Sunday, May 8, 2011

From the mouth of a Frenchie: "Bonne fête des mères...oui oui et fromage s'il vous plait!"

Happy Most-Important-Holiday-in-the-World Day!!!  To human mum's and dog mum's alike!  Also soon-to-be-mom's carrying little plankton in their belly, and wannabe moms having lots of sex in hopes to conceive....oh and all the 16 and Pregnant MTV girls...but not so much the pregnant teenager I saw smoking a cigarette with the windows rolled up in the car and a 2 year old in the backseat.  But definitely to all other reproducing species..except the spider.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

On the next episode of Hoarders....Puppypalooza.

I have a dog obsession.  I'm like a dog whisperer, only without the whisper part. Because I haven't yet mastered talking baby talk in a whisper.  If C would allow it, I would probably get a Duggar-sized pack of dogs.

I am puppy-sitting for a couple days to a Paul Bunyan sized dog. For the sake of puppy confidentiality we will call him Rod. Because let's be honest..nothing is funnier than a human-named dog. Except a dog named Rod. Or anyone named Rod for that matter.  Rod is supposedly a puppy. I just think he is a wizard. He weighs like 306 lbs and is probably approaching 7 feet tall.  His nose alone is the size of my face. I feel like I'm in a real-life version of Clifford the Big Red Dog with a side of Honey I Shrunk the Kids.  I would love to see the mother dog that birthed this mythical creature. She was definitely porking King Kong on the DL. He must have had to eat his way out of her belly like a savage...leaving no evidence behind.  I am also convinced that Rod's siblings must have been teacup-sized because he has a Buddy the Elf complex.  This morning he tried to squeeze through a miniaturized cat door. I got nervous I would have to go to the store to buy a tub of Crisco.  And then the cashier would think I'm a fat lard-ass who sits around eating Crisco all day with a spoon then rolls around in it in the nude.  Because that's what I would think if I saw someone buy Crisco.  Anyways, Rod is like that illusive fictional man's best friend dog that only exists in Lassie reruns.  If I sleepwalked outside in winter with no long johns and holey uggs and fell in a well right before a giant anaconda swam by followed by J.Lo and some mother fuckin' snakes on a plane....ya Rod would rescue me.  He would do it because he has superhero powers.  He's better than Lassie and Captain Planet. He's Rod. 

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


I've recently discovered the TLC show Strange Sex.  It is my new guilty pleasure.  A man that uses his thumb as a surrogate penis, a married couple with no teeth that are swingers, balloon fetishes, and a woman with two vaginas!  This is like circus freak stuff.  And how could you not love a circus freak?!  However, what I found most fascinating was the man who was TO'd that his greedy mother had stolen his 24k gold plated foreskin.  And his biggest complaint seemed to be that he lasted too long in bed.  Oh his poor wife...tear.  So he decided to be all MacGuyver and build a foreskin-making machine.  I hope we are on the same page here and you are also having a mental image of a cross between an easy-bake oven and the cabbage patch doll whos hair would grow when you pulled on it.  He called his invention The Tugger.  Somebody hand this man a f-ing Nobel Prize.  Like yesterday.  I'm not sure that the end result was a new foreskin, however it did manage to turn his penis inside out.  It looked like it was wearing a stylish turtle-neck.  Wait...turtle-necks are not stylish.  So neither was his penis.  Then this man went all entrepreneur like Oprah and the Donald and got his whole family to mass market these pork tuggies.  It must have been such a bonding experience for him and his pre-teen daughters. Oh and his wife's post-tuggie analysis-it was soft and squishy.  Uh huh...

So this new age Albert Einstein got me thinking about the foreskin battle.  Seeing as it is getting less and less common to be circumsized, it makes me curious what the current baby-making generation think about this debate.

And in case you or someone you know can't stand one more day with his mushroom friend, you can always consider ordering The Tugger. Move over pillow pet, you're getting sent to the clearance bin with the snuggie.  Your endcap must be cleared because Bed Bath and Beyond will for sure order a gaggle of these.

Monday, April 18, 2011

C has the most thoughtful wife...EVER.

