Mighty Mites! (It's a play on words)

If I were to describe to you what bugs do to me in one word, it would be “psycho”. 

Not just “Eewww, there’s a bug.” But more, “OH MY GOD THERES A F’KING BUG, GET IT AWAY FROM ME!!”  Complete the mental image with a ‘heebie-jeebie’ dance and any idea of toughness that I portrayed to you is gone.  I really do scream and carry on just like a little sissy (pink dress wearing) girl.

I. Hate. Bugs.  Any bug.  Furry, fuzzy, big-eyed, 6 legs, 8 legs, no legs, wings, no wings, black, red, brown, white, green, stinky, crunchy, creepy, buzzing, stinging, biting and especially ones that have an English accent.  It does not matter.  You will never be able to convince me of a bug that is a “nice” bug. 

Now, here is my predicament.  Every spring my master bathroom becomes the hosting ground for the ‘Clover Mite Convention’.  It’s a pretty grand affair.  Clover Mites from all over the yard congregate in this sacred place to pay tribute to my walls, floors, shower, and face wash.  This year will be their 3^rd Annual Event.  While I should be honored that they’ve chosen my bathroom, I don’t want to.  I’m appalled.  I don’t look at it as a celebration.  I can’t help but view this as a rebellion – a ‘tea party’ of some sorts.  I see them with their little picket signs saying, “We have rights too!”  The fuck you do; you little microscopic red, hairy, ugly, irritating little shit for brains!

I have bubble issues and they are invading my personal space.

I cannot enter my shower without it looking like someone had a cayenne pepper party in there.  I’m at a loss.  They. Will. Not. Leave.   This has become rather detrimental to my wellbeing. 

Anytime I see a speck of dirt, coffee ground, crumb – anything resembling a dot – you will more than likely see me bent over at the waist with my nose to the counter top, assessing the situation. 

To the naked eye, below is an example of what you would see:

(This is a dramatization; the characters in this picture are actors.)

Now here is what I see. 

(This is NOT a dramatization, actual footage taken in my bathroom enhanced by Photoshop to make it scary.)

Mr. Fricken Awesome did some research for me yesterday and he tried convincing me that they are harmless.  Regardless of what he told me and what I’ve read with my own eyes, I am a ‘cancer’ and therefore I am stubborn and it is my conclusion that these bugs are out to give me an ulcer.  I stress. Every-fricken-day.  I arm myself with 409® and a water jug and spray them off of my shower walls before each and every shower.  And as if that wasn’t OCD enough, I take inventory of the ones I missed while I’m showering; so afterwards I can eliminate them and give them a water ride down Mr. Toilet. 

This has become a major headache, self-induced - but nonetheless, a headache.  When I am in my bathroom having ‘me’ time, I sit on the toilet monitoring their whereabouts. I literally sat in there one morning and counted the masses of them invading my new package of toilet paper.  Being unable to touch them with my bare hand, I wet down a piece of toilet paper and attempted to ‘dap’ them up, but they just kept sinking in between the sheets.  By the time I was done, my bathroom looked like a small animal had ransacked my Charmin®.  I’m obsessed. 

I should also inform you that I read an article that claims if you “ignore” the little shits, it helps.  I’m sorry, these aren’t humans and I’m not 5.  This is not a case of ‘turn the other cheek’ or ‘be the bigger person’ here.  This is serious and I’m in need of some major intervention.

I’m open for suggestions on how to remedy this horrific act of personal invasion.  I’ll be the one standing on her toilet waving around a plunger and chanting “FREEDOM!!!” until I’m able to come up with a solution.

Birthday's and Pups

Ten years ago today I was getting my seven-foot long ‘bitch horns’ dipped in chocolate filed down. 

The Hospital doesn’t look kindly on wild animals roaming around aimlessly demanding drugs, so I agreed to lay in my bed and only nip at the nosey, over controlling, mildly menopausal ex-mother in law as I prepared to give birth to my 9 pound 1 ounce toddler I call ‘Tony Baines’.

