Sassy Mama Says...

I Call Bullshit...

2009-11-05T23:13:00.005-05:00

I will admit that I'm crankier than usual, as I try to fight off the pig flu or strep or the bubonic plague or the common cold that never seems to leave this house once school starts, but there's a few things that got my rant-o-meter spinning out of control in the last couple days. In between the frequent naps that only make my exhausted ass more tired, I've managed to read some news online and watch a bit of TV (and ride a horse and run agility with the dogs -- shh! I'm really sick or getting sick any moment, I promise) that, quite frankly, had me yelling at the flat screen and the laptop all at the same time.

Since my sick husband and sick child are sick of listening to my cries for sanity in this fucked-up mess of a world, I'm forced to bitch to the "masses" that stop by this here blog (you know, the one that I find increasingly easier to ignore as the days wear on.) Maybe if you lurkers jumped in and called me a twat or a nasty whore once in a while, I'd find a reason to light the candelabras and crank the music in the Leopard Lounge more often than I have lately. Maybe not. Who cares...

Without further annoying ado, I give you my list of things that make me want to scream or puke or both this week.

Bullshit Item Number One: Big banks on Wall Street getting pig flu vaccines before, say, the hospitals, pediatricians and OB-GYNs around the country has me seeing Pepto pink (which is way worse than seeing red). Yeah, Goldman Sachs, Citi, The Federal Reserve, etc, apparently have a lot of pregnant women and young children working there, so they were shipped the impossible-to-get vaccines already. Morgan Stanley got a thousand or so vaccines and was at least human enough -- more likely, PR savvy enough -- to donate theirs to the local hospital that hadn't gotten any yet, so I give them a pass on my anger.

Can this government do anything right, EVER? We hand these same greedy fuckers billions of dollars that we cannot even account for, haven't been paid back, and now we give them the vaccine that pregnant women and children and health compromised Americans -- you know, the people that are at risk -- are standing in line for for 12 hours, only to be turned away? Shameful, pitiful, disgraceful.

Don't even get me started on the prisons getting their vaccines already, because I might say something really, really unkind. Oh, hell, I'll say it, because I'm in a mood. I don't give a shit about a bunch of murderers, rapists, pedophiles and thieves getting sick with the flu. Fuck them!! Vaccinate the guards and everyone who works there, and let's see who survives in the inmate population. Sorry, but a few less inmates that we have to pay for for LIFE seems like a win-win to me. In reality, it's a flu that most survive, so a handful of uncomfortable days for scumbags who rape kids seems only fair. I'm sure everyone will weep if the greediest of pigs, Bernie Madoff, dies from the pig flu.

Bullshit Item Number Two: Now, I really like Ellen DeGeneres. I do. Sue me. However, as I watched her show yesterday, I saw something that had me questioning her judgment. I found her guest Jonathan Safran Foer, author of "Eating Animals," to be fascinating. As he pimped his book, he enlightened us about factory farming and the disgusting practices that are involved in putting the burger in our cheeseburgers, the eggs in our omelets, the hormones in our breasts and the massive holes in our ozone.

I agree with almost everything he said, except the fact that there are still some farms where cows actually eat grass, see the light of day and are not fed any hormone-enriched grain whatsoever right here in New England. The same goes for chickens and pigs. My husband and I grew up on real, old-school dairy farms, you know, Old MacDonald kind of farms, and we know exactly what goes on today with the food supply. It's disgusting. Still, we manage to drink hormone-free milk and eat burger from grass-fed cows that live on old-school farms you can visit with your kids.

I'll get off of my farm girl soapbox for a second and get back to Ellen. Ellen is a vegan. I have no problem with that at all, as I have been a vegetarian and a vegan many times throughout my life and could live without meat without batting an eye. I'm the freak who gets all excited by vegetables and couldn't care less if she eats meat once, twice a month. I do love my poached eggs, and you better not get in between me and a hunk of cheese, but I've gone years without those, too.

So, Ellen is a vegan, and she became a vegan after doing research into how a cow becomes a cheeseburger these days. Take it from someone who's been to a slaughterhouse, it ain't pretty under the most humane of circumstances. You all know I love animals more than most people, so I get it. I totally get that meat is murder, and I own a Meat Is Murder Smiths t-shirt (one of the best albums ever made -- or was The Queen is Dead better simply because some girls really are bigger than others? It's a toss-up, I suppose.)

As I lay on the couch, watching all of this, however, with Ellen asking Jonathan how we could make a difference and Jonathan telling us that we should at least give up eggs, because the chickens are treated way worse than the cows, something struck me as just not right with this picture. I dragged my "am I sick or not," tired ass off the couch, went to the pantry and grabbed that incredibly small bag of incredibly expensive Halo dog food that I feed my dogs and checked the ingredients. Hmm...

Chicken and eggs in the dry food. Beef, beef liver and lamb in the canned. Just as I thought. In case you didn't know, Ellen is part owner of Halo. So, Ellen is a vegan because it's wrong to eat animals, especially when they aren't raised in idyllic conditions. But Ellen's dogs and my dogs eating animals is just fine, because she's making money off of it? Are these cows and chickens and little lambs being raised like beloved pets on magnificent farms until it's time to make the dog food? Maybe. I seriously doubt it, but maybe they are. I'm way too lazy to do that research. I'll leave it to Jonathan.

Maybe I'm just an asshole for asking is meat not murder if it's going to our dogs, but I can't believe I'm the only one who picked up on this. I still truly like Ellen, and my dogs most definitely love her incredibly expensive dog food, but I had to call bullshit on this one.

Bullshit Item Number Three: Rihanna all of a sudden coming out with her story a couple weeks before her new album (I'm showing my age, I know) drops. I truly love this girl's songs, and I'd stand under her umbrella anytime, anyplace, but the timing of this interview just feels too publicity driven for my taste. Personally, I wanted to go beat the fuck out of that little pussy Chris Brown when I saw the pictures of her battered face. It was disgusting, and he should have gotten in a hell of a lot more trouble than he did.

Then, when she went back to him, I wanted to sit her down and talk some sense into her. These things happen all the time, all over the world, and I cannot pretend to understand how women do not take a knife and slit an abusive bastard's throat when he's sleeping. I don't understand it, but I also try hard not to judge it. Low self-esteem, misguided love, day-in, day-out fear, these are things I've thankfully never known, but I have compassion for people who get trapped by all of it.

Had Rihanna come out months ago and told her story to the young girls that look up to her like she is a goddess, I would have been cheering her on. I guess I still am, since I do love the girl, but the timing is incredibly suspect.

Bullshit Item Number Four: My husband yelling at the boy to cough into his elbow and to wash his hands every two seconds, while he, himself, doesn't cover his mouth at all when he coughs, wipes his runny nose on his hand and leaves snot rags laying all over the house. Yeah, the boy and I both call bullshit on that one!

So I don't feel like the only ragbag in Blogtown, what's got you calling bullshit this week?

Have No Fear, June Cleaver Is Here...

2009-11-03T14:35:00.001-05:00

It is with great pride and utter disbelief that I report that I survived our biggest Halloween bash to date. Sure, I had a two-day hangover and am exhausted still, but I pulled it off without strangling anyone or peeling out of the driveway in the Gangsta Jeep, dressed as June Cleaver, hitting the nearest bar and giving lap dances to anyone who looked like Eddie Haskell or just about anyone who bought me a shot. While I had envisioned both scenarios over and over -- let's face it, me losing my shit dressed as America's most easy-going mom would make for a much better story -- it simply didn't happen.

Sadly, nobody got a Halloween lap dance out of this old June, and nobody got killed or removed from the friend list either. I'm calling that a major success as far as large parties go, especially when 25 or so kids are at your house. Who knew that that many kids could behave like actual human beings, instead of animals? They looked very cute/cool in their costumes, as did the adults that played along, except for that horny nerd guy that crashed the party. Oh, I kid our good friend and neighbor, as his was the best costume of all. It was also the most disturbing, but disturbing in a totally hilarious way.

Sure, there were a couple of whiny kids I wanted to smack at times, and in a very non-June moment I did have to scream at the boys to stay in the moonwalk, instead of riding high on top of it, but the two gallons of sangria I made and "June" drank seemed to keep us pretty calm all in all. The same could not be said for the two and a half days leading up to the party, when everything and everyone sucked the life out of me as if I were the only human left at a vampire convention.

I've got 7,000 things to do, but of course I'll help you out and take that "two-hour deposition" you simply cannot cover on Thursday that turned out to be SEVEN hours of hell. Sure, I'll bring the fruit platter to the boy's class party on Friday that lasted well over two hours, due to total stupidity and extremely bad planning by the room moms. Sorry, ladies, but some of us have things to do, so yes, I'm taking my plate now and getting the fuck out of this germ factory. By all means, keep the fruit.

Alas, my kindness to others left me screwed, stressed and out of time. Isn't that always the way, though? I finally got down to decorating the garage at 4:30 Friday, which was the biggest and yet most important key to keeping the kids out of the house and my sanity intact. Little did I know that five people were on their way over to shop my closet for costumes, instead of, say, going to the costume store. You can see I'm in the middle of a shitstorm, and you actually have the nerve to say things like, "Do you have anything else?" or "Too bad you don't have the vampire costume in a larger size" or "Can you check to see if you have any black shoes that might fit him?"

Instead of beating the shit out of these clueless people that wasted my time, I got out my hammer and electric staple gun and beat the shit out of the garage, hanging black plastic from floor to ceiling (it was very Dexter-like and excellent stress relief). The boy helped me string lights and haunt the place up with fog machines and strobe lights and all things spooky. I'm at my most creative when I'm completely out of time, so the place looked awesome. Then, at 9 P.M. and again at 9 A.M., it was time to cook. I can't say I didn't drink a lot, swear a lot and even cry at one point, but I got almost everything I needed to do done (except shower) and stuffed my unwashed hair into that ultra-short "June" wig five minutes before the first guests arrived.

As with all the parties I throw, once the guests arrive, I'm pretty calm. Lots of our friends brought food and drink, and my mother, in true school teacher fashion, organized a bunch of games for the kids. I warned her that the mostly 5 - 11 year-old boy crowd might not play any of those games, but her sheer determination to keep kids from running around like wild monkeys won out, and the kids played along. She may have retired from teaching years ago, but her ability to wrangle a bunch of kids and keep their attention remains intact.

Unfortunately, I did not take one picture, not one. It's the whole Mama's only got two hands problem that always comes with having lots of people at your house, where someone inevitably needs something or other at all times. Just when I tell myself to take some photos, someone needs toilet paper or band-aids or a plunger, so I've got nothing to show for all my effort. Our neighbor brought her camera, however, and took lots of shots. If she comes through with the CD she promised, I'll post some pics. It may not be until Christmas, but whatever.

Now, I did not forget my promise to show you my tits if your prayers and good thoughts brought me a warm, dry Halloween and I lived to see November 1st. Well, it was 70 degrees here on Saturday, and I am alive. Technically, however, I can wiggle out of that little promise, since it did rain. The kids were done trick-or-treating, and a lot of people had gone home, but the rains did come during the party. Sorry, Badass, but I'm going to latch onto that technicality and go with this shot instead:

Technically, those are my tits, since I bought the "Wet T-Shirt Winner" costume to wear to a party that always has a wet t-shirt contest. As shocking as it may sound, what with my extensive stripper training and all those years spent on the back of Harleys at Bike Week in Laconia or in New York at the Harley Rendezvous (click on that link if you want some real tit shots),where I could have scored all kinds of free drugs and alcohol by lifting my shirt, I've kept the girls under the cover of low-cut shirts and push-up bras all these years. Hard to believe I'm such a modest gal in public, but it's true.

What's even harder to believe is that I posted a picture of me exhausted, sans makeup and sporting the same dirty hair that was under that June Cleaver wig on Saturday. Scary, dirty hag be thy name!!! That was yesterday, while I was still in recovery and clean-up mode. My only defense, flimsy as it may be, is that I had done the trusty French whore cleanup of the body each day, so I wasn't totally rank to be around. I know, I know, says me, but no one told me I stank like a skank.

You'll be happy to know, and my family will be happy to see/smell, that I was able to muster the energy to shower, shave and wash my ratty hair about an hour ago. I'm not lazy enough to go four full days without a complete cleansing, at least not since I had a colicky infant on my hands. Back then, I was always a scary, hairy, dirty hag, and I couldn't have cared less...

Slave For Love...

2009-10-29T01:13:00.004-04:00

The other night, I left a comment on my girl Becky's blog in response to her question of what job I/you would never be capable of doing (or something like that), and I feel the need to expound on my already long-winded answer. After telling her my list would be so long that it would crash her blog, what I came up with was something along the lines of: I could never do a job that involved getting up early every day, working with the same annoying people every day, touching anyone, being touched by anyone, dealing with more than one child for more than a couple hours, cleaning up anything gross or smelly, anything in the service industry or anything to do with customers that might be able to contact me and complain about my cranky attitude.

My list could go on and on, like adding that I could never work with people in pain or sick people of any kind, teach anyone how to do anything, sell anything, and so on and so on and so on. Still, that would only cover 50% of the things I wouldn't want to have to attempt to do for a paycheck.
Now, I knew before I hit "submit" that my list makes me sound like a spoiled brat who doesn't work for a living. Well, we all know that I am a spoiled brat, but most of you also know that I do have a job. It just happens to be a job that I do when and if I want to, for the most part. So, yes, I am a middle-aged brat, but I worked really, really hard to be able to get to this point of brattiness in my career and in my life.

Then, when I received Becky's reply that magically comes to my Crackberry as soon as she replies (pretty sweet setup, Mama), I read over the list again and realized a couple of things: One, yeah, it does make me look like a spoiled brat, but I have no shame about that; two, I want my replies to go to people's e-mail addresses, just like Becky's; and last but not least, I do almost all of those tasks every day as a wife and mother for no paycheck at all.

I know, I know, you all realized that immediately upon reading my list, but I'm a little slow sometimes. Sadly, I don't get a dime for being the world's greatest wife/mother, and that is just so wrong. My compensation for all of this work comes in hugs and "I love you's," and while that's great and all, I'm thinking some green dollar bills would be stellar when the menfolk are being dickheads. This lack of pay for my services may explain a few things. Being a very bad slave and an even worse martyr, I tend to delegate quite a bit of the childcare to the husband.

Oh, sure, I do most of the heavy lifting around here. I cook and clean, help with/do the boy's homework and even dole out the occasional blowjob to the husband, but I am not afraid to hand over childcare duty to the husband whenever possible. I'm a slave who knows how to ask for help.

Watching some women run here and there doing errands with the kids, attending every school event, every sporting event, every birthday party and do all of the work around the house while their husband is home doing nothing or golfing with his buddies just blows my mind. I realize that most men work all the time and that sometimes they're the only ones bringing home the money, so they deserve some downtime, but certainly not every single night and not all weekend. Personally, I could never live with a guy who wouldn't help out with his child. If I had to do it all, day after day, I'd be divorced.

Maybe that's easy for me to say, since I've got a self-employed husband who can make time if I need him to, but it wouldn't matter much if I had to nag his ass to bring the boy to the bus stop a couple days a week or to baseball practice or to pick him up at school. I ask him for help, and he gladly gives it most of the time.

