you’re around it. 

A little girl was diagnosed two days ago with Neuroblastoma and is already in Stage IV of this horrifying disease.

Her father is my son’s football coach.  Her older brother is my son’s friend and classmate.  Her Mother, I have only spoken to in passing and have used a polite smile and nod as I did so. 

Two days ago, life became more than dreading 6 o’clock in the morning.  It became more than feeling ‘put out’ because I got stuck at a red light.  It became more than being frustrated because I am obligated to make my son’s lunch.  The small kiddy pool in my backyard that my pup has dug, the $60 in hoses I have purchased, just to have them destroyed, the exasperation in my voice because I have to drive into town – again – for the 4^th time in one day, all seems so childish and selfish now. 

Shame on me.  Shame on me for being so self-centered and spoiled.  Shame on me for thinking that this is some kind of karma payback for using the F-word too many times.  Shame on me for thinking that I’m so important that I can’t possibly take time out of my pathetic day to grab my kid and say, “Let’s go play catch.”  Shame on me for thinking I have it rough because I was laid off.   Who the hell am I? 

I see this girl’s family and friends rally around this child and I am consumed by the love and support that they are receiving.  My heart is aching for this baby and there is nothing I can do; besides tell this family that they are in my thoughts and prayers. 

I have this inconceivable amount of sorrow lingering in my gut.  I’ve been carrying around a golf-ball sized knot in my throat and I have no way to release.  I am hoping and praying that this family will see positive results and this child is spared the pain that this cancer brings.  I pray that this family will receive the ‘good news’ they desperately need and undoubtedly deserve. 

Today, trivial things don’t matter.  

Today, I grabbed my son before he left for school and I wrapped my arms around him and just embraced his presence. 

Today, I laughed when my puppy chewed up his brand new toy – so much so you can’t even recognize what it was to begin with.

Today, waking up didn’t bother me.  Spilling my coffee made me giggle.  Watching uptight drivers rev their engines and gun their little 4-cylinders off the line made me chuckle.

Today I embraced the headache I got.

Today, I prayed for this family, more than I’ve ever prayed for anything.

Today, I am taking nothing for granted.

Bunions and Lemons, Getting Off On The Right Foot

Whew!  Sorry about going A.W.O.L.  I was in a much-needed time-out.  I have thought about my actions and I have learned a valuable lesson.  I need to drink more.  Then maybe people who jack my shit won’t bother me so much.  

In other news, I hosted a sort-of mini family reunion (by surprise), sent my kid off to 5^th grade, took a road trip with the ‘Mom Person’ and am currently trying to force-feed my skinny bitch sister a cupcake when she’s not looking.  I’m thinking if I tell her it’s the “new diet fad” she might eat it.  We’ve been separated for a couple of years and now that she’s back in town she weighs about a buck o-five-soaking-wet and I really dislike her for that.  I’m not being ugly; I’m just stating a fact. 

She’s getting a muffin and a Big-Gulp for Christmas. 

Oh all right, I’ll get over it.

Here’s my real topic: Cooking with Spanky. 

I’m not a Culinary Artist (unless taking the peel off an onion counts as art).  My chopping technique is hazardous, not only to myself, but also to anyone within a 15-foot radius of me and one time I forgot FLOUR when baking a loaf of banana bread.  That would be my awesomeness shining through.  However, when given proper instructions and assuming there is no time limit on how prompt something has to be prepared, I can be quite the Suzie Homemaker when I want to be. 

This last weekend I had company staying with me, and by company I mean my amorous sister who is a temporary paying guest and her youngest son.  I promised the boys (my nephew and my free-loader) that I would make a big breakfast on Sunday morning.  By “big” I mean the works; hash browns, eggs, sausage and pancakes – you know, your typical carb overload.  I later came to my senses and decided that pancakes and sausage would be sufficient enough to please the troops and opted to focus my exceptional cookery skills on my beloved pancakes.

I love lemon. 

No, my focus didn’t shift just now it’s simply just a testimony to my fondness towards citrus.  Especially when used in batter.

I purchased two perfectly proportionate lemons the day previous knowing that I was going to outdo Bisquick®.  I’m one of those “more is more” people when it comes to spices.  I’m a nutmeg, cinnamon and vanilla girl and during one of my pancake extravaganza’s, I was completely out of dry spices.  So in a pinch, I thought, maybe some lemon zest and frozen blueberries would do the trick?  It was a hit.  The freeloader loved it and Mr. Fricken Awesome was pleased at my flapjack abilities. 

Between you and me and this ridiculous blog? I was just throwing shit in and hoping it turned out ok.  But now that I’m educated in the art of pancakes and fruit, I decided that lemon zest is definitely the way to go. 

I got my griddle out, whipped up my batter, pulled my lemons out of the fridge and threw the sausage at my sister and insisted that she manage the links as my assignment was much more complex and required my full attention. 