So somewhere in the past 24 hours 3 weeks, I unknowingly fell off the blog wagon.  C says the red flags were there all along but he didn't know how to break it to me.  Glad to know he cares.  I'll make sure to jot in my calendar to never develop a drug or drinking problem or attempt a self-induced death.  Because God knows when he'd warn me about those blazing red flags.  I told C recently if I ever died he had to wait at least 10 years to remarry.  I'm thinking of changing it to 15 years...seems more reasonable.  And she isn't allowed to have a tramp stamp. Because that's my thing.  I did however allot him the following options which I think are more than fair: she can be any age above 50, she can be a born-again Christian who has vowed to die a virgin, she can be anyone in a coma or bed-ridden, and...well ya that's about it. There are legal things you can sign for stuff like this, right?   I also know if you are rich enough you can freeze yourself in hopes that you will be revived in the future.    But I think Tupac and Michael Jackson have been secretly cryogenically frozen, which is scary, so let's rule out that option. I think Kim Cattrall was in a movie about this...called Ice Princess or something.  C should be so thankful to have a wife that has planned out his future if I croak in an untimely manner.  I think I'll call him now and remind him of this.  Maybe he will bring me home flowers.

Here are some possible options I have found for C which I think are more than reasonable-
She's exotic..that's always good

Rebound material?

Not sure if this is a woman..but either way...

Everyone loves a redhead, right?

He could even date someone FAMOUS!

Catlady even!

Nothing's too expensive for my baby!!

Sunday, March 27, 2011

I am a single wife. I married a Coastie

When I was single I always pictured married life to consist of waking up and going to sleep next to your husband.  Dreading Mondays and so happy when Friday finally arrives and you have the weekend with your family.  Being inseparable.  A typical 9-5.  Now I anticipate every other Thursday and alternate weekends.  I feel  like at my wedding I was awarded joint custody of my husband instead of a marriage certificate.  When I got married, I technically married 1/2 of my husband and 1/2 of myself.  C is in the military and works harder than I could ever imagine working myself.  Three days at a time and on call at all hours while sleeping at the station.  I see him 15 days of every month, and half of every year.  Luckily, for now, the days are scattered and not all at once.  He has a determination I'm not sure I've ever seen before in anyone else.  A determination that definitely wasn't there when we first dated 13 years ago.  I will never fully understand what he goes through, what it's like to pull a dead body out of the water, how he manages to be so strong, or how he can consume 12 and a half pots of coffee in one day.  But he does, and it is one of the many reasons I adore him.  It is this adoration and admiration that keeps me strong through what can otherwise be described as a part-time marriage.  I will be forced to pack up my life every 4 or less years, only to repack and move again.  Most times we will have little say in where we end up and typically won't know where we are moving until mere months before. I had to give up my career and settle for short-term jobs in whatever field is hiring at the time. I have to learn to lead a life with few friends, and the ones I do meet I know I will have to say goodbye to in a few short years.  When we have children, they will have to do the same.  And I will spend much of my time raising our children alone, while C will likely miss many of their important milestones.  I have to be stronger than I ever have before.  I have to fight the urge to scream and cry when I find out he has to leave for a prolonged period of time the night before he will depart.  I have to learn how to fix a leaky faucet, a broken furnace, a clogged drain, and shovel my own driveway every snowstorm.  Because there is a 50/50 chance I will be alone when an issue arises.  Marriage in the military is a fast track lesson in how to become superwoman.  Which I hardly am, but if I was auditioning for the part, I'd be perfect.

I recently found a couple other Coast Guard and other military wives blogs. (So happy about this) It's nice to find people in the same situation as you, who can understand what this life is like, and you know you aren't alone.  It also made me feel somewhat lucky in my current situation and pretty fearful about our future.  For me, C is only gone every couple days for a few days at a time and the occasional month or two for different schooling or disaster relief. But being reminded that any one of our future stations could involve C being out on a boat for a month to a year at a time makes me want to hog tie him, super glue him to me like siamese twins and run off to Uganda.

I know the life I choose is not an easy one.  I will face challenges no married couple should have to face.  And at times I will grow to hate my husband's greedy mistress, the Coast Guard.  But the reality of it is that it makes the time we have together that much more productive.  I'm forced to find out new things about him on warp speed.  To strengthen our love to a level that matches Arnold Schwarzenegger's muscles in Conan the Barbarian.  And to learn how to adapt to just about anything life throws at me.  I'd say it's the best kind of love there is.  And if it can withstand the turbulence of this life we lead, it can withstand anything.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Lily vs Duck

This cute defenseless baby blog goes out to my good friend Lily.  She is a professional bird caller.  Like she competes in competitions, because they have those.  I just figured there was an iphone app for this.  Alas, she goes all Merlin the Magician and secret morse codes some bird braille kinda like Helen Keller did I think.  And abracadabra birds appear.  Poor defenseless fluffy tweety birds.  This is where a normal person would bring them home to play and maybe invite to dinner or a sleepover party.  But no. Lily mass murders them and feasts on their raw meat...maybe even while they are still squawking.   BIG FAT SAD FACE!

