Category Archives: Uncategorized

Mother Nature can bite me

Every single time I log into facebook or twitter, someone is talking about hot weather, or sunburns, or boob sweat. Unless, they live in the Pacific Northwest where we are all freezing to death even though it’s June freaking first.

My propane bill is still gigantic every month, because each morning I stand in the hot shower until I’ve lost a foot in height from pruniness, because in the shower I’m warm. I’m still wearing flannel pajamas and a long-sleeved shirt and socks to bed every night. I’m still sleeping with a fleece duvet over my down comforter. I’m drinking hot tea every afternoon instead of iced tea. I practically live in fuzzy boots or fuzzy slippers. I still use my crockpot more than my BBQ. I’m pretty sure I’m a mere day away from death by Vitamin D deficiency, because the sun only comes out for about 12 seconds per week – usually while I’m standing in that extra long shower.

It’s especially frustrating to have crappy weather on a holiday weekend that is supposed to signify the beginning of the fun summer season. We were going to be outside doing summery things if it meaning drowning. We sat on the covered patio in fleece coats in the rain. We drank watery summer time beer in the rain. We BBQ’ed a roast in the rain. We played ladder golf and bean bag toss in the rain. See that pattern?

In February and March, we had a few really nice spring days. I bought new summer clothes. Every morning when I layer on my fleece, I look longingly at the clothes that will completely out of style when I finally get to wear them. I look at my kids who are so determined to be done with jeans for the school year that they’ve been wearing shorts with Under Armour tights underneath.

Excuse me while I go make some more cocoa.

I hope my insurance will cover my scooter chair

Last year for my 40th birthday, I opened up a big fat package of flab. Previously taut muscles sagged. My thighs started to jiggle. My boobs finally decided it was time they grew out of a too big A cup bra. Even my stomach, that managed to stay flat after having four kids decided it was done, and all of a sudden it was way too round. I always knew that my body would do some shifting someday, but I didn’t know it would all happen exactly on my 40th birthday, and all it one day. I wasn’t ready.

Slowly I’ve been replacing my wardrobe, because I’m actually good with the extra weight, because I used to be way too skinny. I no longer have to buy half my clothes in the girls’ department. I can wear actual adult clothes. Plus, having boobs? That is such a nice change. I can wear those shirts that are fitted around the bust and not have to stuff my bra with socks. I’ve always wanted boobs, but I don’t do general anesthesia or surgery, so the only way to have them was to have a baby stuck to my chest, and I’ve already spent enough of my life dealing with that.

The flab. I cannot handle the flab. I don’t like my body parts jiggling, and I don’t like being able to pinch and inch or three. And the idea of a muffin top? Hell no!

So, I started exercising, even though I hate every single second of sweating. I use weights. I’ve learned to use a stability ball even though I pretty much have no balance skills whatsoever. I’ve learned that I can’t have an all candy, chips, and soda diet. I even stopped using my treadmill as a coat rack. I’ve learned that all the Real Housewives shows, Glee, and Gossip Girl will keep me on the treadmill longer. I’ve learned that I can eat popsicles and drink a beer (not at the same time) on the treadmill without falling, although that probably defeats the purpose. I’m pretty sure that multi-tasking is sometimes required, though, if I’m to fit exercise into already busy days.

Yesterday I went out with the Chubby Mommy Running Club. I’ve gotten used to running on the treadmill, but running outside is an entirely different beast. The fresh air nearly killed me. And there was sleet and snow flurries (yeah, May sucks ass this year) and maybe some rain. And I don’t normally run three miles, because I prefer to just set my treadmill incline to 8 and walk uphill for an hour.

Today, my legs are killing me. I hope I don’t need anything from upstairs, because I won’t make it up there unless I crawl. I hope I can at least manage to stop over the little edge of the shower, but even that will be iffy. If you smell someone today, you’ll know that 3 inches  was too much. If you see someone eating all the ibuprofen in the grocery store, that will be because my Costco sized bottle of it wasn’t enough. If you see someone crying because she parked the car and has to step up a curb, that will be me.

It’s probably a good thing I’m not looking for a husband

One of my goals in life is to become a crazy cat lady. I have four of them, and they practically rule my life. I’d have more, but my husband seems to think we have plenty, so when I collect his life insurance, the first thing I’m going to buy is kittens. I recently realized something embarrassing about my cat fetish. It’s not that I have baskets of cat toys everywhere. It’s not that every single thing I own is covered in hair. It’s not that I almost no longer throw up when I open the tub of nasty bonita flakes. It’s not even that I think nothing of spending $7 on a tiny little tub of kitty hooch, because that’s their favorite.