My utensil drawer.  It’s more like a ‘catch-all’ for hand-me-down kitchen utensils that either doesn’t fit in my silverware drawer or on my limited counter space in a cutesy little container.  My kid just randomly throws shit in there as he pleases and I am forever wasting time digging through this drawer frantically looking for gadgets.  Last Sunday was no exception.  My griddle was hot, my batter was prepped and all I needed was to add the lemon zest.  I ripped open my drawer and did a quick scan of my inventory.  I saw a zester in there that I didn’t recognize.  Now, I thought back to the house full of people I had just two-weeks previous and decided, hmm some dumbass left their zester here – how convenient for me!

I snatched it out and started zesting.  Scrub, scrub, scrub … nothing.  Zest, zest, zest … nothing.  What the?  This zester sucks.  Maybe it’s one of those fancy-schmancy ones that trap all the goodies in like a pencil sharpener and you have to open it once it’s full.  Obviously.  I take the zester over to my sink and start trying to open it.  I inspect one side – no lemon.  I turn it over and inspect the other side, still no lemon.  I turn it upside down – surely there is an opening somewhere on this!

Shit!

On the front of my new (Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers) zester there was a logo.

I looked back at my batter, back to the FOOT FILE, back to my batter and GAGGED!  I ran over to my batter and started inspecting it.  Nothing.  Nothing?  Really?  Then I panicked.  I then asked my sister, “What does this say?”

Sis: What?

Me (showing her the file): THIS!

Sis:  Where?

Me (pointing to the logo):  Right THERE!

Sis: (Hysterics)

Me:  It’s not fucking funny!! I just tried zesting a lemon with a fucking foot file! What the fuck is a foot file doing in my utensil drawer!!

Sis: (Still laughing)

Me:  …

Sis: (Still laughing)

Me: Are you kidding me?  Did I really just do that?  Oh my god.

Sis (on the floor peeing herself): What were you trying to do?

Me: Shut up

At this point I tossed the foot file (still gagging) up onto the counter and revisited my utensil drawer for MY zester.  I zested my lemon and went onto make my now famous Lemon-Bunion Pancakes - smooth and tasty!

I’m off to Wal-Mart to get some toenail polish remover as we are having waffles tomorrow!

WARNING: Original Thinking and Subject Matter is Used in This Blog Post

Dear Un-original Person,

I have noticed, on several occasions, that you write almost exactly like I do.  It’s rare to have so much in common with someone you don’t even know, nor haven't even met.  I was delighted to see that my witty retorts and one-liners have somehow made their way onto your website.  However, I must have misplaced the email, letter, Facebook, Blog Comment or Fax that surely you sent asking permission to reproduce?  I’m a little dismayed, because you are a fairly popular writer and it just doesn’t seem like you would stoop to such a low level as to take someone else’s ideas or thoughts and morph them into your own.  Gosh, I just love my bubble so much, and, well you know how it is when someone invades your space – you tend to go a little ‘nutty’ and you kind of invited yourself into my bubble and simply take what isn’t yours. Where's the creative integrity in that? Are you so dense that you don't think what I've written isn't dated and posted? Hello!

I left a comment on your blog, but you deleted it.  I must have hit a nerve.  Sorry about that.  Too bad your followers weren't able to see how your creative remarks make their way onto your blog. I look forward to your apology or excuse.  In the interim, I’ve posted another blog just for you!  I hope you enjoy it.  Feel free to use this as your own as well.  After all, I’m here for YOU! Or so you must think.

Sincerely (and Fuck you very much),

Spanky

WARNING: SARCASM HAS TAKEN OVER AND IT MIGHT GET UGLY

Ding-Ding-Ding!  Tell them what they’ve won Johnny!!!!

Well Spanky, they’ve won an all-inclusive trip to Plagiarism Island. Yes, they will spend the next 30 seconds reading all about Plagiarism and why it’s important to not do it!  But wait! There’s more!  Should they choose to enter the ‘bonus round’ and to be so bold as to copy your work again – they could win the smackdown and humiliation of a lifetime!!  **crowd cheers** Yes, they could win an all expense paid trip to your blog, while you single-handedly expose them to all of their readers for the fake that they really are! **crowd cheers again**  Are you ready to play, “Don’t FUCK With Spanky?”

…YEP, STILL PISSED

pla·gia·rism

   [pley-juh-riz-uhm, -jee-uh-riz-]

–noun

1.

the unauthorized use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of themes one's own ORIGINAL work.

2.

something used and represented in this manner.

I am not an establish author.  I don’t have copyrights posted all over my blog, nor do I possess an insane amount of readers, critics or what have you.  However, everything I spill onto this blog, regardless of state-or-mind, stem from my own ORIGINAL thoughts. Wow, imagine that. A real live original thought that wasn't lifted off someone else's page.

I didn’t sit around and dig through other works of literature, poetry, forums, articles, comic books or coloring books and think, “Hey, I can pass this off as my own idea”.  Because, boys and girls, you can get into trouble for that.  Not sure if you were aware of that or not.

