Spankings and apologies

Someone sent me an email the other day and was like, "Where the fuck are you? You havent been held hostage by anyone, have you? Attacked by crazed soccer moms? Dolphin mauling? WTF! Post something!" and I know, I know, I have been like the laziest, slackeriest, crappy no-commenting bloggy person ever. I'm sorry. I've had 3 out of town visitors in the past month, coupled with a sick kid and the FREAKIN' HOLIDAYS breathing down my neck. But you dont want to hear excuses, so please accept this hug:

See how excited I am to hug you?
(Sorry, you have to be Bush.)

Kiss:

and slap on the ass:

There, are we better now? You know I love you.

Everyone needs a little holiday cheer

Remember my inspiring post about "questionable" side jobs? Apparently I forgot "Appliance Shipper/Drug Smuggler", cause I found a whole bunch of weed in my oven this weekend.


Go figure I'll find it when I don't smoke anymore, right? Imagine me at 21 cleaning out my brand new oven and finding some free pot. I'd probably call the distributor and thank them! Then someone would probably get fired and I might get arrested...you can see one of the reasons I dont smoke anymore. So imagine me at 26 instead, cleaning out my brand new oven and finding a bunch of buds in there, calling the distributor and bitching them out like the cranky, crotchety, curmudgeonous (and alliterative!) person that I have apparently become. No...even though I wanted to, I didnt do that, either. I totally baked them into some Christmas cookies and gave them to the snobby neighbors across the street. HA! Merry Christmas, bitches!

Love her

Mom: So have you heard that really catchy song about McDonalds?
Me: Huh?
Mom: You know, dadadada-da-da-da-da, if you catch me at Mcdonalds I got visa's in my name....
Me: Mom. Thats not what she says.
Mom: What do you mean? She even talks about cheeseburgers after that.
Me: Are we even talking about the same song? Do they play a different version up there? [My mom lives in the pacific northwest]
Mom: No! She says, "If you come around here I make 'em all day, I'll get some done in a second if you wait". You see? She'll make you a cheeseburger!
Me: Mom, I think that song is about dealing drugs.
Mom: NO! No! Are you serious?
Me: How do you even hear "cheeseburgers"? What she really says is, "If you catch me at the border I got visas in my name". And when she says, "I'll get some done in a second if you wait" she's talking about packing some drugs for you. How did you not know this? Did you not hear the gunshots?
Mom: I guess my virgin ears just substitute words for things I dont want to hear! And furthermore, missy, how do you know all this druggy lingo? Hmm?
Me: Um, I watch intervention?
Mom: Thats all you'd better be doing.
Me: Of course. So you still like the song?
Mom: I dont care what you say, I still think it's about McDonalds.

Snuggled in a warm, floral embrace

Ya'll.

Suburbia ROCKS.

Kohls, Michaels, THE FREAKIN' RIDGE, Fazoli's, and the list goes on. MORE RETAIL FOR ME. SPEND SPEND SPEND. MUST BE BETTER THAN NEIGHBORS. I NEED AN AIRWICK AIR FRESHENER NOWWWWWWWWWWW.

Whoa, sorry guys. I've been here for like, 3 days and I think I've already been brainwashed, but it's cool. Did I mention Fazoli's? And Garden Ridge? I could spend hours in craft stores, then add a few bread sticks to the mix and I'm in salty, wrapping paper heaven. There is this one retail center behind my house and - I'm not joking - I could spend a whole day there.