No, I’m not going to coochy-coo this whole blog entry.  I’m simply just explaining to you that I am absolutely in shock that I have a 10-year-old, when it only seems like 10 years ago that I, the woman who doesn’t like anything gooey, became a Mom. 

At the age of 1, I couldn’t believe he was ‘1’.  And by the age of 2, I was convinced that I wasn’t cut out for this ‘Mom’ stuff.  By the age of 6, I grew insanely obsessed with birthday parties and the need to ‘out do’ what I did the year previous. 

Today he is 10, and he became the proud owner of a Puppy.  I became the proud Mom of a young Man.  And Mr. Fricken Awesome (my Fiance) became the Puppy’s favorite. 

Happy Birthday to my favorite kid! 

Spoiled. Rotten.

I’m sorry.  I haven’t been on “my game” for a few days.  I’ve been completely consumed with a ‘project’ lately and I’ve forgotten that I have a blog! 

So, I started thinking about what really irks my goose and aside from the obvious Wal-Mart dwellers, stupid women who can’t drive in my state who are giving me a bad rep, and my continuous inability to increase my heartbeat without getting injured, I’ve opted to bitch about Reality T.V. shows. 

High-maintenance women everywhere are about to throw their ‘Dooney and Burke’ purses at me now.  Trust me, I’m over it.

I know, I know, it’s incredibly intriguing to watch so-called “normal” people go through the daily struggles of what nail polish to pick out and how absurdly irritating it is that Buffy cannot get the tanning bed she reserved.  The nerve!  I particularly loathe the self-centered, spoiled rotten, “My Mommy Bought Me Boobs Because She LOVES Me” ­soon to be 16 year-olds whining and complaining that Daddy didn’t get them Tupac for their “Super Sweet Sixteen” birthday party. 

BECAUSE HE’S DEAD YOU NIMWIT! 

So because Daddy can’t get her a dead rapper for her birthday, she throws a screaming walleyed 2 year-old temper tantrum and demands a McLaren instead to make up for his sour mistakes. 

While we’re on the subjects of 16 year-olds – I just found out today, that there is an MTV series now called “16 and Pregnant” (gasp!)  You have got to be #@%&ing kidding me!?  Now before you chortle and slap me on the head with a “Welcome to 2010” sign, let me clarify, I realize this show has been airing for 2 seasons, but I, unlike 90% of the training bra population out there, don’t sit around from 3 pm to Midnight watching smut television.

This is where you nod and smile and pretend like you are interested in what I have to say about this. 

REALLY?  The last thing I would do (if I had a 16 year-old pregnant daughter) is reward her with her own show!  I may as well paint a yellow-brick road to her vagina and sing “If I Only Had a Brain”.  Are you kidding me? 

This is how I imagine their conversations:

Teenager:  “Mom, I’m pregnant.”

Mom: “Oh honey! How wonderful, now we can finally have that MTV series we’ve always dreamed of!  Let’s go get manicures and lattes to celebrate!”

I couldn’t even fathom inviting cameramen and crew into my home to video my daughter and her struggles with motherhood. 

These are babies!!  Sixteen years is a baby!  Trust me, I knew everything when I was 16, who didn’t?  But it took one death glare from Truman (My Dad); or one tiny resonance of disappointment in TMP’s (The Mom Person’s) voice to set my ass on the straight and narrow.  

Trust and believe, if my son ever gets a wild hair up his ass to play “house” with some little girl, the wrath of all wraths will come down on him.  Just sayin’.

Here’s an idea, how about you do a reality T.V. series about the everyday American Mom that get’s up at the ass-crack of dawn to get their kids off to school, does the laundry, dishes, fields calls from India-R-Us, hides from the ignorant door to door salesman that can’t read the “No Soliciting” sign, fights Wal-Mart and other major grocery store chains, fixes dinner, checks homework, pays the bills and still barely has enough money at the end of the month to pay attention?  Or even of a single Dad, or Mom who works and takes care of their kids? 