I could be vindictive and bitter and spew piss and vinegar all over the place (excuse me while I wipe this stain off my page), but instead I’ve chosen to be helpful.  I will now give this person a list of suggestions that they may choose to utilize in the event they feel the urge to call my comments and one-liners their own in the future.

It’s simple, so pay attention:

1.     Find a box

2.     Climb in the box

3.     Climb out of the box

4.     Now, think outside the fucking box!!!

(Results may vary)

If you follow these (easy to understand) steps, you too could be a great (an ORIGINAL thinker and ) writer. 

This suggestion is free!

No animals were harmed while writing this blog. However, there is one bitch I'd like to kick into next week!

My gift to you!

Go swallow a pencil, you certainly aren't using it for your own creativity!

And have a nice day.

Phone Etiquette

I love my phone.  Mr. Fricken Awesome has threatened to have it surgically removed from my ear a time or twenty.  I run Grand Central Station around here, I know, I’m kind of popular.  However, typically when I get a phone call, I’ll excuse myself to my front or back patio and engage in a conversation with whoever calls.  There are occasions where I’ll be in the middle of dishes, running a dictatorship with my free-loader, making my 18^th cup of coffee a project and I’ll let my caller know to either bear with me, or if they don’t mind I can call them back.  It’s the responsible thing to do.

I used to work from home.  My job required that I be tethered to my laptop and my home phone all-day-every-day.  Because India handles our Medicare now, we were required to be available during their hours of operation as well as our hours of operation (our hours being standard working hours of 8 to 5).  So I had to train the boy right off to not interrupt me when talking on the phone, because there is nothing more embarrassing than being on a conference call with a bunch of Doctors and my kid yelling at the top of his lungs, “MOM!! I NEED TOILET PAPER!!”  So we worked out a sign-language thing where if he came into the office and saw me on the phone, my pointer finger would immediately go up and he would then know that he would have to wait.  However, if it was an emergency, he did have the option to write his question down, which then after a few of these:

I had to enlighten him on what ‘emergency’ meant.  Unless you’re bleeding, broken, or dying, it’s not an emergency. 

Even though I have been laid off, the phone rules still apply.  It’s completely disruptive to be engaged in an intelligent conversation with one of my friends about yesterday’s episode of Days of Our Lives our economy and to be consistently interrupted.  Just my thing.  One of my ‘crazy Mom rules’.  So, I find it incredibly irritating when other people allow their kids to interrupt them.  Just this morning, here is a recent phone call between a non-blog reader friend of mine and myself:

Me: Hello?

Friend: Hey – STOP IT I SAID NO! – I’m sorry, what are you doing?

Me: What?

Friend: OH MY GOD YOU BETTER KNOCK IT OFF – HEY GET OFF OF THE FIREPLACE!!

Me: Hello?

Friend: I’m sorry, Hi. What are you – NO! You cannot have a Twinkie – it’s ten o’clock in the morning!

Me: …

Friend: God, I’m so sorry, my kids are being hellions.  What are you doing?

Me: Just getting ready to study, what are you up to.

Friend [Loud thud – silence – then screaming]: OH MY GOD! I TOLD YOU NOT TO CLIMB ON THE FIREPLACE!!!  [click]

I still haven’t heard back. 

Second annoyance, the Cell-Phone-Multi-Tasker:

Friend: Hello?

Me: Hey! What’s going on?

Friend: Oh you know, the usual – oh, hang on a minute.

I then hear:  click, click, click – silence – click, click, click – silence

Friend: Sorry, my sister just texted me and I had to respond.

Me: I can let you go.

Friend: No, it’s fine – oh wait, hold on again.

Click, click, click …

Friend: So sorry.  So what were you saying?

Me: Nothing, I forgot, I need to go – call me later.

Friend: Oh! Hold on again –

This goes on for about 10 minutes or so while she has an entire conversation with her sibling via text message with me on the line with her. 

The last thing that just exudes ‘AWKWARD’ when on the phone, is the friend that has no modesty while talking to you. 

Friend: Hello?

Me: What’s up?

Friend: Oh nothing, just pooping.

Me: …

Friend: Hello?

Me: Call me back.

Friend: No, it’s ok, I’m almost done.

Me: No really, it’s fine, call me back.

Friend: Seriously, I’m wiping right now.

Me: …

Friend: Ok – sorry about that, what’s up?

Me: You know, I completely forgot why I was calling you.  I’ll call you back.

If you’re using the bathroom, especially during a class 2 download, please don’t answer your phone when I call.  Please?  I have a weak stomach. 

And that’s all I have to say about that.

I Call Bullshit

Sometimes I hear or see something that gets me completely riled up.  Again, given my sympathetic and timid nature, you cannot possibly see me lose my cool.  I know.  But there are occasions that do make me want to run around screaming, WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Buckle up kids, Mommy didn’t take her ‘Fukitol’ today and she’s ‘on one’.