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

I tried to get Oprah to marry us...but she was busy so we hired Gayle instead

tI recently looked through a few different friend's (more expensive than selling my soul to the devil) wedding pictures and started to wonder if a wedding of this caliber was really worth it.  My best friend with benefits, Google, says that the average cost of a wedding is $24,066.  If you are a 20-something new to the workforce homosapien, this is your yearly salary.  Or it is your parent's entire retirement fund-meaning in 15 years you will have 2 new roommates, a closet full of depends, and will have to fashion a homemade coffin out of your closet door, tin cans, and industrial strength bond-o.  All to celebrate 5 hours of adult prom without chaperones?  I get it if money really is growing on your sycamore tree (Tom Cruise, I'm talking to you) and you can afford to pay the hefty price tag to have Jesus himself marry you.  But for the rest of the world, is a wedding worth  $5,000 an hour?  It seems there should be better and less welfare-inducing ways to celebrate the union of two lives.  But in reality, with everyone capitalizing on this wedding frenzy, it becomes quite impossible to find reasonable ways to cut corners without having your wedding in the gymnasium of the YMCA  while the senior citizen basketball team has their weekly scrimmage.  Calling any event service (limos, flowers, catering, photographers etc) and even mention the word wedding or any other word  that starts with a w or ends in an ing and the price suddenly skyrockets by 352%.  And not to mention the cost of a wedding dress.  Even if I had upwards of $5,000 to drop on a wannabe virginal shroud, I couldn't imagine doing so.  I mean unless it came with the deed to Neverland Ranch or something...then maybe we can negotiate.  I developed a nervous twitch for weeks after having to spend $1,000 on my wedding dress. Which mind you is laying on the floor of my closet hating life because I have yet to drop $200 on a preservation kit.  Can't you just lay it between two big heavy objects to preserve you do a flower in a book?  The seamstress even warned me against my idea to switch out of my 7 inch stilts heels into an amazing pair of silver sequined Jack Purcell converse I had found.  She said I would end up ripping my dress and ruin my wedding.  I think she was actually like Miss Cleo or a Wiccan and put a voodoo spell on me.  I did put on my shiny converse as planned and by the end of the night my dress had turned into stirrup pants.  If it had been 1989 I would have been really cool.

My wedding was almost entirely DIY.  I have to say this wasn't the easiest thing to do, nor the least stressful.
I did save a great deal of money, but had to contribute hours on end of my own time to try to make it resemble a wedding as much as possible.  I did all my own decorating, created my own candy buffet, my own fun station complete with costumes disguises and other goodies, I made all the bouquets by hand, boutineers, the list goes on.  Thankfully I had some great family and friends to help execute it all since I have trouble relinquishing control and really convinced myself I could do hair, makeup, get dressed, and decorate the entire venue the morning before the wedding.  Baby Jesus probably didn't bestow upon me the magical superpowers I like to think he did.  My wedding ended up being unique and tailored to C and I.  Was it perfect?  Hardly, but it made us happy and that should count for something.  In the end was my wedding any better than your $100,000 mega-super shrine of love?  Who's to judge?  Oh ya, maybe Kate Middleton.  That fancy bitch.

So for your viewing pleasure here is a few pictures of some of my DIY projects. Feel free to ask questions, or to inquire about how you too can have a Save-Your-Parent's-Retirement-Fund wedding.  Or maybe you want replicas....I charge a nominal fee.  Unless it's for a wedding, then the price doubles.
Diabetes Table

Morocco meets India..meets Burlington Vermont

Sweet boutineer action.  I think this was their Flogging Molly dance

My budget-friendly paper flower bouquet and hair piece

Fun-sized bouquet for throwing or planting in your garden

Complete with mandatory mustache on a stick and chalkboard word bubbles

Okay so maybe our make-shift guest-book/picasso piece didn't make it
to our living room wall, but it is hanging in our basement.

Mmmmm Meat

My fair maidens bouquets and hair pieces. Pros -non decaying. Cons-papercuts

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Yes Suri, It's time for your daily dose!