I have 34 pictures of cats in my phone. THIRTY-FOUR. A couple of them aren’t even my cats. I have this bad habit of stopping at the Humane Society and taking pictures of adorable kittens and sending them to my husband. You know, the one that doesn’t want anymore cats.

My oldest cat is an evil, evil, evil Siamese. I’m pretty sure that Garcia’s father is none other than Satan himself, because she is horrible. She’s a biter and a scratcher, and if you look at her too long, she’ll leap at your face and try to remove your eyes. It’s not often an issue, because her eyes are so pale, they’re almost white, and looking at them makes grown men cry for their mommies. She’s no longer allowed in the house, because we feared that we’d be brought up on child abuse charges if we had to take the kids to the hospital to have their scratched off limbs reattached every couple of days.

Spot is my sweet, little tabby. She’s the one that always want to snuggle on a warm lap, or curl up next to my stomach while I’m sleeping. She has a kinked tail and a chain smoker’s raspy meow. She likes to ride around the house on the shoulder of any available person. She’s pees on the kids dirty clothes if they don’t put them in the laundry basket. (once a year UTI’s that we treat). Who doesn’t like a cat that reminds kids that their mother isn’t a maid?

I also have Jasper. He’s from a feral litter and wasn’t socialized early enough. He loves me so much that I think he’d live in my skin if he could. He tolerates the kids, especially my daughter, since she’s my mini me. He hates my husband and will only go near him when bribed with tons of treats. No one else ever sees him, so people refer to him as my imaginary cat. He is my big cuddly baby and my shadow.

I have one more cat, Sylvester, who has an even more special place in my phone. He’s the one I like to capture on video, because he’s the one that mastered walking on the treadmill. I have to lock him out of the room if I’m on the treadmill, because he’ll try to join me. He was hiding in there the other day and nearly killed me when he tried to jump on at a speed that is way to fast for his stubby legs.

I should probably go clear out the memory card of my phone before my kids realize that I have 3 times as many cat pictures as kid pictures. And those kid pictures? Most of them aren’t of MY kids. Do you think they’ll need therapy? (the kids, not the cats)

I hope it’s not genetic or my poor kids are doomed.

I had an inkling I was marrying into crazy 20 years ago, but when  wedding is rapidly approaching the bride is thinking of important things like what lingerie to wear under the wedding dress (don’t go for too tight corset things, because they’re a pain in the ass to get out of after a few hundred wedding toasts). The bride is in no way thinking that she’ll once the get to know you period with the new in-laws is over, they will quite happily bring on mountains of insanity. (big disclaimer: most of my in-laws are normal; it the crazy ones that stand out)

1. They talk over people.  I can’t even say a simple one syllable word like “hi” without having it interrupted halfway through. They make Jill, LuAnn, and Kelly from Real Housewives of NYC look like the best listeners every, and anyone who watches that show knows that none of them can let another person speak ever unless it’s one of their trio, and even that’s iffy. I actually have to leave the room when the husband talks to one person in particular on the phone, because she does her talking over him very loudly. It makes me cringe and want to rip the phone away from his face and smash it into the ground with my heel while screaming obscenities.

2. They have an obsession with all things medical. A person can’t just get the common cold, because any sneeze or sniffle is possible an alien bacterial-induced super-disease that will cause a new form of elephantitis and anal leakage.  Don’t say “how are you” to people with this brand of crazy unless you are fully prepared to spend the next 14 hours hearing about nipple fungus they went to 87 doctors for before finding out it was just bra lint and that time they hiccupped and their left lung shot upward and nearly pierced their brain. Definitely don’t say that your kid stubbed his toe, because not only will they pin him down and drown him with tetanus vaccines, but they’ll amputate the toe with any readily available kitchen utensil. Then they’ll want to talk about it in horrifying detail.