No, he's not an angel sent to save my sorry soul, not by a long shot. Short of grocery shopping, which he does just to keep me from spending too much money (I do kind of lose my mind around food), he does next to nothing around the house, and he has no clue how to write anything down so that he might remember where he's supposed to be. Keeping family life on track would not be his forte.

He is not the perfect husband, just like I'm not the perfect wife, but he is a very good father. He offers to bring the boy wherever he needs to be, and he spends his entire weekend with his little buddy mountain biking, skiing or hunting for treasures (crap) at flea markets and yard sales. He changed diapers and gave baths when the boy was a wee lad, and he wakes up early the days he's home and gets him ready for school. Hell, he'll even pick up vomit.

It goes without saying that he will not do these tasks exactly the way I would, and he might even screw up sometimes, but so what if the kid goes out looking ridiculous in clothes I would never let him be seen in or if he has bedhead and dirty fingernails when he shows up at a birthday party. Oh, I'll cringe and maybe bitch to my friends, but I'm all about having an involved father, even if he can't do everything as well as I can.

Helicopter mom I am not. Why would I be if I don't have to be? I prefer to make my head spin in much more enjoyable ways. Other than the nearly severed thumb incident and the massive amount of junk they find and bring home, the boys seem to do all right without me there every single second breathing down their necks. It's a good deal all the way around, and everyone is happier for it.

Our little system seems to drive some women I know crazy, like the one who wanted to know where I was Sunday when the husband brought the boy to a birthday party. "She's home," he said, and she replied, "God, I envy that woman." She's also got a problem with me attending about half of the baseball season and always has something to say about it, but that's just it, it's her problem.

Does it bother me that some women make a big deal out of me not being "there" all the time, just like them? Maybe a little on a bad day, where I'll feel the need to point out the fact that I am the one who actually practices baseball with the boy or that I'm out riding the dirt bike or the ATV with him. Most days, however, I just laugh and say, "God, I don't envy that woman," just like I did Sunday night when my husband reported that Miss Judgemental was keeping score again.

Reality is that some women have no choice but to do everything, which sucks big, hairy balls. I truly feel for them. Then, there are those that wouldn't let their husband step up even if he was willing, out of fear that he wouldn't do it "right" or, even more sad, out of fear that they'd be branded crappy, selfish mothers for not being there every single second. Sorry, but I'm not buying it. Remember, I, like you, don't get paid a cent for this wife/mother gig, so letting my husband handle some of the extra-curricular activity load seems only fair.

My non-helicopter ways don't seem to cut down on my hugs and "I love you" compensation, so I'm sticking to it.

It Keeps Gettin' Better...

2009-10-25T00:11:00.004-04:00

When you wake up after 11 hours of sleep feeling no better than when you had one hour of sleep on Wednesday night or four hours on Thursday night, you might as well just go back to bed for the rest of the day or maybe the entire weekend. Of course, I know that now. This morning, however, when my eyes opened enough to focus on the three dogs that were standing on various parts of my body, I was determined to make the most of my Saturday.

Sure, I was stiff and bleary eyed, but I swung my legs over the side of the bed and dragged myself to the back door to let the dogs out so that I could take a pee in peace. After washing my hands and dousing my itchy eyes with eye drops (which is usually step one each day if I don't have to pee really badly), I put the tea kettle on and let the dogs back in. In my travels from the bedroom to the bathroom and into the kitchen, I had noticed that the house was quiet, which means that the husband had taken the boy out for breakfast. Nice!

The plan was to relax with my green tea and catch up on some blogs before I got busy. Except there was no green tea, because some rude person had gotten to the pantry before me. Strike one or I guess strike two, since I felt like shit. Okay, so I'll make coffee. I prefer green tea first thing in the morning, but caffeine is caffeine, right? Strike three was finding that the coffee pot was never cleaned by the lazy, rude, tea-stealing husband the last time he used it and still had a filter full of old grinds in it, but what else is new.

I cleaned the coffee maker, got the beans ground and let it brew while I fed the dogs. I took my favorite mug down from the cabinet, put in three Sugar In The Raw packets, poured the coffee into the mug and went to grab the milk. NO FUCKING MILK. Not even any cream, which I hate, but will use in a pinch. Now, this would be understandable in most households, but when your husband is the fucking m..km.n to thousands of people who have milk in their refrigerators right that very second, and he has already been over to his business, where there are hundreds upon hundreds of cases of milk, and been back home, THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE.

After screaming obscenities at the milk-free fridge and slamming the door so hard that it sprung back open, I called that useless m..km.n that drank my last two green teas to bitch him out and tell him to bring me skim milk for my coffee STAT. Lucky for him, he was in another state on some stupid excursion that would most likely end with another antique bike being added to the five hundred we already have.

But what about me? What about that hideous black coffee sitting there in my pretty mug waiting for milk? Not two weeks ago, that stupid m..km.n left me in the same predicament, and I drank black coffee for the first time ever. I then proceeded to have heartburn for 12 hours. Not going there again.

So, while still in my PJ's, I threw on my raincoat and my UGG-COMs (meaning seriously ugly and yet seriously comfy Ugg boots) and told the three dogs to get in the truck. Off we went in the pouring rain to get milk over at the husband's business. Seeing that it's about two minutes away, I didn't bother to load the crates in the truck or put up the fence or the gate or whatever the hell you call those things that keep the dogs in the cargo area. It would have taken ten times longer to do that than it would to drive over there and back and drink my damn coffee while reading blogs.

All three dogs were in the cargo area when I hopped out of the truck to get my milk, but of course two of them (they will be known as The Assholes from here on out) missed me so much that they had to climb over the back seats and into the front seats, where they jumped all over the driver's door and the passenger door and managed to lock the doors. Yes, the keys were in the truck.

When I grabbed the handle on the driver's door and found that it was locked, I looked past the oh-so-happy Assholes over to the passenger door and saw that it was locked, too. So, there I stood in my PJ's in the pouring rain with my two quarts of skim and a loaf of whole wheat, and I started screaming at my two asshole dogs that were drooling all over the driver's door window all proud of themselves. Rebel, the usual pain in my ass, was still in the cargo area like a good, good dog should be, so I told him he was a good boy and started cracking up while I kicked dirt and weighed my options.

Before I limped back into the building to call my mother or my brother to come and get me so that I could go home and get the spare key, I had the good sense to try the back door. Luckily, they hadn't hit the button that locks all the doors but had hit each individual knob on the doors, and I was able to get in the back seat and crawl into the front. Fucking dogs!! Fucking m..km.n!!

After all that, I was soaked, my truck was a mess, my coffee sucked, and it was only 11:00. I should have crawled in bed with my laptop, but instead decided to vacuum, which lead to the bright idea of steam cleaning my formerly white couch. Yes, I'm one of those delusional freaks that thought it was possible to have a pretty white couch. Even if you don't have kids or a menagerie of animals or any humans of the male persuasion living with you, a white couch is a bad idea. Dust is going to get the fucker dirty or some friend or relative is going to spill red wine on it, so don't even bother.

Now, I admitted I was an idiot long ago for getting that couch and have been looking for a new one for years but can't find exactly what I want. So, there it sits, year after year, getting more gray from the cats sleeping on it and the dogs laying up against it. It's in the "formal" living room, as if anything in my house is formal. It just means there's no TV in there and that it's not near the kitchen. It also means I never go in there and can avoid looking at the nastiness most of the time. Today, however, while vacuuming, I looked at it, and it bugged me. It bugged me so much that I borrowed the best friend's steam cleaner, rolled up my sleeves and got busy.

What a huge mistake. It's one of those things that seems like a good idea. I mean, how hard could it be, right? Why hire a professional, who's going to use toxic chemicals and a steam cleaner that probably just cleaned up a double murder scene, when you can do it yourself?

I'll tell you why. It's a lot of fucking work, and it takes hours of changing the dirty water and adding soap and muscling that seemingly light machine around to the point that your wrists and elbows and shoulders and back are killing you. Oh, and who knows if the couch is clean. It went from gray to tan as best I can tell. If it dries to white, well, I might change my mind on whether the pain and the hours of work were worth it. Somehow, I think I'm going to end up with dingy white, at best, and be off to look harder for a new couch on Monday.

After my miserable morning and all that work that probably just made matters worse, I wanted to cry. I should have cried and gone to bed. Instead, I opened a bottle of wine and made smoked Gouda mac & cheese and ate so much that I gained 10 pounds. Then, instead of cleaning the kitchen, I watched a horrible movie with the boy until he fell asleep, and here I am typing away with my throbbing arms. Why? Because I'm a glutton for punishment and smoked Gouda, which I feared would permanently settle its blobs of fat on my thighs if I were to go to sleep so soon after gorging myself.

Now that it's 2:30 AM, I think my thighs are safe to sleep. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crawl into bed, stick my thumb in my mouth, and snuggle with my boo-boo bear...

Where's Lola...

2009-10-21T10:35:00.003-04:00

It only stands to reason that I'd get sick when it's the busiest time at work in months and when I've got a To Do list longer than my entire body. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm not that tall, so I'll say my list is longer than my giant husband's entire body or maybe even longer than the street we live on. It's a big fucking list.

Instead of tending to my list, I've been curled up on the couch in the fetal position, because standing up with a migraine and all-over body aches is simply too much to ask of even me. Today is the first day that I can even focus on a computer screen without it making my head feel like it's going to explode, and I'm actually going to work. Typical. If I feel the slightest bit better, I'm off and running again, because I'm stupid like that. I'll most likely be back on the couch tomorrow.

The truth is that I have to get moving whether I feel like it or not. The big party is next week, and way too many children are coming to my house, because I'm also stupid like that. Every single Halloween, my kid gets me sick the week before or the week of our big party, so I really shouldn't be surprised that he took me down again, should I? Call me a party-loving optimist or a complete moron for planning a big bash when history shows that we will be sick, but next Saturday is coming quick, and I've got some major work to do.

In order to keep the 25 or so little bastards hopped up on candy out of my house, the garage has to be turned into a haunted kid central, and some kind of activity must be devised. When I originally lost my mind and was all gung-ho sending out the invites, I mentioned something about a scavenger hunt.

So far, I've not come up with one single clue for said hunt, but my fallback plan is to send them in search of a scary, three-legged unicorn or a giant four-leaf clover, with empty promises of a big payoff to keep their motivation up. If I'm feeling energetic, I suppose I could hide a skull really well or pretend that I hid a skull really well so that they run around for an hour or so looking for something that's not there.

By then, it will be time for them to take to the streets and surprise the neighbors who expected the ten trick-or-treaters we usually get and, therefore, run out of treats by 7:00. That's all right, though, since the cool neighbors are coming to the party. The rest are no fun anyway and can just shut their lights out and go to bed after they give out their last microwave popcorn or Halloween pencil in lieu of what the kids really want: Candy!!

Now that you understand what I'm up against, say a little prayer for me that the germs have left my body at least until November 2nd (November 1st is all about the cleanup) and that I will never, ever get the migraines back. That is some nasty shit right there, and I can't imagine having them on a regular basis. It's nearly impossible to function, and driving is a very bad idea I learned.

Next time, if there is a next time, I'm having the husband drive me to the hospital, where I will crawl to the first male hospital person I see, latch onto their balls , twist those balls, and demand that some sweet, sweet Demerol be injected into my veins immediately.

Oh, and say a little prayer for me that it doesn't rain next Saturday or go down into the twenties again. The best month of the year has been a suckfest of unseasonal cold and lots of rain around here. It even snowed last Sunday, and that is just unacceptable. 25 children, between the ages of 5 and 12, in my home is unacceptable and scary. So, please pray or light a candle or smudge some sage and send some good energy out into the universe for me.

In return for your good energy, I'll show you my tits or something on November 2nd. I'm afraid to look at my Google Reader, but if I survive work today, I'll check in on all of you soon. Hopefully, you've been having wild sex and feel the need to tell the Internet all about it...

The Reunion...

2009-10-14T09:49:00.009-04:00

Being relatively easy to please when it comes to a night out, it's no surprise that I had a great time at my class reunion. Give me some alcohol, some interesting/semi-interesting people to talk to, some decent music, and I'm good to go. Don't bother mixing in food, unless it's really good food, because then I'm not at all easy to please. I'm a great cook, and nothing annoys me more than paying good money for crappy food.

As expected, the buffet didn't cut it, so I basically paid $25 to get into the shindig, lots more on the cash bar, and I came home and ate like only a starving drunk can at 1:30 A.M. No rhyme or reason to what I was ingesting before passing out, but it all tasted so damn good. I believe the binge included leftover tuna salad (eaten with a giant spoon, of course), saltines, yogurt, cheese, almonds, more cheese and grapes. There may have been some chocolate thrown in there somewhere, but I'm a bit foggy on that due to the speed at which I ran into the house, peed and then shoved all of this food into my mouth. I hadn't even taken my coat off yet. Then, I sat down to take off my boots, and that was it for me.

Let's go back to the beginning, though. We showed up an hour late, as usual. We're not trying to be cool or rude, really, we're not. Our survival strategy for this type of get-together is to show up after people have had some drinks and the uncomfortable nervous energy has left the building. We're on time for weddings and dinner reservations and such, but parties with a bunch of people you haven't seen in years? Not a chance.

The cheery organizers accosted me as soon as I walked in, handed me a name tag that I proceeded to stuff in my purse and started snapping pictures while firing questions at me.
Now, you know I love photography, but boy do I hate people shoving incredibly slow digital cameras in my face and being told, "One more, one more," because I looked away or the smile faded from my face in the TEN MINUTES it takes your camera to take a fucking picture. Oh, and put your hand in front of that heinous flash of yours if you don't want me to close my eyes, people! How I long for the days of 35mm film sometimes. I may not be on Facebook, but my squinting, cranky mug is ALL OVER it now, as the camera-happy Facebookers informed me via friend requests Sunday and Monday. Good god. I just do not get it.

Other than the new addictions to social networking sites, not much has changed with our class of 1984. Sure, some people looked like they've spent the past 25 years eating, but for the most part, everyone looked pretty darn good. In fact, most looked better than they did way back then. No reunion would be complete without a nerdy wallflower girl that transformed into a hottie later in life and feels the need to show up in a tiny tube dress even though it's freezing cold out and we're in a dive bar.

She was the only one I didn't recognize after my yearbook review, and I had to stare at her tits for a minute, because that's where she pinned her name tag. In that dress, she really didn't have many options for placement of said name tag, so we all got to stare at her tits and go, "Holy shit!!! You can't be... You look incredible." "That's the only reason I'm here," she would say proudly, or (the best thing I heard all night), "Oh, I've been hot since I got out of high school, you know?" Is that not perfect?

Most of the night I spent talking with one of my best friends from back then. We haven't seen each other since I was in her wedding the summer of '84, mostly because her new husband got way into being born again and kept her away from everyone fun. We were instantly transported right back to the good old days, complete with her getting easily buzzed, talking really loudly and spilling drinks on me.

It was hilarious. I mean, this girl could get drunk from smelling a beer cap back in the day, and she's drinking Long Island ice teas. Every few minutes, she'd say, "Oh, my god, I think I'm yelling," usually right after she referred to someone as a "Douche" or a "Cunt." I'd say, "It's okay, Hon. Just try to use your inside voice when you say 'cunt' next time." Then, we'd crack up and move to another spot in the bar. Seeing her was beyond awesome.