Alcatraz, be warned.  Your newest inmate is gonna f*ck some shit up!  She's all..I'm about to shoot daggers of hate and Scientology in your face if I don't get extra playground privileges and a private cell.

Someone call the Pope, a warlock, and Charlie Sheen. They'll know what to do.

Take note Lindsay Lohan

Friday, March 11, 2011

A Murder of Crows is lunching on the bag of tiny organs in my lawn. I wonder what's for desert.....

I recently came across a list for the collective names of groups of animals.  It was fascinating.  So I wanted to share my favorites.

Pod of Dolphins (oh, I the thing Lady Gaga was in at the Grammys?)
Intrusion of Cockroaches (yup.) 
Bevy of deer (incredible)

Memory of Elephants (of what...I forgot?)
Flamboyance of Flamingos (created by Richard Simmons, for sure.)
Confusion of Guinea Fowl (so like a bird and a  guinea pig had sex---yup I'm confused too)
Boil of hawks (lobster?, hawks. oh, okay lobster)
Bloat of hippopotamuses (Jenny Craig, you bitch)
Flock of Lice (seriously?! I really don't think a name is necessary for this.  My kid has lice. plural. period. end of story. We get it, you're dirty.  My kid has a flock of Lice!  Quarantine! Call Hazmat and get me my biohazard suit stat.)
Carload of Monkeys  (You mean a jumping bedload of monkeys?)
Parliament of Owls (let's just blame Bush)
Shrewdness of Apes (wikipedia says this is what you call a group of jews.... Click to see that I am not in fact the racist. Wikipedia is racist.)
Rhumba of Rattlesnakes (like the dance Baby has to learn in Dirty Dancing)
Unkindness of Ravens (that's just mean)
Stubbornness of Rhinoceroses (you'd be stubborn too if you weighed over 2 tons)
Run of Salmon (Ohhh I see. In that case, I'm gonna go take a swim on the treadmill. Be back.)
Escargatoire of Snails (you silly french.  so then the Chinese must call a bunch of felines, a General Tso's of Cats?)

So this is great and all, but my confusion still lies in what you call a group of Duggar babies? There is like 37 of them by now....

Saturday, March 5, 2011

I narrowly escaped with my life....thanks to Spider Spray!

I debated all day about writing this blog because even writing about spiders make me want to put splinters in my own eyeballs.  So just to put it out there, I have a phobia  life-threatening-psychopathic-I-will-literally-die-on-the-spot-like-the-girl-in-the-ring-then-my-skin-will-melt-off-my-dead-body fear of those ghastly creatures.  So you can imagine when I read an article this morning about a recall on Mazda 6 cars due to a spider infestation, I threw my laptop across the room in fear that a giant spider of doom was going to crawl out of my computer in a twitchy slow-fast-slow motion.  Apparently, for some unknown reason, yellow sac spiders are infesting the evaporative canister vent line in Mazda6 cars.  The infestation is so extreme that Mazda has recalled over 52,000 cars.  Are you kidding me?!  Excuse me while I go drive my car off a cliff and resort to roller skating everywhere for the rest of my life.  You never know, Chrysler could be next.  And I feel I should take all necessary precautionary measures. Of course to add to the awesomeness of my day, after I got out of the shower this morning I was greeted by one of those monster-legged spiders.  It was all look at me with my long legs, I'm like Heidi Klum and I'm walking upside down on your ceiling because I defy gravity and can send you into cardiac arrest with a glance in your direction.  Not to mention I was sopping wet and lacking all necessary body armor to handle this situation.  This is how I know they are evil.  They sneak attack when you are most vulnerable like tiny ninjas. A lot of blood curdling screams took place at this point and some clawing at my own face. Somehow I managed to break down the bathroom door and hurl myself to safety before the evil Heidi Klum spider spun me up in its  fashionable web and burnt me with acid spider spit.  I suddenly remembered a few days prior when C and I were in Wal-Mart and he forcibly bought a can of Spider Killer spray.
SEE- It really does exist!

He said it was crucial for me to have in case he wasn't home to use a flame thrower on them for me.  We sat in the aisle at Wal-Mart for ten minutes while I argued with him as to why we could not buy Spider Killer spray because it had pictures of spiders on the can, and that is just NOT okay.  I lost the fight, so when we got home I made sure to bury it in the back of the closet.  Now I was left with no choice.  I closed my eyes and dug the can out of the closet and coated the bathroom ceiling with 3/4 of the can.  That should do the trick.  Of course no demonous arachnid gives up that easily.  He flailed and twitched and then lurched his dying body down at my face.  I don't remember what happened next. I must have blacked out.  My mind obviously could not conceive such extensive trauma.