I’m not talking about that bimbo from Jon & Kate Plus Eight and I’m definitely not referencing “The Real Housewives from Orange County; New Jersey, Atlanta or fricken Omaha”.  Those women give a whole new meaning to “high maintenance”.  How do these people get these gigs?  Not that I want my own reality show (I’d last a millisecond) and be banned off of the air for making my son sort his own laundry. 

I’m absolutely aw-stricken by the lack of imagination that’s out there. 

Big time representative #1: “Gee Chuck, we need something to draw young kids in, got any ideas”?

Chuck: “Gosh Frank, the only thing I can think of is a spoiled little brat exuding greediness on her 16^th Birthdays and little boys who can’t keep ‘little boy junior’ in their pants and little girls who fantasize about bringing up their babies in ‘pretend land’.”

Frank (Formerly known as “Big Time Representative #1”): “Wow Chuck, that’s brilliant!  We’ll create millions of self-righteous teeny-boppers everywhere that think once they turn 16, they’ll not only get a BMW, but also live in ‘Happy Single Parent Land’!  Excellent!” 

Puke!

I’m done.  Please don’t send me hate mail, or hateful comments.  I’m “on one” today and I felt the need to entitle you to my opinion. 

Da Na Na Naa Na Na Naaaa!

Two weeks into my Metabolic Training class and somehow that qualifies me to sport my “Super Woman” cape and refer to myself as ‘Super Spanky’.

Weird Trainer man has set up 2 competitions within his class. 

1)   Body percentage/Fat Loss competition

2)   “Pull Up” competition

Now, why I opted to sign up for both is beyond any type of comprehension.  I saw the list of who was doing what and for some reason; my testosterone kicked in and my brain said, (in my best macho man voice) “I will do both of them!” (Insert superhero music).

My interpretation of pull ups is similar to this:

Notice my impeccable form and my impressively long arms.  I brought sexy back today and I know that my peers were intimidated.

Now let me show you what my competition looked like:

Showoff.

I’m screwed.  If my mouth hadn’t written a check that my body can’t cash, I would be blogging about sunshine and rainbows right now.   But because I’m ‘Lippy Von Lipster’ I now have two options.  Eat crow, or run away.

Coordination is hard.  My trainer won’t let me wear my helmet and knee pads and I think it’s absolutely absurd that he would allow me to sign up for such an event given my track record. 

I tried to take it back, but he gave me that really annoying ‘pep talk’ crap. “I know that you can do this, you’ll do great!” 

Ok first of all, you’re PAID to talk out your ass.  Secondly, you don’t know me.  You’ve known me for 7 days and quite frankly, I think you’re snowballed.  I show up for training and put my ‘big girl pants on’ so I don’t look like a pussy bed wetter in front of everyone else.  However, it’s a much, much different painting when I get home.  Insta-5 year old comes out and I end up in the fetal position, whimpering to myself because every fricking inch of my body hurts.

(All of the above was said in my head.  I didn’t actually regurgitate all of that in person.)

So I’m stuck.  My “I am woman” (hands beating chest) rant that I displayed is now in full force and I have no choice but to act accordingly. 

Excuse me while I go dig out my cape.

Fake n’ Bake, or au naturale?

I chose fake n’ bake.

In an effort to have some one on one time with Mom No. 2 (my future Mother in Law), she arranged for us to have a nice leisurely, enjoyable experience at a local tanning salon.

This wasn’t my first rodeo.  I’ve been tanning before, and yes, while I usually require my hand being held and step-by-step instructions on how to get in and out of the bed without injuring myself, I’ve never been one to go frequently. 