Even though I mostly stuck with her drunk ass and my other dear friend all night, I did a fair amount of mingling and talked to most everyone, I think. If I missed anyone, then my husband probably talked to them. He's a talker and a mingler, that one. Since we see soooo much of each other, we always separate as soon as we enter a party, and we check in every once in a while, like when I need another drink. It was highly amusing when I'd see him across the room being pumped for information by some of the ladies. I can always tell by the look on his face when he's talking about me.

I'd eventually wander over, and the nosy bitches would scatter like rats do when you flip the barn lights on in the middle of the night. Too funny, ladies, because he's going to tell me everything you said as soon as he gets a chance. He loves reporting back, and he's a gossip whore. My drunk friend thought that Ms. I've Been Hot For Years was hot for my husband and kept telling me to go pry him away from her. "Oh, he can handle himself," I'd say. Jealous people, we are not.

The best part of the night was when the meat market regulars showed up to find their mate for that night. I've never seen anything quite like it, and I've been around a long time and seen my share of pick-up joints. There were "cougars" everywhere and lots of seemingly willing cougar bait, to boot. It was a scene that kept me mesmerized until last call, but that's a story for another day, I'm afraid.

We can have the Great Cougar Debate the next time I have a chance to sit down at my computer. In the meantime, ponder this: At some point, doesn't a "cougar" really become a dinosaur who should know better than to go out dressed like that and hit on men young enough to be their grandsons? How old/young would you go?

What Don't You Already Know...

2009-10-08T17:10:00.000-04:00

***If you had part of this post already appear in your Reader and were thinking that I must be hitting the bottle at 10 AM, you'd be wrong. I simply type too fast for my own good. I meant to initial cap a "P," but apparently "CTRL-P" tells Blogger to publish right that second. Who knew?***

It appears that blogging, like most things in life, is cyclical. Last year, we were all bombarded with memes, and the awards were spreading like HPV -- err -- wildfire. I, myself, had a year's worth of memes stacked up in my drafts folder, and I received quite a few lovely awards from my fellow blog buddies. At first, I played along with the whole thing, and then I got to feeling strange about spreading the virus -- err -- love to other bloggers.

While I truly appreciated every single award, I had a problem following the rules (big surprise, I know). By then, I had a lot of blog friends, and if you're my blog friend, then I obviously think you're the bees knees. Mama doesn't hang out with people if she doesn't enjoy them, unless they're family and she has no choice. Picking five or seven of my friends that deserved awards was too hard for me, as they all deserved one, in my opinion. So, I stopped playing along with the awards.

As for the memes, well, some of them just plain sucked. It seemed like homework at times, and I've got enough homework, thank you very much, due to having a child in public school. Did I want to hand out assignments to other bloggers? No, no, I did not. I'm very considerate, you know. So, I stopped doing the memes, too. Eventually, these things stopped going around, at least in my circle of blog friends, anyway, and the pressure was off.

That is, until my dear friend Juicy, Aunt Juicebox to the rest of you, got some award love and decided to prove her undying loyalty to me with this:

Admittedly, she passed this on quite a while ago, but I'm an asshole and forgot all about it until my new friend, Kyslp, who will from here on out be known as "Kiss," sent this little beauty my way:

These ladies are sweet-ass bitches, for sure, and you should check them out if you haven't already. They are both very smart, and more importantly, they are both hilarious. Since "Juicy" and I go way back, she knows my stance on all of this and didn't give me any rules to follow. "Kiss" just met me, however, and sent along the rules and a meme. She kind of figured I might not be into all of this and let me know that she wouldn't be hurt if I ignored the whole deal. I told you she was a smart cookie.

I've always said that I will not ignore it when someone gives me an award (unless I forget), because I am always genuinely flattered. My mother really did teach me some manners along the way. So, I am acknowledging these kind ladies, and I thank them for thinking of me. I love you both, and I will add them to the trophy shelf as soon as I find the directions Badass gave me for accomplishing such an amazing technical feat.

In a surprise twist, I found the meme attached by "Kiss" to be one I felt like doing. It made me long for the days of memes a tiny bit. They do come in handy when you can't come up with anything to write about, like now. Plus, it's about my favorite subject: Me. I've done this one at least once before, like most of you, so I won't be passing it on. If you can't think of anything else to write about, like me, feel free to steal it. Grab the awards, while you're at it, since you fine folks deserve an award for putting up with me and reading my insanely long posts.

I believe I'm supposed to come up with seven things you don't already know about me. Not all that easy when you're as open, honest and verbose as I am, but here goes:

1. I'm a pretty vain bitch (yeah, yeah, you knew that already, but bear with me here.) Except for the bus stop, I won't leave my yard without my hair looking decent, some make-up if I can't wear sunglasses for the entire outing, and I'll always wear something that does not make me look fat (not always easy, but I'm a talented illusionist).

However, I hate to iron clothes more than I hate new math, so I go out in wrinkled clothes all the time. I'm not talking a little wrinkled here. I'm talking "What a fucking slob" or "Did you sleep in your clothes" wrinkled. I'll only iron for work or a special occasion. Day-to-day, if you see me, just focus on my hair, please.

2. I like my pork chops with applesauce and my apples with peanut butter.

3. I've got a massive swine flu headache and stomach ache, and I don't even have the fucking flu. As someone who is totally against flu vaccines and has never had one, this one is twisting my guts into a knot. The pediatrician and the school say my kid needs it. The CDC's campaign never lets up on pushing it at the same time they tell you all about the horror stories of healthy individuals dying from the flu, and yet I'm a person who does not blindly trust the CDC and knows damn well that doctors are not always right.

How many drugs have they told us were safe and then come to find out later did more harm than good? What's worse, feeling guilty if your kid gets the pig flu, has major complications and dies or making him get the vaccine, having no pandemic break out, and then the boy gets horribly sick down the road from the vaccine that you allowed them to inject into his little body? I don't know, but I'm not exactly rushing to have him vaccinated at this point. I hate making decisions out of fear.

4. I've been busting my ass working out with that hellcat Jillian Michaels via Comcast Exercise TV almost every day in an attempt to lose the blogging weight. No, it's not because I have to go to that stupid reunion this weekend. I'm a master dress-to-look-skinny illusionist, remember?

No, it's much weirder than that. You see, it's coming up on the time that I have to see my doctors for my yearly checkups, and I can't bear the thought of getting weighed in and having those bitches say, "Well, I see you've packed on some pounds since last year. You're going to have to make some changes in your lifestyle" or some such shit.

One of the many codes I live by is that my doctors must be in worse shape than me so that I don't get lectured. I hate being lectured, especially by someone who just had their face and various other things in my crotch. It's a tried and true code, right up there with the Never Date a Man Under Six Feet Tall Code and the Never, Ever, Ever Have Sex With Anyone Whose Ass is Smaller Than Yours Code.

These lady docs are not out of shape, by a long shot, so I've had my work cut out for me. Jillian may be evil, but the proof of her workout genius is in my skinny-me jeans that I can almost feel comfortable in again.

5. I spent two hours looking at and obsessing over rugs for my dining room yesterday. That puts it at about 300 hours to date of searching for and obsessing over which rug to get for my dining room. Somebody smack me!

6. I have really cute feet or so people tell me.

7. I have lightened up on my hard and fast rule that dogs should not be accessorized with anything other than a cool collar if you're over the age of 12. Sure, we all put dresses on our dogs, cats and bunnies when we were kids (or maybe it was just me), but adults putting dresses and blingy collars on their pooches and carrying them around in a purse have gotten major ridicule from me. "Think of the poor dog's self-esteem," I would always say, when I saw some dolled-up, bedazzled dog spending their day being carried around by their nutty owners.

Now, I'm not talking about putting a dog sweater on the wee shaky ones when it's cold, because that's for the good of the dog, but pink, frilly dresses? (I'm looking right at you, My Monkey Lover.) Granted, I've always owned large dogs with lots and lots of gorgeous fur, so why the hell would I want to put dresses on them? Their pride would be shattered, and the clothes would be tattered.

Then, little Stella came along. While she is not a wee, shaky one, she only weighs in at 14 pounds and has a very light coat. Don't let her badass attitude fool you. She is a little dog, whether she wants to believe it or not, and I noticed that on chilly, windy mornings she starts to shiver a bit. So, when I was at the pet store, I decided to buy her a winter coat. It is New England, after all, and the snow and freezing temps are not far off. My big dogs want out and need to run their asses off, no matter how cold it is, and she's not about to be left behind. Her massive ego would never allow her to be stuck in the house watching them frolic in the snow.

I breezed past everything on the rack that was fancy or pink, in search of something befitting her personality; ie, black or red. Just before I found the one and only simple, black winter coat, I saw a hoodie that had "Stella" written all over it. I picked it up, loved it, said, "Nah," and put it back. After I found the coat and decided it was a definite, I started to walk away but hesitated and looked back at the hoodie one more time. "Ahh, what the hell."

I knew at the checkout counter when I handed those clothes to the clerk that I had officially crossed over to the dark side of dog ownership. I actually bought clothes for my dog. What the fuck!!! After returning home, I let the husband make fun of me for a while, before admitting to the both of us that maybe I had already crossed over when I bought her this fancy ID tag, complete with rhinestone eyes and a rhinestone grill:

It's incredibly small, and I was too lazy to change my lens for you, but there's rhinestones alright. Shamefully blingy for a name tag, I know, but it was too funny and too perfect for her diva/ball-buster disposition. After that, I suppose it was just a matter of time before I found a coordinating scull and crossbones, studded hoodie that she just had to have:

To be more accurate, a scull and crossbones, studded hoodie with a faux mohawk hood.

Okay, so she's not as enamored with the mohawk hood as the boy and I are, but she loves wearing her sweatshirt with the hood down. Maybe it's the little dog syndrome that brought me down or maybe I've simply lost my mind. At least I dress her like a boy and let her walk on her own four paws instead of carrying her around in my giant purple purse, and the clothes are strictly for home wear. She has to maintain some of her dignity, and so do I.

1984...

2009-10-05T11:35:00.012-04:00

A few months ago, as I was talking to one of my oldest and dearest friends, she mentioned that some of the cheery chicks from high school were planning a 25th reunion. "Why," I snarked, since our class of 1984 was never really a tight-knit group. We had a 10th year reunion, and it seemed like that was more than enough.

"I don't know. They contacted me and asked me to help plan it," she said. After laughing in her face, I put my two cents in, just like last time, stating the conditions under which I would attend. "One: I will go only because you're my friend and you want me to; two, it has to be held close to home, and by that I mean no longer than a ten-minute drive. If it's any further away, then call me a bad friend and have fun with the cheerleaders."

"How did I know that was what you would say," she replied. "I'll see what I can do." As it turns out, she laid down my conditions for the cheer squad at the first meeting and got the drive time down to a mere five minutes just for me. The soiree will be held in a local bar/dance club that I detest this coming weekend.

Up until yesterday, I hadn't paid for our tickets, because I like to wait to the very last minute before committing to much of anything. That way, my options stay open long enough to see what kind of mood I might be in. After four urgent e-mails from the poor sap who took on the money collection job, I decided to respond yesterday morning and let her know that the check would go out to her today, just in time for the Tuesday deadline. Of course, that would give me even more time to back out. She was sly enough to foil my plot, however, and actually drove over to our house yesterday afternoon to pick up the $50. Bitch!

So, we're either going to the reunion or I paid for someone to hit the buffet four times, instead of two times. Ahh, we'll go, but only because I told my friend I would be there to scare off the mean girls she's still holding a grudge against 25 years later. You see, she's one of those who gets herself all worked up about seeing these people we went to school with. Me? I couldn't care less. I have no grudges at all, because almost all of my friends were older than me or from other towns. I put in my time in class with these people, but I had next to nothing to do with any of them, except two guys and three girls, and that was because they also hung out with the older kids.

When I looked at the list of names of the people who said they would attend the reunion, I flat out didn't recognize three names, and putting faces with the names I did recognize was nearly impossible. Two of them I swore graduated the year before me. The husband swore I was wrong, so I decided I better go try to find my yearbook to prove myself right. I pulled out the giant storage bin of old photos, and there it was. Even the book didn't look familiar, but it has my name on it and "Class of 1984" right there on the front cover.

What a trip! I still had to read the names and stare at the photos of some of them to have any sort of recall of graduating with them. The husband and I just kept pointing and saying, "Oh, yeah." Yeah, yeah, I was wrong, and he was right about the two I thought graduated the year before. There was even a photo of me standing next to one of them in band.

I almost cried when I came upon the picture of my good friend who died when he wrapped his car around a tree in 1985. There were pictures that brought a smile to my face, pictures that made me laugh incredibly hard, and there was me, wearing too much makeup and humping a tree while glaring at the weird old man photographer for trying to make me pose and smile at the same time...

According to the yearbook, her favorite color was black, and her likes were David Bowie, Blondie, punk rock, cool clothes, leather, hot cars, Harley Davidsons, sea breezes (as in the drink) and partying down the pits. Her dislikes were Mondays, unreasonable rules, two-faced people and being followed by a cruiser (seriously, that's what it says). Her favorite saying was, "Oh, well."

Yeah, I haven't matured much beyond that, except I prefer red wine to sea breezes, and I usually say, "Oh, well, I smell" these days, instead of the much more childish, "Oh, well."

Oh, look, there she is again. Who'd have guessed she'd still be with that dapper fella that escorted her to the prom 25 years ago? Ten bucks to whoever guesses what we'd been up to ten minutes before this lovely shot was taken. We lasted all of a half hour at the prom before we hopped back in our friend's van and went and partied around a bonfire in the woods, all of us still dressed in our prom attire. I wrecked my kickass Candies traipsing around in the dark looking for a place to pee, but it was one hell of a senior prom in the woods.

Where's the big eighties hair and the shiny, poofy-sleeved ball gown, you ask? No self-respecting punk teased her hair or wore taffeta. I had a nice, feathered cut by day that I could put Elmer's Glue in to get the spikes I needed for a weekend of club hopping. The big hair came later, I promise, but the fashion disasters have been avoided to this day.

The day she had been waiting for for the last 12 years. There she is getting awarded one of the surprise scholarships she wished she knew she was getting before she got stoned in the girls' room right before the graduation ceremony started. Not cool! I could hear my mother and brother cheering from the audience and the insane laughter of the other stoners while I tried my hardest not to trip or start cracking up in front of everyone FOUR TIMES.

The one great thing about the festivities, beyond the fact that I was finally free of that place, was that I got to touch my dream lover, the assistant principal, every time I had to cross that stage. That gorgeous man loved me even when I smelled like weed.

There you have it, a glimpse of Lola back in her prime. I can't say that I've changed much in 25 years, and I have a feeling that's what some of my classmates will be saying to me while I guzzle wine and try to figure out who the hell I'm talking to Saturday night. Would it be rude to pull the yearbook out of my giant purse every time I get stumped? While I'm not looking forward to the awkwardness of it all or the gross food and bad music in that scummy club, I'll have fun. I always do.

Here's a couple bonus shots to prove that I did fall victim to the big hair craze later in life...

Big and LONG, circa 1989. Can you tell that the dog and I can't stand the chick who took this shot?

Big, long and red, circa 1994. This picture did make me cry. Not over the hideous hair, but that big German Shepherd was the best dog EVER!!!!!! I will never stop missing my Dino. The pup, she was a pain in the ass, but I miss her, too.

Dear Crabby...