I have drawn the below diagram, which I feel is a very accurate depiction of  my terrifying day which I will most likely have post traumatic stress syndrome from and require extensive and costly therapy.  


Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Horrid icy things, driving to China and a case of the sads. *PLUS people with a mystery gender*

C once told me to never watch the show Ice Road Truckers because it was only a bunch of over exaggerated drama without any fiery crashes, mangled bodies, or human ice cubes.  How is that even TV?!  Whatever, not important.

Anyways, I went out to my car the other day to leave for work only to find the Ice Gods had waged a brutal war on my innocent driving machine and its surrounding habitat.  No signs of life.  Which brought on an instant case of the sads.  Oh cruel cruel world.  I spent 2 hours, half a tank of gas, and the tread on my new tires only to move half an inch on the driveway.  However I did dig pretty much to Beijing with the excellent tire spin I had going on. Oh no, here come the sads again.  So I cried.  And kicked things...giant icy things.  I even managed to kick a bag of what appeared to be tiny animal organs frozen to the snowbank.  That helped with the sads a bit.  How do you not laugh a little at some baby sized kidneys.  Everything is cute when its fun sized.  Anyways, mid-enjoyment in my discovery a car pulled up to the end of my driveway.  Not any car, but an old broke ass VW van.  The driver jumped out and asked if I needed help, and not just any driver, it was one of those mind boggling humans.  The ones who get you with their evil trickery.  Are they a he or a she? Are those baby boobs or an illusion.  Is that enlarged camel toe or an enlarged prostate?  This particular devious warlock had long shoulder length blond hair and baggy clothes hiding any incriminating evidence.  Well except their entire shemale buttcrack which was out on display like a thanksgiving turkey.  So the conversation started.  It went something like this:

Me: sob sob fuck fuck whore shit sob

Neighbor: Need a tow?

Me: No I have both of mine, thank you.

Neighbor:  You look stuck

Me: You're really smart

Neighbor:  I might be able to tow you free with my 1960 broke down VW van

Me:  I think I'll just walk the 30 miles to work

Neighbor: Let me just grab my rope (full crack exposed including but not limited to partial unidentifiable undercarriage) By the way, I'm your neighbor.  My name is.....(get ready for it)......Kelly

Me: Awesome, that solves everything.  I'll just call you It's Pat, Mm'kay?

Kelly never did get me out, that bitch/bastard.   And so my life long obsession will begin.  Warlock-1  Rachael-0

Monday, February 28, 2011

Apocalypse you say? I predict a Jazzyocalypse.