Whenever the word “tanning” comes to mind, I simply cannot bring myself to throw down $15 for a tan and an additional $60 for a bottle of lotion, just so I can look like this:

I take my skin seriously (said the girl with white-out lines on her skin).  I’m not a fan of closing myself in a bed – for fear of breaking the bed and burning to death.   I’m not tanning bed trained and I am a liability.  If someone tells me “You should do well for 8 minutes” and throws a bronzer at me, promising golden skin – I believe them. 

Gullible. 

Millions of women do this.  Some are professionals.  I’m a rookie.  Anything claiming to make me beautiful should be a dead giveaway that I should run away fast and not look back.  But I didn’t, because a quick dip in the artificial light sounded like a good time.

I took the free bronzer, my borrowed goggles and my idiot brain to my room and felt good about the fact that I too, was going to look like the 20-something blonde, at the counter, that exuded ‘high maintenance’.

I lathered up and climbed into the bed – and spent the next 8 minutes doing the robot with my arms to make sure I didn’t leave any white stripes anywhere.  The first 4 minutes were very relaxing – however by minute 5, I was ready to bail. 

I burned. 

Eight minutes in a tanning bed and I look like I spent all day on an aluminum boat with Crisco on my skin.  Nothing says “sexy” like bright red skin and the inability to stand being touched.  

It’s now day 3 since I baked myself, and I still cannot wear pants, shirts or take a shower without belting out obscenities. 

Mom No. 2 had a much better experience than I did.  Most women would.  I’m the exception.  If it’s “girly” and there is some “guarantee” that I’ll look gorgeous, chances are, it’s not meant for me. 

I enjoy being in the sun, and I enjoy going tanning, on occasion.  However I do not enjoy being the stupid girl that can’t sit down without a donut pillow because her ass is burned. 

My fiancé asked me “Why didn’t you at least cover up your breasts?” 

“Because I didn’t want tan lines.” You know, because I frequent the streets and my local Wal-Mart, naked.

He says to me, “Well you could have worn pasties.”

Now to a woman who looks like a 12-year old boy trapped in 33-year old’s body, pasties would not have worked.  Not even the strongest of super-glues could keep them on. 

While I appreciate the concern, red gingersnaps, are the least of my worries. 

Should I venture into the world of tanning beds and bronzing lotions again, I will wear a bikini top and bottoms, and will more than likely ask the nice girl to limit my playtime to 5 minutes, rather than 8.  

Either that, or buy a bottle of fake sun.  After all, orange is the new bronze. Right?

Sore Tooshy, Muscle-Schmuscle and Parking the Catty Wagon

(DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT MY PICTURE, NOR DO I CLAIM ANY RIGHTS TO THIS, I JUST THOUGHT IT WAS F'KING HILARIOUS)

After my “tipping” incident, I took a moment yesterday morning to reflect on the pros and cons of getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to workout.  In a matter of minutes seconds and through deductive reasoning, I was able to resolve that the only exercise my body was going to get was from my couch to my bathroom – and that was it! 

Today?  I begrudgingly showed up for more punishment.  Ginger wasn’t able to go, so here’s how our text convo went afterwards.

Me: Workout was good. We did that weird Tabata training today.  Soon I’ll be able to crack a walnut with my butt cheeks!

Ginger: Ha ha ha!! How are the legs?  Mine are still very unhappy with me.

Me: OH God! Yeah, my squats are looking more like the ‘farting stance’ – not pretty!!!

Ginger: Farting stance complete with facial scrunching???

Me: U Betcha!!! And followed with 4 solid minutes of butt busters (bridges).  I now walk like I have an extra large coke stuck up my ass!

Ginger:  You will have to show me these “butt-busters”.  I want to join the coke up the ass club!!!

Me: My pleasure! But this aint no diet coke!  It’s the BIG GULP of all cokes!

Ginger: (insert visual here)

Ginger: Here’s a funny mental image – me mowing the lawn with my pain-flavored jello legs.

Me, not understanding what she just said:  Pain flanored?  

(yes, that’s how I typed it – I have no excuse)

Ginger: Well it’s not cherry flavored!!!