I don’t discuss politics.  I just don’t.  I would rather have a discussion with my fucking dog than to attempt to vocalize my views and opinions on our governmental issues with people.  It’s not because I’m scared.  I just think some things are personal and whether or not I believe in the Health Care Reform, or Obama or The Bushes or Social Security issues or the War, it’s just my opinion and I’m not going to argue with someone who doesn’t see it like I do.  That’s like debating on whether or not the sky is blue or mahogany. 

In addition to this, political debates are right up there with Religion to me.  It doesn’t matter if I go to a building every Sunday and ‘pray’ to a picture because that’s what was shoved down my throat for years.  Who said that in order to believe in God* I had to give my hard earned dandelion-picking money in the over sided bowl-plate that was passed around?  I’m perfectly capable of believing in whatever I want to believe in and quite frankly I’m fairly certain God’s not going to judge me because I didn’t give my last $10 bucks to help Preacher Dan build his redwood deck. 

So – you now know that I don’t debate. 

But, I have an itch and it needs to be scratched.

Did you hear about the $26 billion that was approved to aid states and school districts to help prevent layoffs?  If you did, that’s nice – not my point.  You can read here about it – and probably anywhere that says “News”, “National News”, “Pissed off People” or whatever.  So I’m listening to my news anchor (whom I firmly believe he sits behind his desk and gives himself blow jobs to hype himself up – yeah, he’s that pompous) tell his audience that the House just passed $26 billion to help aid the states and school districts in preventing future layoffs etc…  Now I don’t know all of the facts.  I don’t care.  BUT what pissed me off so bad that has had me stewing since Tuesday evening, was the comment out of one House Representatives mouth.

John A. Boehner of Ohio stated, “We are broke … we do not have the money to bail out the states.  It’s time for them to get their arms round their problems and not look to Washington to bail them out.”

Shut up.  I’m not picking on him – for fucks sake our state senator spends his recreational time in the men’s bathroom trying to recruit pee pee suckers. 

But I am flabbergasted at the, “Hey, I have a job, not my problem that all of our 50 states are drowning in debt” attitude that exudes from his tightwad mouth.  So, Mr. Representative and all Representatives for that matter, how about you trade with the Nation’s Teachers and emergency and law enforcement employees?  You give up your SELF FUCKING VOTED INCOME** at a median average of $174,000 per year and trade it to the deserved (Did you miss that?  I said DESERVED) teachers, soldiers, police officers, firefighters and paramedics.  You can’t do that can you?  Why not?  I would wait for an answer on this, except I’ll be dead by the time they could scramble and come up with a bullshit reason as to why they think they deserve such an absurd amount of money. 

I send my son to school everyday to sit at a desk and learn all about reading, writing, arithmetic, science, history, character, honesty, integrity, playing nicely, being respectful etc., and the men and women who stand up in front of these classes and guide our children to be the best they can be, who spend countless hours mentoring these kids; whom are ultimately responsible for our future – get the, “Not my problem” line from the House of Fucktards sitting in D.C. when shit gets thick. 

You’re right.  Lets layoff all of our important mentors and protectors and let everyone fend for themselves.  After all, we don’t need our law enforcement or our teachers.  Let’s just all start homeschooling our kids and give everyone a badge then we can walk around like Barney fucking Fife handing out our own citations to criminals.  And when there is a car accident, I’ll call the House of Representatives and ask them if they can send a bus to I-84 and perform CPR on the man who is lying on the side of the road.  We don’t need any authority or protection or guidance.  Training is overrated.  Instead, lets depend on Tom, Dick and Harry who are paid the big bucks to dictate what’s “good for us”.  Sorry teachers, it’s nice that you LOVE your job, but you aren’t important anymore – Daddy needs a prostitute – so, sucks to be you, I hear McDonalds is hiring.

Are you kidding me?

My nephew is enrolling into the military when he graduates high school next year.  What’s my point?  HE WAS SEVEN FUCKING YEARS OLD WHEN BUSH DECLARED WAR.  That’s my point.  But yet the brave men and women who are risking their lives over there are given a whopping $26k a year.  Infantry. E1 status.  So, Representatives, how do you feel about dressing down and flying over to Afghanistan and taking a bullet for your country?  These men and women have more balls than you do on your BEST day.  Their families support them, their Nation supports them and yet you get to sit in your cushy chair in the big room with a bunch of other stiff heads and dictate their destiny, all while cashing in your un-deserved paycheck. Pound sand.

As per my disclaimer above: I don’t debate.  If you disagree with me, you are entitled to.  You don’t have to agree with me.  I don’t care.  I don’t vote because of Elephants or Donkeys.  I vote on ISSUES.  My issue is the highly paid politicians out there.  They need to take a step back and get on their knees (like most of them are used to doing) and thank the public for our contribution to their paycheck.  They don’t deserve it. 

And to all the Teachers, Police Officers, Paramedics, Firefighters and Troops …

THANK YOU! 

*In no way shape or form do I think my religious beliefs are superior to yours.  So don’t email me or comment to me about it – if you do, you’ve missed the entire point of this rant.