 I'd like to take a moment to discuss an ever-growing problem in our society.  The jazzy. You might call it an electric scooter or simply a motorized wheelchair complete with handlebars, horn, and basket.  Regardless, unless you have successfully past your 75th birthday or have a real, diagnosed, and leg altering handicap then you should not be allowed behind the wheel (singular) of this contraption. C and I recently took a trip to Disney and narrowly escaped with our lives after being run off the road more times than I can count.  Apparently the whole evolution debate has been solved since I was in school.  Our metamorphosis must not be complete.  I guess I'm still waiting for my legs to disappear in lieu of a tail? Walking is so 1990's.  It is definitely so much better to be all Jabba the Hut and move around with the push of a joystick without wasting an ounce of exertion.  Now if only they had mind control.  And to put the cherry on top, apparently being king of a motor scooter is equal to being President Obama driving a Lamborghini on the Autobahn or a Ludacris song.....something along the lines of Move Bitch, getout tha way....  I felt like cattle being herded or a sleepwalking pedestrian who somehow managed to stumble upon their domain.  By all means, lay on your tiny horn and shout obscenities if I cross your path.  I'm pretty sure I will be able to pass by 10 feet in front of you even if you are driving at whopping top speeds of 2.3 mph.  You may think I won't be able to make it, but I assure you I am not a 3 toed sloth and I do not freeze in headlight (no s needed...I know you only have 1).  I am weary, however, when they start to congregate.  Lining up 6 long to terrorize those that still cling to their legs with dear life.  I have no advice for you here.  I wanted to put a stick in their wheel spokes but C said if I did he would leave me there to fend for myself.   I almost couldn't hold in my frustration when they would roll up to the front of the line of rides because goodness knows they can't wait in line with the rest of us.  Ohhhh no, their feet couldn't handle it.  One woman nearly busted a vein in her eye when she was told there was no special wheelchair entry for a ride because the regular line had already been equipped for it.  Twenty minute wait with the rest of these leg-using people while sitting down in a padded chair with armrests ???? How dare they!!!!!!!!!  Another woman in her 20's flew past us cutting across pedestrian traffic and came to a extreme hault in front of Mickey Fashion Apparel Store almost catapulting herself off her jazzy.  She jumped off like she was doing the long jump at the Olympics, leaving her jazzy parked half in entrance of the store, the other half into a rack of clothes.  It was like she had been cured by a magical healing Shaman for 5 minutes only.  Just enough time to buy a couple Mickey sweaters and a trucker hat with Goofy ears.  Stylin'.  And I don't even know how to go about the issue of the overweight jazzy rider.  Should I start with the fact that 90% of jazzys have a 250 lb weight limit.  The latter 10% go up to a 350.  But alas if you are dyslexic, by all means ride a jazzy if you are 530 lbs.  I swear some of them had to have been tricked out with concrete wheels a'la Flintstones (minus the foot power). The solution to your problem is most definitely to give up all means of physical activity and forced manual mobility while stuffing your face with Mickey popsicles and giant turkey drumsticks.  Maybe part of the problem would be that you no longer walk.  Like you NO longer walk from here                       to                   here.  Get it?   Look, I know a day at Disney is exhausting.  My feet were sore too and ya sure there was a small moment where I wondered what it would be like to have my own electrically powered chariot beeping at all the nuisances who dared to get in my path disrupting the momentum of my majestic transport.  But hey, it was a really big day when I learned how to walk and to be honest, I'm just not ready to forfeit that skill just yet.

I was gone and yup, you were forgotten.

So I might have just disapeared for a maternity leave length hiatus (No, I'm not pregnant so do not go call a doula).  I spent the past month preoccupied with some extremely important and cruical extra curricular activities.  Like patiently awaiting my girl scout cookie order form, giving myself an at home V05 hot oil hair treatment, and creating magnificant dance routines to Wilson Phillips song Hold On.  See image below:
 And then of course there were the not so crucial or time consuming activities like packing up our life and moving to a new house, taking a two week honeymoon, and digging out our top secret driveway hidden under 5 feet of snow.  Or I just forgot you existed.  Let's just leave that one as reply hazy, try again later.   

So I suppose I owe you an update of some important happenings over the past month.
1. I have successfully mastered homemade ravioli and braising short ribs. 
2. My cooking plus C's portion control has forced him to gain 9 lbs in 1 week
3. In Vermont, snow falls sideways
4. On country back roads if a sign says frost heave, it really means you are about to take a round trip dip into the pits of hell.  Your airbag may deploy and you may become quadriplegic or bruise your lady parts.
5. That crazy bitch last night on Hoarders means business. Do not take her chickens, even if they are dead from the weight of their own feces.
6. Also in more important news and because I love me some Suri Cruise, it appears Suri took a trip to the flower market in a sleeveless dress hiding a concealed weapon behind her back.  Bitch don't NEED sleeves. 

Okay well that about wraps it up.  So lets have three cheers for Mondays AND pink ponies that shoot laser daggers from their eyes!

Friday, January 7, 2011

My Life > a diamond encrusted golden bag of riches covered in milk chocolate and hand delivered by Jesus and Lindsay Lohan

Pantagruelism (Pan`tag´ru`el`ism)
-adj:  The habit of dealing with serious matters in a spirit of good and sometimes cynical good humor.

