Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Women! Gah!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

I don’t understand women.

And not just the obvious things like why I want to carry a pink purse so badly and how many centimeters women get dilated before a baby pops out. I don't understand a lot of other stuff either.

Take Star Jones for example. I saw a big headline today that said the following:


Did she really need to make a big, dramatic announcement regarding that? If so, here is my big, dramatic announcement to Star Jones:


Let’s see. One day you are 307 pounds. Six months later you weigh like, ten. I think all of us figured it was not from walking your dog a lot.

I mean, I don’t care that she had it. Whatever. It’s not a big deal to me if someone has surgical “intervention” to lose weight. I’m just offended that she wants to make it into the most obvious non-news story since Lance Bass announced he was gay.

Also, last night I had to spend time with a group of women who have absolutely nothing in life other than their children and like to talk about said children in loud, grating voices. I adore my children and have a lot to say about them, but I also have a lot to say about other, important issues such as Where the Hell did Jesse McCartney go? and how stupid the people I work with all seem to be. But these women seem to not even be WATCHING the E! network and just look at me blankly when I try to explain that no, I actually can’t be at this meeting at 10am on a Tuesday morning because, GASP, I have a freaking job.

I don’t care if people are stay-at-home moms. I actually think that’s kind of awesome and more power to them if they can do it. Financially, it was never an option for me. I do have issue with women who look down on me because I’m not nearly as involved as they feel I should be in my children’s lives. I do have an issue with people rolling their eyes at me when I give my opinion. If my opinion is stupid as hell, then by all means, roll your eyes. But if you are rolling your eyes at me merely because you don’t think my opinion is valid because it would require less than a crowbar to get me out of my own child’s ass? Then I just don’t think that’s my problem.

What I really, really don’t get and what really frosts my pickle about the whole situation? Is that these women claim to be doing this FOR THE CHILDREN. And yet? When it comes time to actually interact with the, you know, actual children, they can be found in the kitchen talking smack about everyone else who couldn’t make it (because of their JOBS! The horror!) and drinking coffee.

Meanwhile I am out doing the hula with the children.

So who’s wrong here?

I mean, I know I’m bitter and not funny and all that, but good Lord. Those people just did not turn out.

Yet, I don't have a penis. So I just don't fit in with anyone.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

She's having a baby.

My little sister.

Well, okay, technically she's not little. She's almost thirty. And if you listen to her, which I don't about this, she's enormously pregnant and therefore not little.

But she's my girl. She'll always be my girl.

She and I had a fairly typical I-hate-you-and-I-wish-you'd-die-even-though-you're-the-best-I-got relationship growing up. Forced to share a room and be dressed alike, even though I was two years older, I resented her for being far cuter than I was. Mainly because we would go sell Girl Scout cookies together and all the people would be like, "Oh! She's so cute!" and buy ten boxes off of her and none off of me. She resented me for existing and probably two hundred other reasons. I'm sure I am not easy to live with.

At some point in our lives, and I'm not even sure when, we saw past our differences and realized, mutually, "Good Lord. These people surrounding us are insane." We bonded. And now we are friends.

Also, especially wonderful? Our kids are best friends.

We do feed those boys, by the way. Honestly.

We are really blessed. Both of us. Because we have great kids. We are both able to give our kids a lot more than we ever had. Our kids adore each other.

And we have each other.

I don't see my sister very often. Not nearly enough in fact. She's the funniest person alive. She makes me laugh every single time I talk to her. She's the smartest, bravest person I know.

Growing up, I never saw my sister as a mother, even though she's great with kids. But honestly, I've never seen anyone with such a natural ability to be a mother. Whereas I was just sort of dazed and confused and perplexed by my children, she took hold of her little son and began to sing him a song, right there in the delivery room. And this was after a particularly difficult delivery which included her mother-in-law taking pictures of her sister-in-law who was pointing at her butt. (It's the funniest story ever, now. When she tells it I can't breathe I laugh so hard).

And she is an amazing mom. She's got mad skilz when it comes to those kids.

Her new little girl is such an amazing blessing. She's going to do a fantastic job with her.

I am so, so proud of her.

I hope she knows it.
I can't be there that day. But in my heart, I'm right there beside of you, holding your hand.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Plans which are not well thought out.

In an effort to better myself and stop saying so many damn curse words, I have instituted a "cursing jar" in my office. Except I call it a "cussin' jar". Because I live in East Tennessee.

I am charging myself a fine every time I curse. The fine is 25 cents.

It is currently 8:26am. There is a total of six dollars in the jar.

Also? An IOU for $12.

Additionally? I think I really need to rethink this plan. Because I'm paying myself. And frankly? That just motivates me to curse more. Because I really need a new pair of capri pants.