3. Food. Food brings out the mega craziness. One lives almost exclusively on potato chips and chardonnay claiming that after doing two week of the Atkin’s diet a few years ago her digestive system can not longer handle other things. She’s sometimes eat something else, like a Lean Cuisine or a real meal, but I’m betting those are pretty rare. Another one eats all the fucking time. A herd of cows spends less time grazing, but it’s okay, because she buys the Lite version of everything, because you know the rules of life state that if you buy the lite ice cream, you can eat the whole half gallon container in one sitting without feeling guilty. Plus, it’s incredibly important to know that portion size is crucial. A good way to judge a portion is to measure your head. As long as your food is the size of your head, you’re good. The best part of the food thing is that they all complain about being overweight. Too bad pointing out the obvious is useless.

4. It’s all about them all the time. During giant family vacations, only they get to decide what activities should be enjoyed. Should I choose to do something different, like walk to the lake for 5 minutes instead of sitting on my ass complaining about the loud tourists, the world will end. Since these vacation always involve a birthday or two, food comes into play again. You don’t take an extra tiny piece of cake unless you want to hear about how you’re depriving the person that needs a head-sized piece. Plus, if I buy something sweet, I am required to share it with everyone, even if that means cutting up a Twix into 20 pieces, but if the Eaters buy something, it’s theirs because they bought it with their own money. I guess I got mine by whoring or theft.

5. There’s all sorts of racism and homophobia. One of them freaked when their kid dated a hispanic girl because that is not acceptable. Doesn’t he know that he can only date white girls? There’s also always a few comments about gay marriage being “icky.” Um, isn’t straight  marriage into in the crazies icky too? And I don’t even want to think about the crazies and their own marriages, because there is so much co-dependency going on between a couple of them that their marriages are total three-ways between mom, daughter, and their husbands. Excuse me while I go throw up until that image goes out of my head.

6. Double-standards. They are allowed to talk about me behind my back (and they’re not commenting on my beauty, wit, and charm), and say rude things about me to my kids, but if i defend myself I’m being meeeeeeean, (you have to say that with a huge wine like a kindergartener) because when I confront them about their asshattery it’s hurts their witty bitty feewings. It’s fucking awesome! I think my goal in life is to become the queen of mean and show them how it’s really done, because I can play their games even better than they can, because I have #7.

7. They don’t understand sarcasm. Seriously. They are so clueless to sarcasm, that every time I say something to them, I feel like I’m stabbing poor, innocent, blind puppies. That pretty much sucks all the fun out of being a more intelligent life form.

It’s not all bad, though. Every single endless overnight visit is accompanied by enough beer to make my liver weep, so I can ignore almost everything. And if I can’t ignore it and start going off on their craziness, I can plead drunk the next morning as I’m shooing them out of my house, and it will guarantee a couple of crazy people free years while they’re not speaking to me (ancient family tradition).

Why sexting always involves my cats

I can’t post the picture, because I’ve lost my SD adaptor for my phone memory card for the 327th time, but yesterday I found my long-haired cat lounging  in the bathroom sink, and I took a picture, which I then texted to my husband.

Me captioning the picture: Sylvester wants you to come home and wash him.

Husband: You have a nice pussy.

Me: You don’t think it’s a little overgrown and matted?

Husband: Sometimes pussies are like that.

I am so glad I married someone who shares my pubescent boy sense of humor, although I’m pretty sure there is a possibility we’re damaging our kids by having constant dirty minds about every single thing. You don’t want to be around when we have to caulk anything, since we don’t pronounce it with the L. Or maybe you do.

I hope my summer vacation doesn’t involve saggy, elderly people

This summer I’ll be taking the kids to the east coast to visit my in-laws. When my IL’s got divorced, MIL hauled my husband and his sister to the west coast to start a new life or some such crap. Everyone else still lives in the east. FIL is building a new house and will be putting his current house up for sale in the fall – the house with the private beach, the house surrounded by water on 3 sides, the house right down the street from a very cool (and well-known for miles and miles around) bar.

My husband can’t go with us, because he’s not willing to take a vacation. It’s not an asshole thing. It’s that he is not completely certain that he can’t trust his employees to run things to his standards while he’s gone. His second is command is my brother, but my brother is being a total asshat to customers, so he’s not way up there on the trust list currently. I’m hoping things will change and things will improve with new hires, because I just realized the most horrible thing ever. I won’t have anyone to walk down the beach to the really cool bar with me. Fuck. I love that place. I saw Greg Brady there a few years ago, but he wasn’t wearing his awesome bell bottoms, and he didn’t have that fabulous 70’s perm. My IL’s don’t go to bars, and my oldest won’t be 21 by then. Hmmm…maybe I should get her a fake ID. It would probably make me the coolest mom ever.