** Information regarding Pay Raises in Congress was for point only.  I should probably tell you that this fiscal year and next, Congress has decided to NOT give themselves pay raises based on the deficit.  I should recant my rant but I’m not going to.  When they all give up their 6-figure income and join the rest of the Nation’s median income, I might shut up.  

A Single Dad, A Single Mom, A Mean Girl and A Blonde Walk Into a Bar ...

I am supposed to be cleaning out my guest bedroom to make way for a new house guest in the coming weeks, however my motivation is missing, my willingness to even try to rearrange stuff is gone as well and somehow, someway, upon realizing that I have shit in the spare closet that I don’t ever remember purchasing; my ‘can-do’ attitude has morphed into ‘fuck this, where’s my beer?’  Not setting a good example for the free loader, I know.  But it’s Friday the 13^th and I’m just not feelin’ it today. 

So, in lieu of my laziness, I’m going to blog about … blogs.  Eh?  Wait, it’s not boring, don’t freak out on me.  I’ve been seeing a lot of “Bloggy Awards” and such by other bloggers lately.  Of course, my blog isn’t on there because, well let’s face it, I have 37 followers which means I only have about 4 readers and quite frankly my blog isn’t really the “Go-To” Blog for peeps if they want attention or if they want to get noticed.  That, and I’m not really a ‘feel good’ kind of blog, and I doubt there is going to be an award out there lately for “Best Bitch”.  And no, I don’t want an award. 

Anyhow … I’m kind of giddy because I’ve run across some funny, relatable blogs lately and I’m a sharer not a taker and just thought I would give a High Five to these peeps because, well, had I not read their entries this week, I undoubtedly would be in a much fouler mood than I am now. 

Sorry, I didn’t make a cute picture or mold a trophy for them – you will just have to take my word for it – if you have a sense of humor and enjoy a good, unexpected L-O-L moment, these are the blogs for you:

1)   Single Dad Laughing – HILARIOUS!  No, not because he’s a single dad, but because his son is effing adorable and I recently learned that I’m not the only one that used to act like a mad person while driving; doing everything but standing on my head to get my kid to NOT fall asleep.  He sings “Down By The Bay” and he’s had real Chinese food with dog fur and everything!

2)   1,000 Reasons I’m a Crap Mom – LOVE. HER. PERIOD.  Please, please, please do yourself a favor and go read her stuff.  I found her through Mean Girl Garage (whom you should probably read as well, since she IS the nicest mean girl I’ve ever met).  Anyway – Craptastic Mom blogs about letting her boy play with plastic bottles of Coke and sour cream tubs – cheap and efficient!  My kid played with Tampax.

3)   A Vapid Blonde – Personally, I’m a brunette and try not to support the blondes (I mean that in a nice way) but she’s THE exception.  Her refrigerator is gay AND German, which is super cool!  Oh, and she’s a fantastic writer.

That’s it.  I have now officially encouraged all of you to stop reading my blog and go read other people who apparently know what they are doing.  Really.  Laughter is so absolutely important (in my life) and they make me laugh.  HARD. 

Not Really An Opinion ... More Like an Observation

I don’t need a parenting manual.  I have on-the-job-training and I’m OK with that.  I don’t need Professor I-Don’t-Have-A-Clue telling me that unless I shower my child with Gap clothes and Happy Meals, I’m a bad Mom.  I’m tired of people who either don’t care about their kids, or feel it is their duty to their kids to be their BFF, telling me that I’m too strict with my kid. 

If not allowing my son to run around like a striped-ass monkey and throwing down ‘F’ bombs while shoving a Twinkie in his mouth is “strict” – then I’m not going to worry about it. 

I’ve been a Mom for 10 years.  Doesn’t seem like a long time.  If you were going to put it into some kind of corporate ladder program, I would probably still be in the peon category and wouldn’t advance until I experience a total melt-down with my child and am able to handle it with grace and dignity. 

A recent post, the one where I was a big girl and didn’t start a fight, has been haunting me for a while.  I originally wanted to evaluate my parenting skills and instead, I went all over the place beginning with discipline and ending with ‘How I raise my kid’.  None of it fit.  I would write, delete, write, delete, write again, and cut and paste on several occasions to avoid offending anyone with my theory on parenting. 

After speaking with a ‘bloggy’ friend of mine (whom I’ve grown to respect quite a bit), I realized, who cares?  This is me.  My blog.  My rules.

I’m pretty sure I don’t need written permission to broadcast my thoughts and opinions.  Right? Unless something changed and somewhere in the “Blog Rules” I missed the part where I was supposed to be mindful of people’s beliefs and feelings.  Bull.  You want mindful, go read some crap from Richard Simmons. 

Originally, I wanted to touch more on how people parent.  Now I’m just pissed off because I see so many people who should have their adult card revoked and who should be required to undergo extensive testing to include but not limited to: patience, tolerance, keeping a level head and knowing the difference between a loving parent and person who acts like they lost a bet and inherited a child in lieu of it.