2009-09-30T10:34:00.005-04:00

No, I am not starting an advice column here at the Leopard Lounge. Of course, I think I'm more than qualified to dish out advice, due to my advanced age, extremely open mind and checkered past, but better people than I have this area of the Internet covered. For example, my virtual lesbian lover is kicking ass in the advice game every single Sunday while I drool on my pillow and spoon a dog or two until one of us or all of us has to pee. Clearly, us gals have different priorities, and yet we make such a wonderful virtual lesbian couple.

Besides, I dish out my advice in the form of brilliant comments to you fabulous folks whenever I check in. Hear that, you wily lurkers? You, too, could benefit from my years of fuck-ups and fix-ups if you came out of the shadows and played with wise, old Lola once in a while. Think about it, and get back to me. You know you want to!

In real life, however, I am the go-to gal for lots of friends and family, who basically want me to tell them what to do when their dog is sick/just plain annoying, their computer is down or which paint color to go with. These folks also call me and ask for advice on how to deal with their crazy mother, psycho sister, asshole boss, tips to get their husbands/kids to man up or how to simply tell someone to fuck off. According to them, I give great advice.

I don't know if it's great advice or not. I just know I'm capable of seeing both sides of all battles and will come right out and tell you if you're the problem. Hell, I admit that I'm usually the problem in most situations, so don't ask if you're not prepared to hear me call you on your bad behavior.

Of course, sometimes they will get mad at me, especially my mother, and yet they keep coming back. It's probably because I serve up advice with lots of humor, a little sympathy and some fine wine or maybe it's because they know I have the ability to see through the bullshit of life that lots of people get caught up in.

It's a skill you master from sitting through 26 years of lawsuits involving just about anything you can think of. Through my career, I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about most subjects, including human nature. Take a few divorce cases, and you find out what really goes on behind closed doors and just how low people will go to "win." It's not pretty, and I really wish I could get half of it out of my brain to make room for this retarded new math shit that I'm supposed to somehow help my kid understand.

Seeing the misfortune, mistakes and tragedies of others does, however, come in handy when asked your opinion on life's "pressing" matters. "Pressing" is in quotes, because most of the advice I dish out is dealing with the noise we all let into our heads and not things that will matter if you croak tomorrow. Oh, I'm guilty of the same damn drama sometimes but have learned to come to my senses quickly and get back on track.

It appears that word has gotten out about my real life advice-giving skills, as the Interweb has brought many lost souls to the Leopard Lounge in search of wise counsel. Oh, I'm not talking about the fools looking for "Hairy geek glass thumbs" (WTF?) or "Mumma sun baby light beam blog" (huh?) or a "drunk sex orgay" (sic) or the countless disgusting pigs looking for porn that would put them in jail. Unfortunately, when you write "fuck," "dick," "shit" a lot in your posts and "Mama" is in your blog name, it brings swarms of sickos right to your virtual door. These gross bastards, mostly from overseas, prove that this world is indeed a fucked-up, scary place for children. My only advice to these sickos is to seek serious therapy while under lock and key.

So, while I have no desire to give advice to the world at large on a regular basis, I feel compelled to respond to some of the questions that desperate people felt the need to ask Google, who, in turn, searched their database of know-it-alls and rightly referred them to me. That Googlebot that stalks me is one smart cookie and knows that I have all the answers:

The first question came from a concerned wife, who asked: "Is my husband full of shit?" - Now, I wasn't completely sure whether you were asking if the man is clogged up and in need of an enema or whether he is a bullshit artist that cannot be trusted. Without more information, like photos of him clutching his distended belly, I'm going to assume that you are having trouble believing him for some reason. Well, Dear Wife, I believe that if you are smart enough to question his veracity, then you already know the answer.

Next.

"Why does Jesus love me?" - If you're talking about Jesus Christ, then I'm told by many devoted bible thumpers who harass me that he loves us all unconditionally. If you're talking about Jesus Rivera, I've never met him and have no idea why he loves you. Maybe it's your kind heart or your pretty eyes.

Next.

"How do you gross out your public bathroom stall neighbor?" - I'm not sure why you would want to, but I have faith that you can come up with something disgusting if you simply use your imagination. Just think of all the gross props you have right there at your fingertips.

Next.

"I am tired. Am I having a kid?" - I don't know. I'm always tired. Am I always having a kid? I've heard talk of these new, cutting-edge sticks that you can pee on that will let you know if you're having a kid, so you might want to look into that. Good luck!

Next.

"When a boy says 'LOL' a lot, what does it mean?" - It means he's an idiot, and you should pinch him hard every time he says it to break that annoying habit. If you do your job right, once he gets past the involuntary flinching whenever he sees you, he'll actually start laughing out loud when something is funny.

Next.

"What happens when dogs get bits by a dogs with rebels?" Now, I'm going out on a limb here and assuming that you didn't get your dog a RABIES shot. So, you better get the poor thing to a vet to be quarantined before you end up with "rebels." My advice to you, if you're not already dead from touching the saliva of the dog with rabies, is to bone up on your grammar and to not have pets you can't take care of. You can get rabies shots for free, so don't cry poor to me.

Next.

"My husband says I should let our dog mount me during sex. What should I do?" - Tell him that you will if he lets the dog mount him first, get it on video, and then divorce the freak.

Next.

"My kid pees while jumping. Is there something wrong?" Oh, hell, I'll admit that I pee a little when I'm on the trampoline sometimes, but I'm old. I never had the problem as a kid, so tell their doctor.

Next.

"How do you make babies fart?" - Mine farted plenty all on his own, so I have no expertise in this area. Sorry.

Next.

"Why do I keep packing on the pounds?" - Maybe it's thyroid trouble or something glandular or maybe you eat too much and exercise too little.

Next.

"Is raccoon shit poisonous?" - Well, my naughty dogs eat plenty of it, as well as rabbit shit and deer shit and are still with us. So, it's probably not poisonous, but I wouldn't eat it if I were you.

Next.

"My vagina is swollen. Is it due to the Keflex I'm taking?" - Oh, honey, I've never been on Keflex, but antibiotics do cause nasty yeast infections. Get yourself to the drug store or doctor immediately, as the burning and the itching can't be far behind. Monistat is a girl's best friend, and there's a reason why STAT is in the name.

Next.

"Can I have a glass of wine while on Keflec?" - I believe you're talking about Keflex, the same drug that apparently causes swollen vaginas. I know you're not supposed to booze it up when you're on antibiotics, and I guess it depends why you're on them. If I wasn't on it for my liver or my kidneys and I was feeling better, I'd probably have ONE glass of wine. Now, if my puss was suddenly on fire from said antibiotic, I'd drink a whole bottle while the husband went and bought out the Monistat supply at CVS. (Okay, okay. It would go more like I'd get drunk, and he would drive me to the store and send my drunk ass in for the vag extinguishers. I'm okay with that scenario, too.)

Next.

"Does clam chowder cause dog diarrhea?" - Depends if your dog has an iron gut or not. My dogs would be spewing poo for sure, but I know dogs that eat everything under the sun and pinch out solid logs. Since dog diarrhea is heinous, why take the chance? Eat the clam chowdah yourself and give Fido some dog food.

Next.

"What are some sassy things to say to a man?" - Bwahahaha!!! I'm sorry to laugh, but if sass doesn't come naturally to you, then don't even try. It will be an epic train wreck.

Last, but certainly not least.

"How do you get giardia out of your grass?" - Man, that word makes me shudder every time I see it! Judging from the hundreds of hits I get from all around the world, Google seems to think I'm an expert on this awful parasite that makes dogs and people incredibly sick and causes horrendous diarrhea, but I'm no expert.

All I know is that it looks like a harmless, happy-go-lucky bubble smiling at you from under the microscope; that it causes incredibly gross diarrhea in dogs; that one round of the expensive meds will probably not get rid of it and that it is very difficult to rid your yard of it in the summer months if you have a lot of rain or humidity. In other words, it's no joke. Short of bleaching your entire lawn or setting it on fire, which was what I had planned if we had to go a third round with the smiley-faced fuckers, there's not much you can do. Clean up the diarrhea as best you can, Lysol each spot, and DO NOT let the dogs or kids be in that area until the sun has burned out your grass. Oh, and if you're religious, PRAY!!

Well, that's it for Dear Crabby's advice until Google sends me some more lost souls in need of my services. I'm sure I helped millions of people with this one session, so you're welcome. Just for kicks, I've matched up some of those questions to my lurkers' IP addresses . So, from now on, every time I see Lowell, MA on my Site Meter, I'm going to think, "There's that swollen vagina girl again" or "Hehe, I wonder if Frederick, MD got the dog humping her husband on video yet."

Ahh, I kid my loyal lurkers. You know I love your shadowy guts, but I'd love you way more if you said hello or called me names or asked me deeply personal questions. Come on, give it your best shot, Lowell!!!

Would You Rather...

2009-09-28T10:03:00.005-04:00

...get a root canal sans Novocain or be forced to sit in a room and watch Jon & Kate have hot makeup sex? I'd go with the root canal, since I have a high pain tolerance and I can't stand the sight of either one of those freaks. Then again, it might be kind of fun to see Kate smack Jon around every time he comes up for air. If Jon grabbed her crazy-ass hair and pulled until she screamed and promised to shave her head and start over, well, it might be better than a root canal, as long as I have a bottle of wine in one hand and the clippers in the other.

How about, would you rather eat raw cow brains or have sex with the most disgusting person you can think of, in broad daylight? (I had a few names I was going to throw out there, but that wouldn't be very nice, now would it? I'm feeling kind today, even though I have to go to the dentist.) I'd go with the brains.

I love this game, since "Neither" is not an acceptable answer. When a bunch of drunks are sitting around playing, it gets pretty gross and, therefore, pretty hilarious. You can't be too drunk, however, or coming up with decent questions is impossible. Of course, you could buy the game, but where's the creativity in that?

In every day life, I play the game with myself on such mundane issues as, "Would I rather bust my ass working out right now or would I rather do laundry?" "Would I rather pick up the dog shit or vacuum?" It's a win-win, really, because sitting down is never an option, and something always gets done that way.

This past weekend was the deadline I had set for cleaning my incredibly overstuffed closet and pulling out of every single piece of clothing that I do not wear, as well as go through my shoes and purses to make a bunch of piles for the Salvation Army. I purchased all of the do-dads I need to organize what's left, including tons of those snazzy hangers with the felt or whatever the hell that shit is that makes all clothes stay on the hanger (whoever invented those babies deserves to be a billionaire), under-the-bed shoe storage thingies and all kinds of other closet crap I found to make my closet the envy of every bitch on the block.

Here is a small pile of said crap that I left sitting out for the past, oh, two months or so. The rest is hidden in the husband's closet, because he had a little space on the floor, but I left these out in the open to annoy myself into getting the job done. See, I hate clutter. Love my chachkis, but I hate clutter. Usually, the sight of this would drive me crazy enough to get me to spring into action and get the dirty job done.

Nope, not this time. It's too easy to ignore, because it's piled up in the bedroom, where I don't spend the majority of my time. Plus, we finally got some nice weather now that summer is over, and I've been busy doing everything outside that I should have done in June. So, there it sits trying to annoy me.

Saturday was too nice, so I decided to bust my ass outside decorating for fall and pulling weeds to get ready to put down the mulch that we never ordered until now. Better late than never, folks. I finished that up pretty early, so I did actually walk into the bedroom and glance in the direction of the closet crap. "I could get started... Ahh, screw that!! It's going to rain all day Sunday," I told myself, and decided I would rather hit the hammock and marvel at the giant beanstalk that has taken over the pergola.

As you can see, my beanstalk overfloweth. It's actually wisteria, not a beanstalk, but for some strange reason, after 10 years of growing, it sprouted all of these fuzzy bean pods this year. There's hundreds upon hundreds of them. When they first appeared, they freaked me out, and I thought they were ugly. All I could think of was the mess they're going to make when they die and rain down onto the patio, the hammock and the furniture.

Then, I started to look at them differently. They hang perfectly, like jewels, from the vines. Oh, they'll still make a mess, but they add interest to the vines long after the flowers have gone. Fuzzy beans are pretty I've decided.

Sure enough, it was pouring when I woke up Sunday. So...

...I decided I would rather decorate the inside of the house for Halloween so that it would look pretty for when Dexter, sweet Dexter, came back into my life at 9 PM and again at 11. Yeah, the season opener was THAT good, Heather!!

I'm thinking the closet can wait until the middle of February...

How about would you rather clean my closet for me or eat a gnarly eye booger from my dog?

A Tale Of Two Bitches...

2009-09-25T09:27:00.005-04:00

***Alternate working titles - "It's All Fun And Games Until Someone Ends Up In A Cone...," "It's All Fun And Games Until Your Estrogen Runs Out..." or "Duck And Cover, Motherfucker...***

It's a sad tale, really, a tale of a poor little dog who hates the world since they cut her open on Wednesday and took out her ovaries and uterus, for reasons she simply cannot understand, and the tale of a 43-year old woman who is stuck in the miserable throws of perimenopause for reasons she simply cannot accept.

No, I'm not a dried up old gal yet, not even close, because perimenopause starts in your late 30's, ladies, and it can last until you're close to 50. That's right, it could be ten years of fucked-up hormones that lead to zits bigger than ping-pong balls, massive headaches, exhaustion to the point where you could pass out on the kitchen floor in the middle of dinner (yet somehow you can't sleep at night) and mood swings that are BEYOND comprehension, just to list a few of the loverly things you young gals have to look forward to. Dare to laugh now, ladies, because I'll be on the other side all dried up and happy when you're all miserable. I'm thinking I'll change my name to Dusty Ho post-meno.

But back to the patient. Here is Angry Stella this morning after I dared to pry her from my arms and crawl out of bed...

She doesn't want to walk. She doesn't want to eat, and she doesn't even want to play with her favorite Halloween Jack squeaky toy. She's BITTER. If Mojo and Rebel dare to approach her, she growls and whips her giant conehead around to try and bite them. Who can blame her? She's in pain, and she's got an ugly fucking cone on her head that keeps her from inspecting the carnage and from being able to complete her mission on earth: Bug hunting.

You see, Terriers are like Beagles, with their nose to the ground at all times. She even runs at full speed with her nose in the grass and can sniff out a juicy beetle treat from twenty paces. Now, when we go for a walk, as I beg her to PLEASE take a piss (a crap would be like winning the lottery at this point), she trots along, trying to sniff the ground, her cone hits said ground, and she flips right over. That's it!! She's pissed off, and she's not going to walk ANYMORE.

Here she is warming up to Halloween Jack after I held the pain med-laced ball of smelly wet food in my hand so she would do us both the big favor of eating it. Still no pee, but she looks a bit more pleasant, no? Poor baby just wants to sleep in my arms, but that's not conducive to getting important things done, so I dragged out her favorite faux bear-skin rug and put it right next to my feet so I can blog about her. I'll just drag her from room to room once I get off my fat ass.

Back to me...

No, that's not really me. She does, however, kind of look like me if I went extremely dark with my hair and we Photoshop'd in some freckles, a witchy widow's peak and a furrowed brow that is desperately crying out for Botox. I'm simply using her for illustrative purposes, because, well, it's a perfect representation of how over the edge I could be at the drop of a hat the last time I tried to kick my favorite drug of all time: Birth control pills.