I’m not at all worried about flying across the country with 4 kids. The youngest will be 10 by then. They’re mostly good and they’re easily bribable with candy. Plus, we have enough electronics to entertain an entire planeload of people. The flying thing is the easy part. It’s the other things that are scary:

1. private beach = needing 15 sets of eyes to keep track of really fast kids.

2. private beach = about 805,000 more crunches needed to get rid of this baby belly that I developed around the time the youngest turned 9. Why the fuck it came then is a mystery and has nothing to do with sugar and beer. Nothing, I tell you.

3. Fire Island. Last time was great since an Irish professional soccer team was about 2 feet away and they were all hot. The time before that, the IL’s accidentally took my 2 older kids to a gay nude beach. There is nothing wrong with being gay or nude, but the people on this particular beach were all rather old, and no one wants to see ball sacs that end at a man’s knees. I’m pretty sure even their significant others don’t want to see that.

4. The hundreds of aunts, uncles, and cousins are sometimes odd. One of them moos at me, because I’m from Montana. Some of them are racist and very homophobic. I will probably bite my own tongue off trying not to go into full on debate mode. I can’t bite my tongue off, because after they stop talking, I’ll need to go over it all with the kids about why we don’t judge people based on things like color or sexuality. We only judge you if you are a moron.

There’s really good things too.

1. Private beach! duh…

2. Public beach with eye candy right down the street.

3. humidity. I live in the desert, so sometimes humidity is the best thing ever.

4. They don’t let me cook. It’s a real vacation.

5. The house is too small for my idiot SIL, so I don’t have to deal with her constant whining about how everything has to be her way or the world will end and she is so perfect and any of us who don’t bow down to her are just losers. Should I be disappointed? I dont’ think so.

6. Private beach AND beer and private beach.

I wonder if I can leave today.

Why Nicholas Sparks is going to take away my vagina license

I’m just going to come right out and admit it – I don’t like sappy, sobby chick flicks.

The formula is always something like this:

Girl meets boy of her dreams. One of them is always from the wrong side of the tracks meaning that right side of the track’s people vigorously object to the relationship. “He/she wants your money/status/good name.” This causes tension for the girl and the boy, but try as they might, they just can’t stay away from each other and boy is the most romantic person ever.

Halfway into the movie tragedy strikes and a seemingly insurmountable obstacle appears. Perhaps boy moves to Virginia to become a personal aide to a crazy, racist governor causing someone to put out a hit on him, so he has to go into hiding. Maybe girl is in a horrific zoo accident where a wild ocelot escapes from its enclosure and eats off girl’s face, and she has to have an emergency face transplant that makes her look like Freddy Kruger or Pete Burns from Dead or Alive after the 87th plastic surgery.

Of course, in true sappy, sobby chick flick fashion, they will overcome these things that would make the rest of us jump off a thousand foot cliff to our smashed deaths. They will run to each other in slow motion, lock lips, and live happily ever after with their 2.5 kids in a house with a white picket fence. Everyone will adore the girl and boy and their perfect life together.

If I have actually made it to the end of the movie, the happily ever after crap is where I start begging for someone to rip out my eyeballs and stab me in the heart with an axe and beg for the return of the two hours of my life I just lost to pure crap.

Real boys are not romantic like they are in chick flicks. Sure, maybe they will be at first, but once they get laid, romance sort of dies unless they did something wrong like screwing your best friend while you were in the kitchen making him pb&j. And they might be romantic for five seconds if they want something from you like a blow job with swallowing, or to have you prepare a six course meal for his boss who will be arriving in 15 minutes, or if he wants to go to Vegas with his friends to party with one-legged hookers and sheep.

Chick flicks imply that if a girl doesn’t find that perfect boy, her life will suck forever. She’ll never be happy. She’ll never be fulfilled. She’ll never find true love again. She may as well run off and join a convent or go live in a cave as a hermit. And even that might be too taxing, because without the perfect boy, she’ll probably not even deserve to live. It would be better for all if she just stopped eating and wasted away until one day POOF – she just disappears.

Crap, even just thinking this long about chick flicks makes my insides go into knots that won’t be cured until I watch something actually entertaining like an infomercial on foot care while I chew off my own arms.