Someone reminded me today that not only is it January but it is 2011.  I think it may also maybe be Thursday?  Honestly you could have told me it was Easter Sunday and I would have gone and thrown on some pastels and dyed eggs.  The past few months, hell the past couple years of my life seem to have passed in this deliriously happy haze.  I feel like I've been a bear in hibernation only I wasn't sleeping and storing food for winter I was storing food for an ever increasing muffin top that is the result of being so in love you no longer have to stop eating after your fifth bite, you can actually have seconds, thirds, and the occasional fourths.   Which brings me to my point...if there is one worth pointing out.  Today I was prompted to reread through my blog entries thus far looking for any kind of subliminal messages or things that would make someone question my happiness.  I grabbed my Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring and vigorously searched for anything that proved such, but was discouraged to only find a secret transmitted message that told me to drink my Ovaltine.  Be sure to drink your Ovaltine? Ovaltine?! Son of a bitch!  So yes world, I am happy. Do I really hate jews, doctors, dentists, and the occasional jobless bum you may ask? About as much as I hate the lamp beside me and comparable to my level of wanting to make dinosaurs extinct.  Without them I wouldn't have been able to shed some humor on an otherwise boring and uneventful love life. Or have a dreidel, which is an incredible thing. So call off the troops, the protesters, the skeptics, cancel the suicide counselor and divorce attorney and put the tragically humorless to bed.  My rants consist of the process of growing up, growing out,  growing sideways, downways, and diagonalways.  It is life as well all know it, with all of its hardships, joys, and life changing lessons.  It is cynical, humorous, and my play on making the not so funny, well...funny.  It is the process of my growth into a life of love, and realism.  It is leaving behind the non-existent fantasy world we all knew as kids.  It's the life I've lived, and the life I love.  So I'll repeat it for all of you in the backrow, yes my life is greater than a parade of cute cuddly puppies presenting me with a certificate of free milkshakes for life.


Saturday, January 1, 2011

Oh God, how do I grow a penis?!

Do you ever have those nights where you suddenly have this incredible revelation that you are, in that moment, the epitome of that women you love to make fun of?  Tonight I feel as if I have just taken a nice warm soak in an estrogen bath. I imagine if I get within 100 feet of a penis the tectonic plates would shift and a magnetic shield would form resulting in me being impregnated with enough babies to put Octo-Mom to shame.  If I had a nickname I'd be PussyS'more and not in a sexy way.  I hate to paint this lovely picture for you, but tonight I found myself facing a side of me I hoped to keep hidden, mostly from myself.   I sat on the couch, in my pajamas and two days un-showered (Thank God C is at work for 2 days at a time as this is definitely grounds for divorce).  I was full on super-glued to a Lifetime movie entitled Walls of Secrets staring none other than Dean McDermott from Tori Spelling fame and was ferociously shaving my legs with a wireless razor C had bought me for X-mas. To top it all off, I was popping Tums Ultra 100's like they were a snack.  Why? Because I wanted something sweet.  Thank God for the commercial break convincing me that I never want to reuse my old catheter that helped break the mucus plug on this situation.  How could I let myself sink so low?  If only I could grow a penis like it were a chia pet I would just to level up my testosterone to a plus 9 status. Oh shit...gotta go..commercial break is over....

Hello Domestication, you bitch. (Bye Barbie Dream house complete with working shower and ice cream parlor)

I grew up thinking my future would consist of a pink mansion, matching pink convertible car, a 12 inch waist (ChaChaCha!), and my very own Ken by my side (only with a bigger package and underwear that weren't so restricting).  Reality started to set in when I read the part of the package that said Ken and all accessories sold separately. Whaaaaat?!  You mean I don't get the complete package?  How would I ever convince my mother to buy me my future.  Barbie needs her iron-stomached lover, right?  I don't think I could have been further from the truth.  Ken turned out to be a complete douche bag with an ego that matched the size of his enlarged prostate from wearing such tight underpants for so long.  And the barbie dream home turned into the slightly downsized economy trailer with drafty windows.  Alas, don't get too giddy over your heaping pile of riches before realizing all the responsibilities that come with this domestic concept.  I don't remember a class in school on mortgage, rent, propane tanks, and income tax?  What the fuck did I miss?  The only thing I worried about as a kid was hoping the kid on the other end of the seesaw was the one to weigh it to the ground. Now you get married, combine your mass amounts of debt together, play a little hide and seek with your sex life, and on top of it all have to work, pay bills, cook, clean, and find time to birth a baby?  It is a rude awakening into life as your parents.  The people you never thought you would become.  I guess I can say my respect level for them has risen drastically.  So, after I ran from this domestic makeover with my tail between my legs for as long as I could, I tried to embrace it.  Nope, that didn't work either.  But I can say, the new challenges I face (which make my childhood seem like a day in Candy Land) aren't so bad. I've never been so stressed in my life, but I've never been so happy either.  It's an odd notion to rather have all the stresses of life with someone you love, than not having a fear in the world all alone.  Maybe its misery loving her company.  Or maybe its as simple as life being better when you have someone good to share it with.