I tried that stupid little experiment back when I started my blog last spring, and I was trying to eat right (as if I didn't already), cut down on the alcohol, get rid of the caffeine, get lots of rest, exercise and be kind to myself, whatever that means. I took the vitamins, slathered myself in progesterone cream two weeks out of the month, and I started journaling -- well, blogging -- to find my inner self. I did everything I was supposed to, and guess what happened. Big fucking fail. Never, and I mean never have I been so miserable in my entire life.

I think I lasted four months before I dragged my cystic zit covered, dark circled, puffy bagged, angry face into the doc and demanded to be put back on the pill before I became the most successful mass murderer in history. She would have been my first victim had she said no, and I think she knew it. A couple weeks of popping pills every night, and I felt great. I could actually remember my husband's name. Yeah, I forgot to tell you about the brain fog that makes it nearly impossible to concentrate or remember how you ended up at the post office when you meant to be at the bank.

My body needs hormones, and that's that. My mother put me on the pill when I was 14, because she knew damn well she had a little Lolita on her hands, and I only went off the little, round keys to my happiness when it was time to make a baby at 34. Baby came, and Mama needed her happy pills again. It's just the way it is. I never had a problem with the pill, like so many other women do. Life was just fine.

I never complained about my hormones or used them as an excuse for my bitchiness. I was a bitch; therefore, I was bitchy, and I never fell for the PMS excuses that everyone used when they were being a twat. Why? Because my hormones were never out of whack. Now, I know and can sympathise. Oh, I'll still call a twat a twat, but it will be said with love and compassion in my heart, because I understand that it's the hormones talking at least some of the time.

With all that being said, you'll probably be surprised to learn that I went off the pill this month in the name of another experiment. No, I'm not making a baby. Don't even go there in your baby-lovin' minds. Lola Ebola would be coming to you live from the institution were that to happen. I'm way too old for that madness, and I'm not a huge fan of infants.

My experiment is to see if the pill might have a little something to do with the swelling in my hands that feels an awful lot like arthritis. Being the crack detective that I am (not to mention the denial queen who refuses to believe she has to live with this pain in her hands), I thought I noticed that the four days a month when I didn't take the pill, my fingers felt perfectly fine. Only one way to know for sure.

Much to my dismay, it appears that I'm a very wise detective. I've always said that sometimes it really sucks to be right, and this could be monumental proof of that theory. If the whole month proves to be swelling-free, then I've got some major pros and cons to weigh. Living with extremely sore hands in my business is not a good option. Having unbalanced hormones and being homicidal is not a good option. Making the family live with the ticking time bomb that I was last summer is not quite fair.

Mellowing out on IV Demerol (really my favorite drug of all time) is not very practical, unless I can pull a Michael Jackson and hire some nurse to steal it from the hospital and come hook me up every morning. Not having access to Jackson money, I'd have to pay her in fabulous home-cooked meals or maybe sexual favors, so she'll have to be extremely hot or have great taste in food and wine. If you happen to know of any hot nurses that would love to break the law with me, hook us gals up.

We'll see. If it turns out that I can't have my little pink happy pills, then I'll just have to go all Suzanne Somers on my ass and shoot myself up with bio-identical hormones, shove suppositories up the old hoo-ha and eat 70,000 pills a day just to keep my sanity. Synthetic, bio-identical, I don't give a shit. As long as I don't feel like I'm crawling out of my skin and I can sleep at night, I couldn't care less how I get there. Will either give me cancer? Who knows.

Quality of life is much more important to me than quantity at this point. I mean, seriously. I could spend the next eight years a raving lunatic and then get struck by lightning or some other such random bullshit that takes my life or I could be mellooow and feel good until an out-of-control bus mows me down on the sidewalk or the pig flu virus mutates a billion more times and kills us all.

So, until Mama finds some happy balance, it could get a little crazy around here. You have been forewarned. Maybe I'll rename the blog "You better run, you better hide." For now, I'm going to commiserate with my angry pup and stare at my perfect, zit-free skin until the remaining synthetic hormones that are stuck in my fat cells dry up and my head blows off...

It Takes All Kinds...

2009-09-22T12:10:00.002-04:00

Now, I know this confession will come as a huge shock to most of you, but don't fall off your chairs or gasp so loud that you wake the baby or make your bosses come running to see what the company crisis must be. Just take a deep breath in...hold it...hold it...annnnd...exhale out. Here goes...

I, Lola Ebola, am not a touchy-feely person. I KNOW!! I can't believe it either. My whole life, unless you were a gorgeous guy or just about any animal that crossed my path, you would not see me extend my hand or, worse, throw my arms around you and squeeze. It just doesn't happen, except with my son, and he didn't arrive until I was 35.

My internal wiring is a bit more standoffish, I guess. Sure, I'll shake your hand if you're one of those handshake people who insist on shaking my damn hand, but I won't like it. Hands are dirty, plain and simple, and sometimes covered in smelly cologne or overly-scented soap. I prefer my own scent, thank you very much. Plus, if you have a wussy handshake, you have two strikes against you immediately.

Hugs, well, sometimes there's no way out of those either. I'm constantly hugging my kid, but it's never a thought in my mind that I should hug anyone else, unless I'm at a wake or something like that. Our family is extremely close, but we don't go around hugging each other. We weren't raised that way. We show our affection by teasing each other relentlessly, so I'm always thrown when some friend I saw just last week wants to hug me in the post office. I mean, come on.

Most of my friends have been like-minded, keep-your-distance, "How the fuck are you" types, but over the years I've expanded my horizons and become close with some very touchy-feely gals. Hell, one of them likes to hold my hands while she talks to me. My husband does the most hilarious impression of my face the first few times she did this to me. I've since learned to roll with it, because it's usually only when she's drunk, and it hurts her feelings if I make fun of her or rip my hands away from her. She's very sensitive. They all are.

These ladies also love to dance. Me? I like to dance sometimes, under certain conditions. There must be a band, not a DJ, must be lots of alcohol involved, preferably some sort of mosh pit action, and I have to really like the music. Pop princess I am not. Oh, and I have to be in the right mood. What this boils down to is most of my dancing is done in my own house to my own iPod, and I might shake my booty once or twice a year on some dance floor somewhere.

Saturday night turned out to be one of those rare occasions. Odd, since I wanted nothing to do with the outside world at all after receiving some incredibly tragic news that morning. My only desire was to crawl into bed with the family and the dogs and watch movies or sleep and hope to wake and find out that it was all just a bad dream. Instead, I ended up on the phone with too many people, hearing too many details and becoming enraged when I read anonymous comments to the online news article about the tragedy. Whoever came up with the idea that news articles should have a comment section should be kicked in the balls (yes, I'm assuming it was a man) over and over and over again.

After my anger turned back to sadness, I accepted the fact that I had to go to my friend's big 40th birthday party, kicked my own ass with a 3o-minute "Shred" workout (evil, evil torture) and hopped in the shower. The best friend's band was playing that night, so I knew the place would be packed with people I know, and hey, life goes on.

It was hard to find the energy to get made up and go out, but upon arrival, my touchy-feely friends hugged me, their husbands shook my hand and bought me drinks, and later the ladies dragged me out on the dance floor. I usually fight them off, but I couldn't seem to muster the strength, especially with the freakishly strong blonde one who picked me up and plopped me in the middle of the dance floor. Somehow, their antics got me past the profound sadness I felt, and we danced the night away. I even danced to crappy pop songs and acted all girly-like.

We had a fantastic time, especially the birthday girl. Many embarrassing pics were taken and probably posted on Facebook (these chicks always want photographic evidence of a good time; whereas, I prefer no paper trail whatsoever.) I did manage to maintain some of my credibility, however, by refusing to do the group bathroom runs, because let's face it, I'll never be that much of a girl. I love you ladies, but I only enter public bathrooms if and when I have to pee or, okay, if my kid has to pee.

Jesus Loves Me. No, Really, He Does...

2009-09-17T09:30:00.003-04:00

At least that's what the insane-sounding woman told me over the phone at 7 A.M. After a late night out, waking up at 4:00 and not being able to fall back to sleep until 5:30, having the phone ring at 7 A.M. is enough to make me angry. Not finding the portable phone with caller ID on my nightstand where it's supposed to be, because it was under a pile of clothes way across the room, really annoyed me. After suffering through a few rings while feeling around for the phone (I still had my diva eye mask on), I crawled the six feet over to the husband's side of the bed to grab our only landline phone. It has no caller ID. I hate that stupid phone, never use it, but that ringing HAD to stop!

Me: "Hello," in my best groggy "this better be important" voice.

Crazy Chicken: "Good morning, Honey," in a sickeningly sweet, cheery, wide-awake voice.

Me: ***Silence***

Crazy Chicken: "I just wanted to make sure that you got the materials I sent."

Me: "What? I think you have the wrong number."

Crazy Chicken: "Oh, Honey, there are no wrong numbers in life." (Again with the "Honey." I fucking hate it when people call me that, unless it's one of those, "Honey, please" type of exchanges.)

Me: "Huh?"

Crazy Chicken: "You see, I'm calling on behalf of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. (Google just told me that means she's a Mormon, but in my groggy fog, all I could think of was, "Bitch, you shouldn't be calling here until much Latter in the Day.")

Me: ***Big sigh*** (As the three dogs were jumping all over me, thinking I'm actually getting my ass out of bed. Silly, silly dogs.)

Crazy Chicken: "I'm sorry to call so early and wake you up. I didn't realize it was this early. I usually get your answering machine."

Me: "Uhh..." (Meanwhile, I'm simultaneously thinking, "Can't bible thumpers tell time" and "Honey, if I had my phone with caller ID, you'd have gotten the machine again.")

Crazy Chicken: "Well, Honey, I just wanted to call and let you know that Jesus loves you."

Me: "Uh, yeah, thanks."

Crazy Chicken: "He loves us all --"

Me: (((CLICK.)))

Then, I pulled the covers over my head and went back to sleep for another hour.

Just another sign that fall is imminent around here. Once the nights turn cold, out come the Holy Rollers looking to indoctrinate this sinner into their chosen religion. My favorite Jehovahs (click the link if you have no idea who I'm talking about) are probably staking out the place as I type this. I'm sure they're plotting to catch me before the pagan holidays begin.

Now, I've got absolutely nothing against any religion, as long as you're not starting wars or blowing up buildings full of innocent people or murdering doctors who perform legal abortions or not giving your children the medicine that could save their lives in the name of your god. I've got a huge problem with that insanity. Oh, and religion should have absolutely no place in politics. Other than that, rock on with your good selves. Just don't try to get me to hop aboard.

Me? I'm a failed Catholic. I say "failed," because if you were to tick off the Ten Commandments, I've broken nearly every one. And yet, I think I'm a good person. Walking away from the religion of my mother's choice and her parents' before her was essential for me as a teen. It's not exactly the feel-good religion, after all, and I just couldn't buy into it. The stories were a bit too fantastical for me. My mother still goes to church and prays for my soul, and she's a good woman who probably hasn't broken any commandments beyond screaming "Goddammit" at us kids our whole lives. I would not be considered a good woman in the eyes of the church.

Let's analyze this:

1. Something along the lines of you shall not worship another god - Well, David Bowie was and still is a god in my book, as are a few other musicians and random guys from my past.

2. Something along the lines of you shall not make wrongful use of the name of your god - I'm thinking yelling "Jesus fucking christ" when something pisses you off would shatter this one into tiny shards of stained glass. No other commandment has been broken so often by me. Gigantic fail.

3. Something along the lines of remember the Sabbath and don't work on Sunday, because you should be in church and worshiping the day away - Haven't been to church on a Sunday for 30 years, and Sunday is the day I get most of my work done. Big fail.

4. Honor your father and mother - I'm probably good on this one 98 % of the time if you don't count my horrific teen shenanigans. Redemption after big fail.

5. You shall not kill - Well, as long as this only means humans and not, say, Betta fish, I'm good with the lord on this one.

6. You shall not commit adultery - I'm good with the lord on this one, too, unless I unwittingly screwed some married guy way back in the day when life was fun. That wouldn't be my fault, so I'm good.

7. You shall not steal - Well, if kidnapping the neighbor's rabbits to save them from being made into a stew is stealing, then call me a crook. Other than that, I stole a candle from the country store when I was 14, and I stole $20 from my step-father once. Not a total fail, I guess.

8. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor - Fuck that! I lied a million times and blamed the neighbor kids for the broken street light and the egged houses and the blown-up mailbox and so on and so on and so on. Big fail.

9. You shall not covet thy neighbor's wife and I would assume husband - I can't say I didn't covet one particular husband way back in my teen years, and you know, Penelope is pretty hot. If we were to get new, hot neighbors, I'd be coveting every day for quite a while. Minor fail.

10. You shall not covet thy neighbor's goods - Yeah, I covet Penelope's incredible heated pool and her green, green grass all the time. Fail.

I'm not sure why premarital sex or gay sex or masturbation aren't commandments that one can break, because that was the fire and brimstone pitched at me ad nauseum when I was a kid. I knew damn well when I was 13 that I was going to have as much premarital sex as I could, masturbated daily, and I loved my gay neighbors and relatives more than most of the straight ones.

Obviously, religion was never going to work for me. Call me a sinner, but don't call me a hypocrite, because going to church and not practicing what is preached or at least REALLY striving to is total hypocrisy in my mind. I strive to not hurt people, to be as good a person as I can be, to not judge and condemn people, and I try to help people/animals in need. That's my religion, and it's one that I can stick with and always improve upon. There's always room for improvement, especially since I can be a little judgey on a bad day.

Maybe I should print this out and hand it to anyone who knocks on my door looking to save my soul and make a recording on my answering machine for when some crazy bitch wakes me up at such an ungodly hour or maybe I should open my own church and start raking in the tax-exempt dough...

I Want Chicken & Chi-Chi's...

2009-09-14T10:54:00.003-04:00

After arriving home from yet another road trip last night to three INSANELY happy hounds, I decided I'm not leaving our house and our poor dogs again (the cats don't give a shit, because they're too cool) overnight until I lose my mind and throw myself down some ski slopes in and around March. That's right, I wait until it warms up before I risk life and limb up north, because I'm smart like that. Why freeze your titties off while beating the crap out of your old body if you don't have to. Maybe I'll do a couple day trips to the local mountain with the menfolk or maybe I'll lock myself in my beautiful house with my beautiful family and never leave again.

I'm thinking the latter is what I should strive for. Who the fuck do I think I am anyway? I'm a card-carrying liberal -- I mean -- homebody, not some jet-setting, road-tripping travel junkie. Why, I've got absolutely everything I want right here at the Ebola estate, except a big lake with a jet ski or two and a big barn with some snazzy horses to play with. When -- not if -- I win the lottery, however, the barn and the horses will arrive posthaste. Hell, maybe I'll put in a lake if I win enough cheddar. Screw the vacation homes, the jewels and the fancy cars. Mama wants a lake right in THIS backyard so she never has to leave home again.

There is a nice pond down back for skating and a decent sledding hill if you're particularly skilled at avoiding trees, swimming pools to the east, west, north and south. I'm guessing ours is east and Penelope's sumptuous heated pool (the only one that interests me in the least) is west, but she'll have to clue my directionally-challenged ass in on that. The sun rises in the...