I see and hear, more often than I want, “specialists” and pretend specialists give their two-cents on How To Raise Your Child.  This is great news!  I’m sure people way back in the day would have loved to have had a fucking parenting manual.  Get real. 

Every. Child. Is. Different. PERIOD.  How can you possibly write a book about raising kids and convince people that this shit is gold? Desperate parents, whom have had their very last nerve trampled on, look to literature written by “experts” who claim they know what it takes to raise a successful, respectful child. 

Awesome.

Does said expert understand that some kids, more often than not, have different chemical makeup in their brains and not all kids are exactly alike?  Nope, said expert has a piece of paper in his or her study that validates their Child Psychology expertise and therefore qualifies them to shove their opinion down your throat because they were able to get NBC or PBS on board with their psycho-babble.

Here’s the thing.  Parenting is hard.  Rewarding at times, trying at times, adventurous, mind-boggling, high stress, and not for people with a lack of compassion or understanding that they too, once strutted around thinking they knew everything. 

Moms or Dads don’t have a handy-dandy checklist to refer to when things get challenging.  I mean, if we did, I’m pretty sure I would have known that the toddler potty seats that you put on your toilet to train your rug-rat - are not childproof. 

Yes, my son managed to get it off of the toilet seat and somehow placed it over his head.  Had I had a checklist, I would have known to put my two year-old in the car and take him to a professional child toilet seat remover.  Instead, I put him in his Johnny Jump Up and cut the plastic-covered seat off of him with my kitchen knife. I believe I did have my head temporarily stuck up my ass – however, I now know better than to attempt that in the event it should ever happen again. 

I actually do have a point.  There is no perfect parent out there.  I surely don’t claim to hold that title.  But if you’re cell phone, soap opera’s, Facebook time, Twitter updates, beer time or whatever is more important than the 3 minutes it takes to apply sunscreen to your child, then I might venture to say you are quite possibly extremely selfish and unfit.  Yes, I’m still stewing over the heifer from the water park.

That also goes for the parents that I see, on a weekly basis, who allow their children to test the sound barriers in the middle of the grocery store because they can’t have the $2 tube of sugar that has been strategically placed in the checkout lines.  Man up! Grow a fucking pair and discipline your damn kid.  And I’m not talking about the “You better knock it off …” threats that I hear from the ignorant parent.  Those are empty threats.  If they weren’t, the child would know it and would stop their bad behavior.  But because the kid is used to being screamed at and smacked upside the head by the 8^th – grade educated nimrod that somehow managed to reproduce, he or she learns that Mom or Dad’s threats are now – empty. 

I become incredibly irritated with parents who feel ‘put out’ by their kids.  The toilet seat incident with my son was traumatizing for me.  I panicked.  I just knew that C.P.S. was going to come bang down my door and make me hand over my kid because I allowed him to wedge it over his head.  I cried and cried over my lack of common sense.  So it completely makes me want to slap people when they treat their children like they are inconveniencing their social life. 

I get that parents become comatose over the everyday stuff.  I completely understand that moment of complete frustration and feeling of total loss and desperation when your child is continuously testing that very last nerve you had specially reserved for a later time in your life.  I relate to the temporary lapse of judgment that happens when you decide to feed your child ketchup and cheese because you are so tired you cannot possibly function properly to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  But when duty calls, when you catch your kid talking like a trucker, or swinging from the chandelier or trying to put the cat in the dryer – it’s our responsibility to remedy the craziness and PARENT.

Simply choosing to scream obscenities at them because what patience we had – left a long time ago – is unacceptable.  The child then learns that he or she can eventually tune out the yelling and then it ultimately won’t affect them like you thought.  Hence the skank at Wal-Mart who, without looking at her child, screamed, “You better knock it the fuck off!”  The child continued screaming and then managed to dump the box of sugary goodness off the shelf, then proceeded to tell her mom, “F--- you!”  Yeah – if at the age of 5 your child is telling you to ride the F-train, you might want to re-evaluate your parenting skills.  Just sayin’.

I’m not Debbie Do Right, and I don’t sit around and put puzzles together with my kid.  I don’t always hold his hand and sing songs with him and I very rarely have chocolate chip cookies made with a Big Gulp size glass of milk waiting for him when he gets home.  But I do help him with his homework, tuck him in at night, and tag along to every practice and football game.  I clean his puke up, give him massages for his growing pains, play hide n’ seek dart tag with him, buy him an ice-cream just so we can watch the sunset together; and I do make him do pushups when he gets into trouble.  And yes, I have made him do pushups in the grocery store before.  Guess what? At least he’s not telling me to F-off. 

Being a parent is more than feeding and watering your kid.  My tolerance is tested daily.  I second-guess myself all the time.  I occasionally have to put myself in time-out because I sometimes cannot figure out why, an intelligent little boy, would try to un-clog the toilet with his foot and not a plunger.  This is called character building.  I have to referee the Nerf Gun fights, the bantering back and forth and I also have to encourage good choices.  My pantry does not have a revolving door, it’s NOT ok to shoot the cats with darts, our couches are not trampolines and it’s not ok to attempt to blow my windows out with the stereo at 6 am in the morning.