I realize this may not be at all funny to you, but it was to me. 

Side note ** MY blog!

*----*

Ok, onto more important things, I’ve gained a pound and a half!  WTF CHUCK? 

Weird trainer dude, (he’s weird because he keeps texting me shit like “great workout today” – Really?  I think he’s mocking me, because in my head that translates to “I don’t care if you lick windows, take the special bus or occasionally pee on yourself – you hang in there Sunshine, you’re friggen special!”) 

WOW, where was I?  Oh yes, weird trainer dude told us that we will probably gain “muscle” before we actually drop fat. 

Now I’m not a muscle vs. fat guru, but I can tell you, I’ve spent more time in my bathroom these past couple of days than I did prepping for my colonoscopy; and I thought for sure that the extra trips were resulting in fat loss.  I don’t recall picking up extra muscle and slathering it on at anytime during my hourly visits! 

This is bullshit! 

*----*

And last but certainly not least – I promised to talk about ‘mood swings’ today, but I parked the catty wagon and am feeling a bit too chipper.  So we’ll discuss those at a later time.  Say maybe . . . 24 days from now?

Feelin' a little 'catty'

“I’m rubber and you’re glue, everything you say, bounces off me and sticks to you!”

Yes, I’m 12 today. 

I’m feeling a little ‘catty’ and not sure why.  It all started when I saw how cute Kelly Ripa looked today and also how thin she is (skinny bitch) and I decided that she really needs to eat a Cinnabon.  I’m not being ugly, I’m just saying out loud what most women are thinking.

What happens when men see other men (mostly celebrity men) on a magazine or T.V. show?  Do random 12-year-old comments come out of their mouths?  I can’t remember ever witnessing my fiancé saying “Wow, Tiger, eat a cupcake”.  Men just don’t do that.  Or do they?  I’m genuinely curious.  I know women do.  Oh my gosh, I could write a novel on how incredibly mean and spiteful women can be.  And it starts at such a young age and it is picked up somewhere around the training-bra stage and most women don’t grow out of it.  I’m just as guilty. I’m finding, as an adult, cattiness is a learned behavior.  Regardless if it is the parents who are spoon-feeding their tyrants or if it is the media, and it is largely due to my distaste for mouthy little twits who’s vocabulary maxes out at “OMG” and the gossip media.

It’s the small things that can put me into a bad mood.  If I’m out of coffee creamer, if my mirror lies to me and tells me I’m thin, then my pants have to bring me back to reality and have a ‘sit-down’ with me. Even my local news channel can make me catty.  Yet, I still watch it.  Why? 

Men don’t like something, they just don’t deal with it, they have this ability to shut things out and go on with their lives.  Women don’t do that.  We have to analyze it, break it down, knead it, beat it, patti-cake it and shove it up some unsuspecting person’s ass.  (Hiss)

I truly believe this stems from years of bullying and nastiness when I was younger. When I was 11 I went to a public grade school where I first experienced “mean girls”.

I looked like this:

(Please refer to this post for more on why I was channeling a 10-year old boy, rather than a cute little girl.)

Anyway, from the age of 10 until the age of 16, I was taunted over my looks.  I heard it all, and as hard as I tried to come up with some witty comeback, all that would come out of my mouth is “Oh yeah, well you’re  - mean!”  I didn’t learn how to be spiteful with my words until I visited my first Wal-Mart.

I eventually grew up to be quite mouthy.  You’re shocked, I know.  I am too, to be honest.  But I am working on my inner bitch, and she’s learning that sometimes it’s not ‘ok’ to be so offensive. 

It does happen from time to time.  I really do try to not be so ugly, especially given all the nastiness that’s in the world right now.  See, now I feel bad for my earlier comment.

I’m sorry Kelly Ripa, I didn’t mean it. 

Ok.  That’s pretty much all for now.  I had to get it out.  I was being a bitch, and now I’m not.  We’ll discuss ‘mood swings’ in my next blog.