Then, there's an incredible chef who looks and sounds a lot like me to keep me fat and happy. She's got a bad attitude, but boy can the bitch cook. Bring in the cleaning ladies every other week, cases of red wine, and life for old Lola is pretty fantastic around here. Why on earth would I pay tons of money to stay in less accommodating accommodations? Did I mention our awesome king-sized bed with the only kind of sheets I like? Queen size with crappy sheets just doesn't cut it, especially when your husband is a giant who throws off more heat than a fire-breathing dragon.

So, yeah, I'm done. This summer of hitting the road in search of fun family memories is O-V-E-R for me, and I'm ready for some beef stew and homemade mac & cheese made with smoked Gouda, chunky sweaters, furry slippers and curling up on the couch with the dogs to watch Dexter. The only thing I'm planning is our annual Halloween bash, which will be quite the bash since it falls on a Saturday this year. You all really should attend. I've got my costume already, except the short wig I need, and I might just pull out the boxes of decorations this weekend and get started spooking the place up.

Due to all of our summer shenanigans and work and the major cleaning jag I went on last week where I actually washed all the windows inside and out and started piling up items for a
(((GASP))) yard sale I declared I would have this fall (yeah, it ain't gonna happen no matter how many times I say it will and no matter how many piles I make), I've avoided the computer and the Leopard Lounge like the pig flu that's going to shut down our entire country any day now.

Oh, I haven't washed my hands of blogging completely. I read everyone's posts while stuck on the beach bored out of my mind or when my husband dared to brave my control freak/asshole passenger driving meltdowns, but commenting from my Crackberry is a pain in the ass on almost all of your Blogger blogs. Wordpress works like a dream, however.

I started to write a post last week, but then I discovered that someone from Madrid was reading my blog in Spanish through the most fascinating tool known as Microsoft Translator or Bing Translator or I Can't Recall The Name Translator, but I do remember the ugly opossums on its header. What's up with that? Opossums are seriously ugly creatures! Well, there went the blog post, because it's way more fun to translate your blog into Spanish, French, Italian and Japanese. The hours I spent switching my ramblings into different languages was time not wasted. I learned quite a bit.

For instance, did you know that "fuck" translates to "fuck" in almost all languages? Even the Japanese symbols that I can only presume are words to those in the know would be going along all symbolish, until I dropped an F-bomb, and there it was in plain, old English. The funniest thing was seeing how my blogroll translated. I mean, even the defunct Il Vento In Your Vagina had me cracking up, as did Girate Moonspun, a/k/a Moonspun Tiradas or Bacon e' mio Amico or Boo Mumma or Le Point Stationnaire or Twisted Bouffonneries de Famille. Oddly enough, some of you didn't translate. Badass Geek is Badass Geek no matter what country you're in, except they'll throw the Geek before the Badass from time to time.

As you can see, I'm easily amused and easily distracted, so blowing off the blogging is a breeze. I've got tons to write about but little desire to sit down and type until now. Well, I did write a secret "Aunt Becky Came To Play" post that was pure genius, but it was not an official entry in her contest due to the fact that she made up the dumb rule that you had to post it on your own site. Let's just say that due to its content and the fact that my boy could sit down at the computer at any time and find my blog that I forgot to log out of for two days (I told you I get distracted), it was for her eyes only. Oh, and I sent it to Badass to make him laugh, because the poor bastard has been covered in hives for like a month.

Alas, it was hilarious, and I so would have won the bag of swag to sell at our fantasy "yard sale." I mean, disco sticks get the ladies to rock the vote every time, but parental responsibility has to win out over the thrill of victory once in a while. Can't go scarring the kid for life over a contest, not even a contest put on by the hardest working blogger in Bloggywood. Sadly, sometimes parental responsibility is about as fun as fiscal responsibility. They both blow!!!

Just Call Me Kevorkian...

2009-09-03T13:32:00.005-04:00

*****If you are a major right-to-lifer and you think euthanasia is a sin, then you better move along, little doggie, because I'm taking a life today, and you can't make me feel bad about it.*****

I'm pretty sure I told you that I have trouble keeping fish. I have trouble eating fish, as well, due to the childhood trauma of having a nasty bitch of a babysitter try to stuff fish stix covered in ketchup down my throat when I refused to eat them. Dumb bitch took on my five-year old ass, thinking I was a little pushover. I spit them out all over her floor, got my mom to fire her, and I've never eaten fish other than tuna from a can until fairly recently. Even then, if it's too fishy, I throw it out.

Watching fish swim around in a tank, however, I enjoy as long as the tank is clean and the fish are pretty. So, it is with a heavy heart that I tell you that "Killer," our beautiful Betta fish, has been dying for something like a month. I was pretty sure he'd blow his last bubble back in July while I was in New Hampshire with the boy so that the husband could just send him to the pearly gates with a flush of the toilet, but no. That would be too neat and clean for my life. Killer rallied most likely out of his true love for me, and his desire to say goodbye kept him afloat (sort of) until we got home.

I had vowed to the boy that I would pull out the giant basket full of fish meds and do everything in my power to save our little blue buddy if he lived to see our return. Great. Bring on the extraordinary life-saving measures I had already used to save little Killer once before and the many Bettas that swam into and out of our lives over the years. That's right, I've been down this road before, the lonely road of fish resuscitation, only to have most go belly up despite your heroic efforts. If only they would all go belly up one morning before you ever see them struggling. Not Killer. He's one tough bastard, so I took up the challenge of saving him. It's the least I could do.

Weeks ago, I donned my Nurse Lola outfit, placed Killer in his luxury hospital tank, and I administered the first round of meds. Much to my surprise, he stopped his vertical swimming and got himself back to the horizontal world pretty quickly. His color was bad, but he was swimming and eating and blowing his happy little Betta bubbles, so goodie for me -- I mean-- him. Sadly, this rally didn't last very long, and he was kind of flipping around bent in half , just like the talking fish on the wall in that incredibly annoying Fillet-O-Fish commercial. (Yes, now that stupid fucking song is stuck in my head, so it may as well be stuck in your noggin, too. You're welcome.)

Once again, decked out in my Nurse Lola outfit, I brought out the big guns when it comes to fish meds. Didn't the little bastard rally again. He loves me that much. Things were looking up for the little fella, right before he started to look as if he really were dead. BUT he's not dead. Oh, no, he's not dead. My extensive nursing training tells me he's barely alive, but he's not dead.

Now, I've been faced with this dilemma once before with Bob The Betta, who, in all honesty, was the best Betta ever to blow bubbles on this planet. Killer is no Bob, but he's cool enough. Bob was incredibly beautiful, and he lived close to two years. So, when he passed the prime of his life and started to fail, I pulled out all the stops; hence, a basket full of fish meds and tons of info printed off the "Betta Lovers Of The World Unite" web site. Yeah, some people REALLY love their fish and have way too much time on their hands. I'm so not part of that club, but I have a little time on my hands now and then.

When Bob was so obviously struggling, after all my valiant rescue attempts had failed, I decided the humane thing was to put poor Bob out of his misery. I mean, how long can you possibly watch a sweet little fish suffer? How long can these little suckas linger anyway? Knowing full well that I could not be the only person faced with such suffering, I turned to "Betta Lovers Of The World Unite" once again for info on how to humanely euthanize a fish.

It didn't take long to realize that I wasn't the only one out there unwilling to flush a fish if it's still alive. There were quite a few options, most of which were straight out of a horror flick, like taking a knife and chopping off his teeny, weeny head or grabbing his pretty fantail and slamming his head off a table or hard surface, or putting him in a blender or snapping his little neck if I was too chicken to sever his head from his body.

Now, I've hit a rat or ten over the head with a shovel back when we had horses and they'd be eating the grain and skeeving me out, but putting our beloved fish in a blender? Not gonna happen. I kept reading, and there were the death by Alka Seltzer, overdose with anesthetics or getting him loaded on vodka after you anesthetize him with clove oil methods, all of which would have required me going to the store. Out of fear that I'd lose my nerve if I took a trip to the store or, you know, sheer laziness, I kept reading and found the death by hypothermia method. For some reason, I liked this method, because supposedly, they get cold, a little sleepy, and that's that, long before they become a fishcicle.

So, I followed the instructions, put some of his tank water in a plastic cup, added some food just in case he got hungry, told him I loved him and put him in the freezer. It felt so weird when I closed the door on him. I told myself to leave the house so that I wouldn't keep opening and closing the door every minute to see if he had fallen into a peaceful slumber yet, but of course I couldn't do that. A good nurse stays with her patient until the very end, and so that's what I did. Bob passed long before being entombed in a block of ice, and then we buried him in a shoebox out back when the boy got home from school.

I was at peace with it, as I can't just sit around watching something or someone suffer that long. My step-father used to grab his gun and put any animal that was suffering horribly down right there in front of us kids. Hell, I almost put a pillow over my beloved cat's face as she lay gasping for breath, half dead in my arms after she had a heart attack or some other fatal internal blowout, but I chickened out. Then, after she suffered another 30 minutes on the way to the vet before dying in my arms en route, I was bullshit at myself for not doing it.

So, today is Killer's last day of suffering. It's gone on way too long. I might try the vodka method this time, since I have some sitting in the freezer. I mean, getting a nice buzz before you die does seem better than shivering until you die.

There's the sweet boy back when he was blue, instead of black, and when he was living large in his pimped-out tank, complete with a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror that had him believing there was another Betta fish he was going to somehow get at and kill.

Go in peace, little man. You were a very good fish...

****Just in case you're wondering, I believe wholeheartedly in physician-assisted suicide, and I can only hope that someone would assist me out of my pain and suffering if there was no hope for recovery. Death by IV Demerol would be my pick; although, I hear that Propofol is all the rage among the medical community these days****

"I Wanna Be An Airborne Ranger"...

2009-08-30T13:16:00.004-04:00

Those are the words I sang to the school guidance counsellor back in 1984 when the annoying, chubby dude with the ridiculous comb-over kept following me around asking me what I wanted to do with my life. Apparently, he knew about those surprise scholarships I was getting on graduation day, so he was looking for hints as to what I would do with the money. He got overly excited at the prospect of me joining the Army (or maybe it was simply that I had given him an answer for once that got him excited) and he said, "Well, the military life is a wonderful path to take. You can get an excellent education and see the world. Would you really like to jump out of planes?"

I'll admit that I felt kind of bad when I told him that I was being a smartass and singing part of my favorite U2 song just to shut him up. I didn't know what I wanted to do beyond get the hell out of high school, party with my friends and land a job that paid enough for gas and party supplies. I had no calling, unless shacking up with David Bowie or John-John Kennedy or maybe even our gorgeous assistant principal and living happily ever after on a horse farm would be considered a calling. Even though I was a very good student, blessed with a brain that made it all come way too easy for me, college didn't interest me one bit. The thought of more studying, homework, tests, frat boys and sorority girls made me want to puke. Still does.

Poor Guidance Guy didn't know what to do with me, and to his credit, he never stopped following me around. I wouldn't go sit in his office, because I was a major brat, so he would sneak up on me in the halls or come plant his big ass next to me at lunch and slip me brochures on colleges he thought I should apply to. To humor him, I took the brochures for the local colleges and would get a day pass to go visit them, only I'd take a friend along, get stoned and never show up at the college. My "Oh, we got lost in the scariest part of Worcester/Boston, and we were too terrified to stop and ask for directions" excuse worked once or twice, as did my, "What, you mean I was supposed to bring that paper and get it signed" excuse. Back in the day before cell phones and GPS, you could get away with murder. It was awesome!! I feel for the kids of today, I really do.

So, when things were right down to the wire and we had a career day at school, I expected to mope in and mock the ladies pushing their administrative assistant careers as the thing for all young women to aspire to, make the ewww face at the nurses and sigh with boredom at the paralegals. I knew exactly what I didn't want to do with my life. Then, up comes this chick who I sort of knew, because she graduated with all of my friends a couple years before, and she was talking up her new career as a court reporter. She was a tad bit gung-ho for me, but somehow I heard, "Blah, blah, blah -- only two years of college -- blah, blah, blah --you always go to a different place -- blah, blah, blah -- you can work when you want -- blah, blah, blah -- make lots of money -- blah, blah, blah."

Ding, Ding, Ding, WE HAVE A WINNER!! I walked right over, grabbed Guidance Guy and told him to make it happen. He nearly did a triumphant jig right there in the gymnasium. Alas, he had saved me from a life of scrubbing toilets, because he was the Master of Guidance after all. Though he didn't introduce me to the idea of court reporting, I let him think this was all his doing, and he got right on it before I changed my mind.

All of the information was in my hand the next morning, and I liked what I saw. The best part of all was I could drive my souped-up '71 Cutlass to the college in Wellesley every day, all by myself, blaring my music while drinking a gigantic cup of coffee or two, do my time, peel out of the parking lot each day, go back to my life of party in or around Podunk and not have to deal with one single frat boy or sorority gal. My kinda college experience FOR SURE.

The downside was that court reporting was not a fun major at all. It was super intense, and having a cranky nun for a professor didn't leave much room for slacking off. It was like two years of boot camp, but I set my mind to it and did what I had to do to get out of there in two years. I was a model student -- well, except for the whole not showing up once for our anatomy and physiology lab and yet still getting a B Shortcut to Success I took. Hey, it's not cheating. It's simply taking advantage of a stupid professor who never knew I wasn't in the lab cutting up frogs and shit but knew I scored well on tests in class.

The riskiest part of the scheme was that I got two of my friends to ditch with me. They'd freak out every week, and I'd say, "We're court reporters. We only need to know how to spell the fucking words, not how to dissect helpless frogs. Besides, if you show up now, he's going to catch on." Those gals drove me crazy with their goody-two-shoes worries but ended up declaring me a genius when we all got B's for the course and got to go home two hours early every Tuesday. I will say that my conscience isn't entirely clear since I occasionally have dreams that I get a notification that my Associate's in Science Degree is being revoked, but it would still be worth it not to have spent two hours a week getting formaldehyde headaches and looking at brains in a jar.

So, yeah, at 20 years old I started my illustrious career in court reporting. Fast forward 23 years, and I'm back to trying to figure out what to do with my life. Sure, I'm still banging away on my steno machine, because the money is good and I can do what I want when I want, but my heart is not in it anymore. Neither is my head. My hands aren't liking it all that much either after working every day this past week. Arthritis seems to have taken over my right middle finger, while the rest are just tingly from carpal tunnel.

Last week was a rough week for a lot of reasons, but work was particularly grueling. So, when the hot-headed attorney I was working for on Friday asked for a break after a screaming match with a triple threat of a witness (meaning he was an attorney/accountant/asshole witness who thinks he knows everything. It could only have been more confrontational if he was a cop or a doctor, too) and put his hot head in his hands and declared, "I hate my job. I hate my life," I burst out laughing and said, "I was just thinking the exact same thing!"

"Really," he said, as he picked his head up out of his hands. "Well, I don't really hate my life, but I hate this friggin' job," I said. This made him feel much better, and we proceeded to spend the break bitching about our chosen professions and debate how we would like to be living out the rest of our days.

His first choice was pointing out an elderly man across the street from the law firm that had been watering the same small patch of grass for over an hour. I had to agree that that looked like a good time and said, "Well, now that my beloved Teddy has passed, my fallback plans of being made an honorary Kennedy aren't looking so good." He started to dis Ted's politics a bit, and I cut him off and told him that he could save his breath, because no one will change my feelings about Big Ted. I loved that big-headed Irishman, and even though my plans to have him marry me off to John-John fell through, I still thought the world of him and would have loved to just sit around listening to him tell stories all summer on the Cape while he paid my bills, of course.