But, I signed up for this when I accepted the responsibility of being a parent. All kids want, is to be praised, loved and respected.  If you don’t praise, love or respect your child, how are they going to learn to return the behavior?  Don’t call Maury Povich begging for help when you can’t pull your ass off of the computer long enough to parent your kid.

I’m not over it.  I’m still butt hurt over the shit I see.  But for now, my playtime on the WWW is over.  I’m off to go kick my kids ass in a dart gun fight.

Peace!

Bad Driver Committee and Verbal Diarrhea, With a Side of Poop

So here it is.  In black and white.  In case, in my previous rants, you weren’t exactly clear on my level of detest for inattentive drivers; and my second irritation – grown men who parade around in two’s and use their vehicle to intimidate people. 

I’m not sure what ‘road rage’ you all experience in your parts, but over here in B.F.E., it’s fairly common to see testosterone seeping through the pores of a particular kind of verbally challenged men.  Granted, they are rare, as I think they only come out between their wake-up time of 2 and 3 o’clock in the afternoon, but when you see one, look the fuck out.

Before I elaborate on my encounter with Beavis and Butthead, I should probably tell you that I was in no condition to write about these topics on the actual day they happened because I am still recovering from the world’s worst tooth pain.  So, I’ve had a couple of days to marinate in this and now I feel refreshed and able to tap into my artistic side and paint the lovely picture of not only my erratic breakdown, but also how I act when provoked.

During my morning ritual of obsessive coffee drinking on my front porch, I noticed our really weird neighbor walking his two dogs.  Nothing out the norm, as I see him daily and nightly, make his way down our street, behind our house, over the river and through the woods – yada, yada, yada.  Aside from him having political conversations with his labs, he pretty much keeps to himself unless you make eye-contact with him, and then you are forced to secretly dial your home phone from your cell phone and act put out when your home phone rings because of course you would love nothing more than to talk to this man but – a phone call trumps discussing his distaste for the current government.

Anyhow, I’m sitting on my front porch having yet another conversation with my Dentist regarding the discomfort I am feeling when I notice this man stops in front of my yard and allows his dog to defecate on my lawn.  Please note: if your dog needs to go – by all means – when duty calls … who am I to stand in the way?  But if you leave it there for ME to clean up – we have issues.  Bring a bag with you maybe?  I don’t know, I haven’t been a dog owner for very long but I can assure you if my dog tried to cop a squat in someone’s yard with the owner standing right there watching, and I didn’t have anything to scoop it up, I would not be encouraging him to do so. 

Lab shits. Weird man leaves.  I’m now not paying attention to the dentist but have now become ‘Patty Poop Patrol’ and am ready to write out a citation for public display of smelly crap on my lawn! 

I hang up the phone.  Run inside and grab the last pair of rubber gloves I have and 2 grocery sacks.  I stomp out to my yard, pick up the master of all shits and throw it inside of a paper sack.  I get a sharpie, a piece of paper and a stapler and well … took this to the man’s house (or at least I think it was his house):

Yeah.  I feel better.  TONS! 

Later … that same day …

I’m driving into the next town.  We all know driving is always an adventure for me as I attract all the deadbeats in one city when I’m out.  I truly believe an APB goes out once I pull out of my driveway and all the bad drivers congregate to my vicinity. 

Head of Bad-Driver-Committee: Breaker, breaker 1-9, this is ‘Mullet-Man’ do you copy?

Assistant to the Head of Bad-Driver-Committee: Go ahead ‘Mullet Man’.

Mullet-Man: The hairline has receded, I repeat, the hairline has receded; this is not a drill.

Assistant: Roger that ‘Mullet Man’, ‘Operation Fuck With Spanky’ is a GO!

Either that, or people truly don’t handle construction well and evidently feel that any and all speed limit signs, merge signs, stop lights and signs are all just “suggestions”. 

I’m on our only Interstate.  Currently, it’s 3 lanes, about to change to 2.  This is where people have to merge.  I’m in the middle lane; to my right is a PT Cruiser.  My exit is coming up.  The PT Cruiser is refusing to let me pass so I slow down so the driver can go ahead.  Nope. PT Cruiser slows down.  We play the slow-down-speed-up game for a minute.  I give and continue at my normal speed.  PT Cruiser decides to drive in my lane with me.  No signal.  I swerve into the left lane to avoid being sideswiped at 55 mph.  Very loud noises come out of my mouth and the filter springs a leak.  I regain my composure and get back into my lane – behind the Cruiser, but not before I get a sneak peak at the driver.  Dead-ringer for Bea Arthur.  I don’t feel bad for screaming at her or flipping her the bird – partly because she is completely oblivious as to what she just did.