9am - Put the kid in scary strip center daycare called Little Comforts and thank God she is resilient and has all her shots.
10am - Walk across the parking lot to Bally's, work out.
12pm - Hit up Chipotle and undue all good work I did with massive burrito bigger than my head.
1pm - Walk 4 steps next door to Starbucks for post lunch coffee.
1:30pm - Mosey across the median to Target, need laundry detergent and toilet paper.
3pm - Leave Target with said items, plus picture frame, new shirt, goldfish bowl, 16 rolls of wrapping paper, batteries, new shade of nail polish, Lysol Wipes, 3 greeting cards, a new shower curtain, 3 CDs, 2 DVDs and some breath mints.
3:30pm - Cross 1/2 mile of parking lot to make a deposit at Wells Fargo after massive shopping spree.
4:00pm - Pick child up from daycare.
4:30pm - Navigate through 20 parking spaces to The Little Gym with child to find new friends for both of us.
6pm - Leave, exhausted and frazzled after an hour and a half of listening to screeching brats and conversating with other mothers who hate you for wearing jean cut offs and flip flops to the Little Gym.
6:30pm - Walk across the massive parking lot once more and find that you conveniently parked in front of a liquor store. Debate internally whether or not it is appropriate to bring a 4 year old inside, figure no one you know will see you anyway.
6:45pm - Leave liquor store clutching brown paper sack. Cringe with horror when you see Jacqueline, one of the Alpha Moms at the Little Gym, has parked three cars down and is scowling disapprovingly at you, your bag of vodka and beat up 1996 Saturn.
6:50pm - Arrive home. Cry.

Oh well. At least I still have Garden Ridge.

Proud member of the itty bitty booty committee

So here I am. Posting from our new place. And it hurts, ya'll. Not emotionally, I mean it literally fucking hurts - our chair is too short for the built in "office center" aka a desk with some shelves, and my wrists are elevated and resting on the hard wood molding of the desk. We need a new chair before I have the bruised wrists of an emo chick.

So many things are different here. We moved from an older place, built in the 50's, with exposed brick and other charming little details, to new construction with beautiful accents like brushed nickle hardware and chair rails. The benefits of the new place far outweigh the old - we have a massive walk in closet, an extra bedroom, a bathtub that could double as a wading pool and a lovely kitchen big enough for all of us to fit in. The one thing though, that doesn't sit well with me, is the design of the toilet. Or the toilet seat, to be more exact.

You guys, its huge. I cant even sit back fully or else I'll fall in. If I wasn't already insecure enough about my tiny butt, a stupid toilet seat has to come along and engulf my whole ass. I know big butts are back and I am envious mine isn't more bootylicious, but this is insane. I cant fill out jeans anymore, I am the only one who doesnt complain about airline seats being too small, and now a stupid toilet seat has made me begin to consider butt implants. What do you think?



Uh, I think I'll just buy a new toilet seat.

The joys of suburbia

So, we finally did it. We scoured the 'burbs, we cased the neighborhoods, we checked rottenneighbor.com, and finally signed a lease. Signed our life away to suburban hell. Goodbye, skyline, hello outlet mall.


Half our house is in boxes, which makes living here for the next 6 days like a maddening scavenger hunt, and bubblewrap is fun to play with, so theres that. I know that moving to the suburbs have some benefits, though. I cant think of what they are, but I know it does. I just cant find the silver lining. This is how I envision our first year:

Month one: Move into neighborhood, find amenities near by, restaurants, shopping, marvel how close we are to every retail chain ever built.
Month two: Complain that everyone else is close to all that stuff, too.
Month three: Meet neighbors, plan game night, introduce our kids, tentative excitement towards meeting new people begins to grow.
Month four: Attempt to enroll daughter into good school. Good school will not accept application because of "over crowding" (aka we be poor folk) and place us on the never ending waiting list, settle for zoned public school.
Month five: Shunned by neighbors after declining the invitation to neighbor's wife's tupperware party.
Month six: Nearby lot gets bought for new hospital, commence construction till 2013.
Month seven: Lanes on the main road get widened, commence construction till 2020.
Month eight: Daughter gets shunned by children for not speaking French, Latin, Russian or Mandarin.
Month nine: Car gets keyed with cryptic message, "Should've gone plastic!"
Month ten: Patio furniture mysteriously goes missing, lawn gets TP'd.
Month eleven: Start to understand why everyone is on drugs, get a prescription for Xanax and instate nightly cocktail hour
Month twelve: Full on drug and alcohol addiction, admit self into rehab, find neighbor in as well, bond over horror stories of nearly burning down the house with lit cigarette while passed out from too many Cosmo's and re-pledge friendship.
Month thirteen: Backstabbed by newly sober neighbor, start process all over again.

You can see why I'm so excited. Suburbia or bust!

Did you?

Happy Election Day, peeps! Exercise your right!