"Okay, so you probably won't become a Kennedy. What's your next idea?" Not having an answer, I said, "Oh, no, it's your turn. Other than watering the lawn all day, what kind of work would make you happy?" He thought awhile and said he'd like to be a lifeguard at the lake near his house during the summer and a ski instructor during the winter.

Excellent answer, I thought, and I countered with, "I'd like to have a hot dog stand on the side of the road, except I wouldn't sell hot dogs, due to the fact that they're basically encased lips and ass and they skeeve me out. No, my stand would be a soup stand or a panini stand or something like that, you know, good food."

"Can you cook?" "Oh, hell, yeah," I told him, "especially soup." "So do it. I love stopping at places like that," he says, "and you've certainly got the personality for it."

"Yeah, it could be fun being a soup nazi. I'll call it 'Lola's Liquid Lunch Wagon,' have great music playing from a funky, gypsydoodled wagon and bring my little dog Stella and a laptop along to keep me company in between the rush of customers."

"Sounds perfect, but what in god's name is gypsydoodled, and who's Lola," he asked, while looking at my business card. "Never you mind," I said, as the other attorney and the asshole witness came back into the room and we got back to the misery of our chosen professions. I have to say, though, we were both a little less tense after our daydreaming session.

Okay, so now that you know my dream job is to run a soup wagon on the side of the road, tell me what your dream job is. Money is not the main consideration here, so I mean what you really want to do that would make you feel like you were living your dream. Spending lottery winnings doesn't count, and neither does laying around the house naked diddling yourself, unless you can get someone to pay you to do that. If you can get paid and that's your dream, then that's a valid answer, you little deviant.

Where's That Heavy Bag When I Need It...

2009-08-24T15:58:00.003-04:00

A couple hours ago when Auntie and I were e-mailing back and forth, you know, talking about all of you behind your blogs, she asked me how I was. Being in a foul mood at the time, mainly because the foul dog diarrhea is back in full swing, I typed back, "Depressed." Auntie, being the wise old aunt that she is, responded with, "Snap out of it." (No, no, she didn't say that. She asked me what happened, because she's my compassionate old aunt, not my crotchety old aunt. Oh, and we don't talk about you behind your blogs either, so don't get a complex. We mostly call each other names and threaten to hit each other.)

Then I got to thinking about whether I've ever really been depressed. I guess when I was on bed rest for three months would have to be the closest I've ever come, because sitting still is just not for me. Anger and OCD seem to be what take me off the rails if I'm not paying attention to what I need, and having a calendar full of things I really don't want to do makes me anxious and angry. Just looking at the beginning of September on the calendar this morning made me want to hit something really hard.

This truly has been the summer of my discontent. I hate this summer, and I'd punch it and kick it and elbow it in the face until the ref called the fight if it were possible to cage fight a season. All I can say is thank the goddesses that I'm not one to get depressed, because not much has made me happy since the rains came for three straight months and drained right into the most disgusting heat and humidity, the kind my body just cannot tolerate no way, no how. Oh, sure, I've had some fun, because I have the ability to force myself to do things that turn into great fun. I've got an eye for fun, but if I could have slept through the past three months, I would have.

I'm usually doing backflips this time of summer, because school starts next week, but all I can think of are the struggles my boy was having last year picking right back up where they left off, only to get worse when they pile more crap on him without really teaching him how to do it. Of course, it's my job to teach him, even though I never learned any of it the fucked-up way they teach it now. School was a necessary evil for me as a kid, but going through school myself was so much easier than watching my poor kid go through it. No child left behind, my fat ass. I hate school.

Animals have always been a great source of joy for me, and just looking into their gorgeous faces melts my stress away. Not this summer. No matter how much I love those dogs, I hate picking up diarrhea. I hate having to go to the vet, and I HATE paying $70 for two fucking pills to "fix" just one of the problems that's going on now. Our vets are great, they really are, but I've seen them so much in the past three months that I want to punch every single one of them in the face. The next time one of them says, "You again," they better duck.

Oh, and I almost forgot last weekend when the boy had a 104 temp for two days and slept around the clock. With the swarms of mosquitoes due to the rain and humidity, there's lots of findings of deadly mosquito diseases going around. I stayed up while the boy slept in his fever stupor to monitor who knows what. I guess my job was to make sure he was still breathing and to put cold compresses on his boiling noggin. He's supposed to be too old to get hand, foot & mouth, and yet he managed to get it from my germy nephews. I hate viruses. I really fucking hate mosquitoes and ticks.

So, yeah, I'm a mighty cranky old gal these days. Am I depressed? No, I don't think so, since I'm up and about, showered, shaved, made up, taking care of business and laughing really hard at the thought of punching one vet, in particular, in that bitchy moon face she sports. Nope. I'm going to go slam the crap out of the drums and then beat the crap out of myself working out, cook dinner, eat dinner and feel much better.

In the very long list of things my mother did right, letting me take up the drums in fourth grade and letting me gallop horses without saddles or bridles faster than any crazy person could claim was safe, signing me up for karate so that I could beat the snot out of people, and hanging a heavy bag in the cellar for my brother and I to punch and kick the crap out of every single day are right up there at the top. My mama is a genius!

Since we already have the drum set, I'm sending the husband out to get a heavy bag tomorrow so the boy and I can punch and kick our stress away. Fuck this summer! Bring on the cool, crisp, happy air of fall.

You Have Got To Be Kidding...

2009-08-21T09:21:00.002-04:00

In the year-plus that I've been blogging, I've learned a lot about the politics of it and, thanks mostly to my go-to geek Badass, the technical ins and outs of Blogger and Google Reader. I've got my blue belt in blogging now, and I feel pretty confident about my skills. I still have no idea how to cross out a naughty thought so that it looks like I really don't mean the terrible things I say, you know, like maybe I should cross out "that rotten fucking whore" and then type "that thoughtless woman" when describing the bitch that cut me off and then slammed on her brakes on the Mass Pike yesterday. Ah, but why would I want to do that? It's so much more amusing to call her a rotten fucking whore.

The "trouble" with that is that some people really can't pick up on sarcasm or a joke. Oh, and don't even try dark humor with some of these folks. They just don't get it. Is the bitch that cut me off a rotten fucking whore? Who knows who she blows. She could be a nun for all I know, but in that split second in the left lane when she almost caused a major accident involving ME, she became a rotten fucking whore and will remain that until she redeems herself by letting me cut her in traffic next time we meet up at the Newton tolls. Then, we can have drinks, and I'll find out exactly who she blows.

See how things work around here? I take a simple thought, and then I dramatize it to the point that it makes me laugh. 99.9 percent of the stuff I've written here is to make me laugh, and if you laugh along with me, then that's gravy. If you don't, well, you obviously have no sense of humor. Sure, I write some serious stuff, but if I don't put a humorous or dark spin on it, then it reads like crap to me. There's plenty of great bloggers who can write incredibly well when they're being serious and letting their true emotions bleed onto their blogs, so I leave it to them.

Needless to say, I have a huge bounce rate. Most of my regular readers get me, I assume, since they come back, and I've never had a troll take me on in my comment section. I wish one would. In the last couple weeks, however, I've had two readers e-mail me with complaints/concerns. Not quite as fun as battling a troll out in the open, but I found it amusing nonetheless. I also found it annoying, and since I'm on day two of a migraine, I'm going to tell you all about it.

The first e-mail came from one of my many lurkers, I guess, because they used one of those e-mails they make up to send someone a nasty e-mail and then disappear before you can respond. This, by the way, I find much more cowardly than anonymous commenters or trolls. Well, Dear "Lisa," since your e-mail address no longer exists, here is my response to your comment that it must be nice to be rich enough to not work and do all those fun things with my son so that I don't feel like a shitty mother and so that he has a good summer:

Apparently, Lisa thought that I was saying that if you don't take your kids on vacation and you don't go to the amusement park and you don't have a lot of money that you're a shitty mother and your kid will end up in therapy. Not quite what I was saying. Number one, I know damn well that I'm not a shitty mother. It was a joke.

Number two, I'm self-employed, so, yes, I can work when I want but only if there is work available. Summers are very slow. Not that it's any of your business, but I'm hardly rich. I've had no money, I've had plenty of money, and due to the greedy fucks on Wall Street, my retirement isn't looking so great, thank you very much. I've got money troubles just like everyone else, but I don't whine about it here, and I don't stress over it every second of the day, because one thing I've learned in my 43 years on earth is that whining about money and stressing over money never puts money in your pocket.

Lastly, Dear "Lisa," if you paid attention to the post, I pointed out the moms that take their kids to the library or the park or have lots of play dates making me feel like I've not done enough this summer. You can do all of that for a couple bucks or for free, and if you work full-time, you can do it after work or on the weekends. It's taking the time to be present when you can that matters, and that's where I admitted that I had been a slacker. Money had nothing to do with it.

Oh, and if you read this and want to respond, grow the fuck up and use your real e-mail and your real name. I can respect people who disagree with me or feel like telling me off, because I feel like telling me off half the time, too, but have the balls to do it out in the open.

The second e-mail was from a blogger that I've followed for quite a while, and she was wondering why I haven't been commenting on her blog and asked if she'd done anything to offend me. Now, I actually like this blogger, so I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I replied that it's nearly impossible to offend me, short of telling me that I'm a bad lay, and rightly pointed out that I haven't noticed her commenting on my blog for quite some time either.

She didn't like that and countered with, "Oh, so you'll only comment if I comment on your blog?"
Not to sound all high school here, because I didn't do "high school" when I was actually in high school, but yeah, that's right, Little Miss High Maintenance. I went on and explained that, for me, blogging is a two-way street. For me, real life friendships are a two-way street. You call me, text me, invite me over; I call you, text you and invite you over. That's how I've always operated, and it makes life pretty easy.

I simply do not have the time to sit in front of my computer and devote my energy to reading and commenting for bloggers who do not stop over here from time to time. I used to for some of the Blogstars, but once I made a few blog friends, that ended. I may still read Doocie or Pioneer Woman in Google Reader when I'm caught up on my friends, because they are really great at what they do, but I certainly don't waste my time leaving the 200th comment. I don't even check out new blogs anymore, unless the writer stops by here and leaves a comment, because there's just not enough time in the day. I'm loyal to my regulars, and then I've got a life to live.

She went on to tell me all the reasons why she's been too busy to stop by, which was highly amusing since I see her commenting all over the place, so I just ended it by telling her that I don't have needy, high maintenance friends in real life and I'm not about to in cyberspace. Me thinks she won't be back. And no, I will not tell you who she is, because I'm not really out to embarrass anyone or hurt their feelings.

I just have my limits when it comes to this blogging business. I don't get paid a cent to be here, and when it starts to feel like work, I go do something else. When I see other bloggers being attacked for an obvious joke or simple sarcasm, I cringe when they feel the need to explain themselves, especially this whole "I swear I only have a drink once in a while after the kiddos go to bed" responses to the backlash against mommy bloggers talking about drinking on their blogs. Yeah, we're all falling down drunk every day because we joke about wanting a drink after our kid plugs up the toilet with a teddy bear AGAIN. Call the blog police STAT if some horrible mommy lusts after a valium because her kids won't stop fighting all day.

I guess it was just a matter of time before the humorless, holier than thous took all the fun out of blogging. I, for one, will not be explaining myself again. If you've got a complaint, man up and put it in the comment section so we can fight it out for the enjoyment of others and then laugh about it over a drink and some valium.

Because The Kid Is Sick And I'm Tired...

2009-08-17T18:34:00.008-04:00

...I think you, my friends, should help a tired old gal out by writing a mini screenplay about what goes on at night in Sassyland. I've provided the pics, and you provide the dialogue.

Here is the back story and the cast of characters in case you haven't been paying attention: Stella is the wee one who is straddling Rebel, the nutless man of her dreams. Just having reached puberty, poor Stella is very frustrated that her fantasy stud isn't a stud at all, and she's taking matters into her own little paws right there on my leather couch just around midnight. (Brings a tear to my eye, remembering my horny little self at 14. I've raised that girl right.)

Poor, sweet Mojo is so disgusted and afraid to witness the debauchery that he's hiding his head behind the pillows on the love seat. I'm the doggie porn photographer shooting from the kitchen, and I, alone, made the artistic decision not to get rid of the red eyes on my actors because, well, the wild eyes speak volumes.

So, make a gal who's been up for 36 hours laugh. Write me the funniest, which most likely will be the dirtiest, little dog porn story, and I'll send you a prize. I'm too tired to decide what the hell that prize will be, but I've got good taste, and I'll tailor it to the winner, you know, beer for the beer drinkers, wine for the winos, scratch tickets for the gamblers and porn for the perverts. Pick your poison. Ready, set, go...

Stop being pussies and just do it already. You know I'd do it for you...

Who Wants To Be My Wife?

2009-08-14T13:25:00.005-04:00

Last week, when I up and decided to just take off to New Hampshire for a week, marked the beginning of my annual summer freak-out. Somehow, the whole months of June and July had slipped by without us doing much of anything summerlike, and I started to feel like the shitty excuse for a mother that I am sometimes. It happens every summer.

While most stay-at-home moms (which, let's face it, I've been to work maybe five times since June) spend their summers taking the kids to the library and the beach and the park and on picnics and play date after play date, I bust my ass around the yard, ship my kid off to camp or let him spend entire days on his dirt bike or in the pool next door with my niece and nephews. Not that any of that is really a bad thing, because he enjoys it, but I can't help but feel like the world's crappiest mother when I start thinking about what he'll write on his "What did you do this summer" paper in a couple weeks. It will be something along the lines of, "Nothing.
Same old thing. More nothing."

Now, if they asked the kid what he did during the school year on all those days I call him in sick, then, THEN I'd look like a rock star mommy at least in the eyes of the children. Parents and teachers might not approve of our family time, but hey, when the skiing is good, the skiing is good, and we don't ski or travel on weekends or school vacations because standing in line is for losers and rule followers. "We are winners and rule breakers, Mr. Principal, so back the fuck off with your phone calls and unexcused absence letters. There's more to life than your insane curriculum, man." Yeah, I just lie, say he's sick and ignore the letters.

So, since my summertime freak-out started, we've been on the run. It's down to the wire, and we're going to have fun, damn it. Why, just this past week, we hit the water slides, pool parties, hopped in a canoe to fish, hosted a birthday party, cooked lobster and steamers, went to the beach, and we met Mumma Boo at the zoo. That's right, I had my first blog date while looking at monkey asses with the kids. I'm thinking that's a good blog date, since there's a lot to focus on if you don't really like each other. Not a problem here, though, because we liked each other, and the kids liked each other. At least I think she liked us. You liked us, right?

Yeah, it's as weird as you let it be I guess. My husband thought it was weird, and he was all, "You do realize that most people don't like you at first, right," and I was all, "Yeah, yeah, but that's just because they get freaked out by my smartass comments. She's already read my bullshit for almost a year, so nothing can come as a shock, and I'll try really hard not to swear around the children. The voice will probably freak her out, though."

"I'm thinking it's the tone of the voice that disturbs people," he says. "You mean it's the tone that disturbs you. Whatever. I'm a fucking nice person, and if people don't like me, then it has more to do with them than me. They all come around eventually. Remember how you used to hate me?" And with that, we hopped in the car, headed to the zoo and had a damn good time despite the disgusting humidity. Mumma is very nice, and her kids are sweeties. Go ask her what she thought of me on her site, and report back to me immediately. Go, go!