I’m freaking out, just as I notice that the truck I cut off in the process of avoiding a collision with one of the ‘Golden Girls’ is directly behind with Beavis and Butthead throwing their middle finger at me and mouthing off.  Horn is honking and the driver, Butthead, is riding my bumper.  They back off - ride up. Back off, ride up.  Then they swerve to the outside lane and pull right up next to me.  Still talking shit and honking.  Then they lane check me and put their brakes on.  I’m now doing 30 in a 55.  I go around.  They follow.  I take the exit I needed and as I’m waiting at the light to turn, a lovely conversation took place:

Both men, I would say, were mid-30’s, each wearing homemade sleeveless t-shirts.  Their hats were too small for their heads and the passenger was sucking on a wad of chaw.  Bobble heads were swaying back and forth on the dashboard and at least 2-dozen forest green trees were hanging from the rearview mirror. 

Butthead: F--- you, you @#%(&@ b-----! This is WHY WOMEN should NOT be allowed to drive.  You F------ C---!! B----! 

(Name-calling does not bother me.  I’m a big girl and I can handle being called names. However, just because I have a vagina, that does not mean you can attempt to intimidate me with your less than impressive words and go all Mel Gibson on me.  Really?  Yes, I took the bait and returned the adolescent behavior.)

Me:  This, coming from a white trash, inbred, neanderfuck hillbilly like yourself.  Get over it!!  

(That was probably a bad move on my part.)

Beavis: F--- You, you F------- (fill in the blank)!!

Me [ignoring them]: …

Butthead: I hope you know, I wrote your license plate number down!!

Beavis [spits his chaw out]: Yeah! We have your license number!

Me: I’m actually quite impressed that you even know how to write asshole!

Light turns green, I go.  They follow.  I stop at a local coffee drive-thru and they circle me like sharks in the parking lot and then bail.

I didn’t call the police (as I usually would) because when I swerved, my cell phone flew under my seat.  I also didn’t take their license plate number down because I was unwilling to search my vehicle for a piece of paper and a pen while avoiding the mullet patrol and navigating through construction. 

I pull over and, after finding my phone, I called Mr. Fricken Awesome because at this point every emotion under the sun has entered my body and I am, what some would label, a flipping mess.

I went onto tell him about the verbal diarrhea that happened between the testosterone twins and I.

He always misses out on my ability to create havoc.  He is my ‘center’ when I am with him.  He is a super calm person and he avoids confrontation. Unless his buttons are pushed. He makes me feel completely safe and at ease. Unfortunately, he was working in another town and completely unavailable to come and beat the stupid out of them with their own arms.

I chain-smoked all the way home and even took the back roads to avoid any further encounters with the ‘Bad Driving Committee’. 

I'm The Proud Parent of a Smart Ass!

Would you rather wake up at 4:30 in the morning with a mind numbing, throbbing pain radiating from your ear to your jaw, with the inability to stop the pain? Or give birth to triplets in 100-degree weather in the middle of the desert with no drugs?  I personally, would choose option number 2. 

As Murphy’s Law would have it, option number 1 happened last Saturday morning and we all know that tooth pain can never come to us on a Monday at 9:00 a.m.  NO! It has to come as early as possibly on the weekend so we endure 48 grueling hours of pain and discomfort. 

I don’t know how you all deal with pain, but I don’t deal well with it.  I become this enraged, psychotic monster and tend to give tongue-lashings to anyone who looks at me cross-eyed.  I was fairly close to grabbing a set of pliers from Mr. Fricken Awesome’s tool barn and ripping the tooth out myself.  Luckily Mr. Fricken Awesome saw the desperation in me and managed to talk me out of self-inflicted pain. 

I was able to get into the dentist this morning and after copious amounts of numbing agent, antibiotics and painkillers that were pumped into my tooth, I am able to think clearly for the time being.  However my face is numb from my eyeballs to my chin and I cannot drink, eat or talk without slobbering all over myself.  The 10-year-old smartass that I’m raising is finding that this may be the only time he is allowed to make fun of me.  Here’s how our conversation went when I arrived home:

Him: Yay! You’re home! How did it go?

Me:  It went fine, exthept I’m numb and can’t really tock.

Him:  (laughter)

Me:  It’sth not funny thon.  My fathe isth numb.

Him:  (more laughter)

Me:  What do you want for lunch?  Isth a quethedilla ok?

Him: Thur, a quethedilla thoundth great!

Me:  Really?  You want to go there?

Him:  I’m juth trying to make you feel better.

Me:  By mimicking me?

Him: Yeth.

Me:  I thee how it isth.

Him:  It could be worth, you could not be able to talk at all.

Me:  How do you want your quethedilla?

Him: (laughter)

Me:  ...

Him:  Could you juth say ‘quethedilla’ again?  Itsth hilariouth!

(more laughter)

Me: …

Him:  Ok, ok, for real.  Can you make the quethedilla not tho crithpy?

(hysterics)

Me: …

Him:  I crack mythelf up.

I can’t get mad.  I’m actually a little proud.  Mr. Fricken Awesome and I have taught him to ‘be one with your sense of humor’. 

Thatsth all for now.  I’m off to thudy for my teth.