So, that's why I haven't been bothering to blog. I've been too busy cramming in Summer of '09 family memories to sit down at my computer or go to work or clean this disgusting house or do laundry or water my plants or work out or vacuum the car or grocery shop or the countless other things that need to be done by lil ole' me.

(That's the sign I bought up in NH and quite possibly the new header for my blog. She's sitting right there in the bookcase peeking over my shoulder as I type, and she looks kinda like me when I drink too much coffee and take Claritin D.)

Two more weeks to go, and that boy is going to have lots to write on his "What you did this summer" paper even if it kills me. We still have to hit the amusement park and shoot down the Cape, and then we're back up in NH. I'll be calling him in sick for half of that trip, though, because I have my reputation as the Shittiest Mother 49 Weeks Out of The Year to uphold.

****Oh, and anyone looking to be my wife and take care of all the things I'm not taking care of while I make the child have fun can send their resume to: The Shittiest Mother, P.O. Box 666, Podunk, MA 00666. Pay commensurate with experience.****

Zombie Say What...

2009-08-10T23:43:00.005-04:00

Early Monday morning, my kid decided to sleepwalk his way downstairs and into the living room, where I had passed out on the couch with a dog or two after watching a particularly disturbing episode of True Blood. I'm not quite sure how he woke me up, but it was probably just hearing his zombie footsteps that made me screech, "What? What's wrong," as I scrambled to my feet.

Why so jumpy you ask? Well, there was the fact that I had just watched a freaky show where some bitch who is supposed to be the devil sauteed up a human heart with some garlic, onions, carrots and celery, baked it into a "Hunter's souffle" and served it to her "friends," whose eyes turned black as they went nuts beating each other up and then fucked like possessed maniacs. Great show, but it's probably not the best thing to watch right before bed.

Then, there is also the fact that the last time he woke me in the middle of the night, he proceeded to barf spaghetti all over me and my side of the bed (they never go over to Daddy's side of the bed to barf, of course), the bedroom floor, the hallway and the bathroom. So, I'm justifiably twitchy whenever he comes looking for me after lights out. It's only happened maybe three times in his whole life, since the boy is a major sleeper and has slept through the night from the ripe old age of six months.

I know I told you to punch me in the face hard if I ever called him "easy" again, and I really don't feel like getting punched today, so I'll just say that he's not too challenging as far as kids go, especially when it comes to sleep. Well, except when a zombie takes over his body, that is.

From the light of the TV, it was pretty obvious that I was dealing with something other than my child, because he mumbled some crazy gibberish while staggering awkwardly into the coffee table without even flinching. I asked him if he was okay, and he mumbled some more gibberish while giving me a nasty, nasty look (he gets that from me).

Apparently, he's a cranky zombie, and his vibe was intense and strange (sadly, he also gets that from me). I knew he was sleepwalking, but when Mojo, the superdog who can spot a freak from a mile away, began circling him all stressed out and whimpering, I started to think too much, and now Zombie Boy was scaring the bajeezus out of me. I swear, I checked his eyes to see if they were black. They were pretty much closed, but that didn't make me feel any better.

Me: "Are you all right?"

Zombie Boy: "Shibbarshibba."

Me: "HEY!"

Zombie Boy: "Sfosjaashhh"

Me: "All right, you're freaking me out now. Do you have to pee?"

Zombie Boy: "Shibargiionsetseveaefn -- yes."

Me: "Okay."

Zombie Boy: (Hitting the light switch and heading towards the couch.)

Me: (Running to grab him before he whipped it out and peed on my couch) "Whoa, whoa, not here, man!! In the bathroom."

Zombie Boy: (Staggering to the bathroom as I held his arm) "Okay."

Me: (Placing him right in front of the toilet after lifting the lid and the seat for him) "There you go."

Zombie Boy: (Swaying side to side with eyes closed) "Ahhhhhhhh!"

Now, since he was still obviously asleep, I didn't bother to tell him to watch his aim and was prepared for a major pissapalooza all over the toilet, the floor and the wall as I waited in the hallway. I figured he was wide awake when I heard the flush and him washing his hands, but nooo.

Zombie Boy staggered past me, tripped on the same damn coffee table and fell half onto the couch, half on the floor and passed out cold. Nice flashback of many of my drinking buddies back in the day or maybe even stories I've been told about how I ended up where I ended up a time or two with one shoe on and my shirt half off. Alas, he wasn't a drunk-off-his-ass kid, just a sleepwalking one. Same thing, except you don't have to clean up any puke or take away his keys and ground his ass for a month.

As I predicted while I lay in bed WIDE AWAKE, the boy woke up on the couch at 8 A.M. and asked, "Mama, why am I on the couch? How did I get here?" "You walked in your sleep," I said. "Really?" he asked. "Yeah, really."

Spooky business, I tell you. It was the first, and hopefully the last, time he staggers downstairs, stands over me and freaks me the fuck out with his Dawn of The Dead impersonation. Mama don't like that. Mojo don't like that. Mama and Mojo don't like that at all...

Mama Hasn't Been Sleeping Well At All...

2009-08-07T00:23:00.008-04:00

Our mission of mercy is complete, and I'm back where I belong, with the whole family, the computer, the central air and our incredibly comfortable king-size bed that I'd hump if I had the energy. The bed is probably what I missed most of all, since we slept on a couch for three nights because there was no air in the loft and it was 7000 degrees and more humid than you could imagine due to the whole stupid hot air rises phenomenon.

Just don't tell the husband and the other dogs and cats that I missed the bed more than them. Mama will not have the energy to deal with a mutiny any time soon, and I'm seriously considering making everyone take a vow of silence for at least a couple days. I'm junk, bloated from eating out too much and drinking who knows what and having my head talked off for nearly four days by an elderly woman hopped up on pain meds. I truly love that crazy old gal, but it feels like she cracked open my skull, reached in with a fork and ate my brain as if it were a big plate of spaghetti and washed it down with her pretty Midori drink that HAD to have an umbrella in it.

From Monday morning, until I last saw her yesterday afternoon, she did not stop talking for one second, not one fucking second, unless she was asleep. Hell, she probably talked then, too. This is the reason the best friend wanted me there. She's already heard these stories a hundred times, so she and the boy would take off and leave me sitting there to debate politics, religion, education and child rearing. I'm no chicken when such topics get brought up, even if it's a feisty 76-year old who keeps putting the taboo topics on the table. I just jump right on in and duke it out. Due to her age, I held back a bit and didn't throw any elbows or drop any F-bombs, but I stuck to my guns.

When I tried to sneak off to read my book or read blogs on my Crackberry, she'd just follow me or talk louder at me; hence, the larger than normal alcohol consumption. When the stories started to repeat, I hit the vodka drinks, and I swore off vodka back in my 20's after the Blood Puking Incident of 1988.

Whatever. Respecting the elderly, unless they're tripping me with their cane as I try to pass them to get to the Chinese lunch buffet or bumping me with their scooters in the grocery store because they can't figure out how to drive the damn thing, is a code I live by, no matter how much it hurts sometimes. My mama raised me right. No, really, she did. Really.

Plus, some day in the not too distant future, I'll be a batshit crazy old lady, too. I'm not sure if I'll talk people's heads off, but I will be bumping people with my scooter just for kicks, especially any lazy shit who dares to leave their shopping cart in the middle of a parking lot or the parents of kids throwing tantrums because they want some Twinkies or soda.

Thankfully, some of the neighbors would sit and be talked at for a while, so we had a lot of fun on the jet ski, hit the go-karts, the arcades, and the boy got to see our friend get his tattoo finished up. After packing the truck up Wednesday morning and cleaning the whole cottage so I could make a quick getaway, Tattoo Boy called and offered up three free VIP passes to the Blondie/Pat Benatar concert that night. I really wanted to come home, but I'd be crazy to turn down free passes to see two of my favorite old rockers. So, I unpacked the truck and called the husband to tell him we were staying another night.

The boy was so excited to be going to a real concert, and the best friend and I couldn't believe that we were going to see them both in one night. We met up with our friends who live right down the street from Meadowbrook, and we hopped in one of their golf carts for the ride to the concert. If there's one thing I love about New Hampshire people, they really do live free or die. We had to Flintstone it up a big hill, because the cart was not meant to hold six people, but other than that, the security laughed and waved us right on up to the VIP gate in our electric golf cart with the pumpkin lights. It was hilarious!

Blondie was on first, and she was amazing. Last I knew, she was like 300 pounds, but now she's probably 140 and looked like a goddess. She did her best songs and hit all the notes. Pat? Well, she was okay. Her husband talked too much (talking was the last fucking thing we wanted to hear), and she didn't hit any of the high notes. Still a great show, but Blondie kicked her ass. The boy stared at the drummers all night and was grinning from ear to ear.

A great time was had by all, even the dog in heat. Apparently, she likes road trips and meeting all kinds of people, and I'm pretty sure she didn't hook up with any smooth-talkin' hillbilly hounds while we were at the concert. We're exhausted, but our mission was a success. Now, I've got to unpack and spend the weekend catching up on sleep and catching up on blogs. Some of you people write A LOT!

Mission Of Mercy...

2009-08-03T12:52:00.003-04:00

When your best friend asks you last minute to come up to her lake house to be her wingman because she's going to be alone with her mother for two days, what can you do? You pack your shit and your kid and your pup in heat into the Gangsta Jeep and head north to the Big Lake.

Truthfully, the best way to get me to do anything is to ask me last minute. If I have time to ponder anything, good luck dragging me anywhere. I slapped on my stinky-ass fake tan (FYI: If any bitch tells you there's a brand that don't smell, then she's a smelly liar or her nose lost all sense of smell back in her coke days), packed up way more crap than I need, and I'm banging out the quickest post ever while choking down a PB&J.

Road trip! Just me and the boy and the panty-wearing pooch. She's only coming because I'm afraid to leave her home to get knocked up by some stray while the husband snoozes in the hammock. Let's just hope there's no hillbilly hounds running around un-neutered in Laconia, cuz Mama don't want no hillbilly hound puppies. It ought to be interesting with two cranky bitches, one old lady with a bad back, a dog in heat and the lone male being eight years old and bored.

Going on walkabout without my husband kinda sucks, since he's the kid entertainment who likes to swim all day. Me? Not so much. My plan is trade the best friend a bored kid with a bad attitude for the old lady with the bad back and get her blasted while the best friend takes the kid on the jet ski.

Then, I'll hop on the jet ski and cruise by Mitt Romney's ginormous lake house and yell obscenities until he invites me to his uber-rich Mormon cookout. "Why, of course, Mitt, I'd love me some grilled caviar. Oh, and pour some of that BBQ truffle oil on my salmon, please." I'll bring the wine!

Instead of bringing the laptop, I'm bringing erotica, mainly because that's the only book I've got in the house I haven't read. So, I'm banging this out now and heading offline. I suppose I could post something from my Crackberry, but I'm sure that would be just another "Just because you can doesn't mean you should" moments in life. I can always comment, though!

Winnipesaukee, here we come...

Stella's Got The Heat...

2009-07-31T17:39:00.005-04:00

That's what my kid is going around telling everyone, and I die laughing every single time! Since I'm still hung over from the Beer Summit at the White House, where I have to tell you, I made all the difference in the world at that boring little party, I leave you with this video. Nothing but humping on my mind these days...

I think I'm in love! Have a happy, humpy weekend...

Parenting 101: When In Doubt, Fart...

2009-07-30T10:15:00.003-04:00

It's not like I needed one more sign that The Universe is out to get me this summer. I'm pretty quick to pick up on such things. I got it already. So, when I discovered that Stella, a/k/a "Pooter," had gone into heat yesterday, I wanted to kick The Universe in the nuts and punch it in the boob. That's right, The Universe is a pre-op tranny, at least in my twisted mind anyway.

Little Miss Early Bloomer was supposed to get spayed a month ago, but then she got sick. We scheduled it for next week. Guess I can cancel that and hold onto my $250 for a few more weeks. Bitches are so annoying.

So, not wanting to have poor little Pooter get knocked up by some ugly, stray mutt or one of the wily coyotes that live just out back in our rock pile, I had to have a little discussion with the boy.

Mama: "Umm, you can't take Stella outside of the fenced-in yard for a while."

Kid: "Why?"

Mama: "Because she's in heat, and we don't want her to get pregnant."

Kid: "What's heat?"

Mama: (Oh, fuck) "Well, that's when a girl dog is old enough to have puppies."

Kid: "Puppies are cute. Let's have puppies."

Mama: "No."

Kid: "Why can't she play out back?"

Mama: "Because a stray dog or a coyote might smell her and get her pregnant."

Kid: "By licking her?"

Mama: "By humping her." (What else was I going to say?)

Kid: (Busting out laughing) "Then can't Mojo or Rebel make her pregnant? They hump her all the time."

Mama: "Remember how they had their operation?"

Kid: "When they got their nuts cut off?" (Nice!)

Mama: "Yeah. Once they get their nuts cut off, there will be no babies."

Kid: "Ohhhhhh. I'm going to ride my dirt bike."

Mama: "Good idea."

Later, as I was making dinner, for kicks I told the boy to tell his father why Stella can't go out back for a while.

Kid: "Oh, yeah, Daddy, a coyote might smell her and think she's a baby and come hump her."

Mama: (Think she's a baby? That kid really doesn't listen.)

Dad: "Is that so?"

Kid: "Yeah, but Rebel and Mojo can only fake hump her, because they have no nuts."

Dad: "Bwahahahaha! What the hell have you been telling him?"

Mama: "What? He's close enough."

Much later, as the boy, all three dogs and I were laying in the boy's bed reading a book, Rebel started to hump Stella right there at our feet. The freak is practically breaking poor little Pooter in half, so I yell at him and have to physically pry him off of her.

Kid: "Rebel, that's not nice. You have no nuts, so leave her alone."

Mama: "Yeah!!!"

Kid: "So, if she can make a baby, why does it matter if he can't?"

Mama: (Oh, Jesus!!) "Because they both have to make the baby."

Kid: "Ohhhh. How does the boy dog get the baby in there?"

Now, my parenting technique for dealing with such situations is to answer only what is asked and to offer no other details. I don't lie. I may manipulate the story in my favor, but I won't lie. I told him that babies don't come out of belly buttons or bums a long time ago, because he asked me directly, but he did not ask how they got in there until right then.

I tried to think of a good answer and decided I'm so not in the mood to open the bucket of worms that will tip over and lead to 27 million more wormy questions by telling him that the boy dog puts his erect penis in the girl dog's vagina (a word that makes me want to barf on the shoes of anyone who says it, by the way), he humps away, spooge comes out, and then a sperm humps an egg, which then turns into a baby. NOT GOING THERE with an eight year old, not at 11:00 at night anyway. So, I farted as loud as I could.

Kid: (Laughing hysterically while jumping under his covers) "EWWWWW!! That's rank."

Mama: (Laughing hysterically while pulling the covers off of his head) "Ahhhhhhhh!"

Kid: (Still laughing hysterically) "Oh, my god!!! Get out of here before you do another one!"

Mama: "Okay."

I kissed him goodnight, told him I loved him and avoided the whole how a baby gets in a mommy's belly interrogation. Genius!!! I've started Farting On Command Boot Camp already. You parents of young kids might want to start practicing, too...