Maybe I should give myself a quarter every time I don't say a curse word. Like when Moron #12 that I work with comes in and says something really stupid and I don't say, "You are a damn waste of sperm!" and instead say, "You are like a monkey flinging poo at the zoo." He'd probably get the point anyway, right?


I don't know. I really want those capri pants.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

You'd pay money to work with me.

Sadly, I was in rare form today.

In addition to being a ranty shrew in my last post (sorry), I did and said the following today:

1) "Find a place for them your damn self!"
To a co-worker who has absolutely nothing to do but sit around and talk about how he got fired from his last job, when he told me to move the boxes I have stacked up on top of a file cabinet. Fire hazard my ass.

2) "The hell!"
When someone asked me if I would give Nuclear Criticality training.

Pretty sure that we'd all be dead in six weeks, sport. Crit safety is not my thing. If you asked me to give training on, say, "The Facts of Life" or Jessica Simpson's stupidity, I'd be all over it. But not things that could potentially make a difference to anyone, anywhere. I can't be responsible for things like that.

3) "I'm not your damn secretary!"
To three different people. Huh.

4) "What the damn hell?"
I can't remember who I said this too. Or why.

5) "If he says 'this right here' one more time, I'm going to crotch punch him."
Because 'this right here'? Makes me want to scream.

6) "My dog, WHO IS DEAD, could do a better job than her!"
My dog isn't really dead. That's just fun to say.

7) "She needs to cover that up. No one wants to see her business."
Pretty self-explanatory.

8) "Harry Potter can friggin bite me."
I also can't remember why I said that. I don't even know anything about Harry Potter.

9) "You know. He's got those man cats."
Because my friend, who is a man, has really large cats.

It was much funnier when I actually said that.

10) "Fire!"

No, just lying.

Probably, no one would laugh if I did say that.

So yeah. Not my best day today. I would apologize to my co-workers, but none of them read my blog.

Also? I mostly hate them.

So it's all win-win. No consequences for bad behavior.

Mom's are not funny.

Have you heard? We aren’t.

Once you give birth, you are no longer funny. Something comes out in the placenta or whatever and you just totally lose you ability to talk about anything except for poopy diapers and underwear and, in my case, how many curse words your children manage to pick up from you on a daily basis.

But none of that is funny.

The fact that we have lives aside from our children and do things like work and meet hilarious people and have marriages and/or boyfriends and, hell I don’t know, opinions? None of that matters. Not one bit of it. Because if you have a kid, you aren’t funny.

Oh, occasionally the kid will do something cutesy and we can all get a little chuckle out of that. But real, honest to God, laugh out loud funny stuff? Nope. Not us.

God forbid you do something like have a blog and put a picture of your kid on it. Because that’s not funny! You can’t be a MOMMY BLOGGER and be funny! You are either a mommy or you are funny! Not both!

Never mind if you almost never talk about your kids on your blog. That doesn’t matter. Their mere existence qualifies you as a mommy blogger and therefore YOU ARE NOT FUNNY.

Never mind if you've spent the last ten or so years of your life trying to make an actual life for yourself and have busted your ass in doing so and, gasp, have done it even though you have children. Never mind that you don't define your entire life by your kids and what they do (even if they are damn funny...oh, no wait! They aren't! Kids aren't funny either!). None of that matters.

Once you've had kids it's all over. Hang it up. You are Michael Richards at the Apollo.

You aren't funny.

Don’t even try to pretend you are. The real funny people won’t stand for it.

Monday, July 23, 2007

The tipping point.

It’s official.

I have absolutely nothing left to say to my husband.

Last night I was telling him a hilarious story about how, because I read really, really fast, I used to think that “pubic” hair was “public” hair.

No. Really.

Okay and that’s not really important.

So I’m telling him all about my shame and he sort of smiled half-heartedly and said, “You’ve already told me this story.”

I looked at him in dismay and said, “So that’s what it’s come down to.”

He raised one eyebrow at me.

“After only eight years, I have run out of things to say. The well is dry. I’ve shot my wad. It’s all downhill now.”


“It’s all downhill!” I proclaimed.

He was silent for a moment.

“Next you’ll ask me to play chess!” I lamented. “Because that’s what we’ll do when we’re old and not sexually interested in one another.”

“Um…what?” he said.

Now at this point, I do feel bad. He did look genuinely confused.

“Never mind,” I said, sulkily.

He went to the freezer to get some ice and noticed that I had stuck a Little Debbie oatmeal cream pie in the freezer.

Little Debbie. That whore. She and I have been having an illicit affair for years. Since I’ve been losing weight and can’t quite get over the love she and I share, I’ve taken to freezing her delicious goodness so that if I want to eat it, it will take me approximately twelve years and usually I’ll get pissed off and give up.

It’s my new dieting strategy! Or something!

Anyway. Jason sees the cake in the freezer and says, “Do you like frozen Little Debbie cakes?”

I said I did.

His face broke into a grin.

“See! That’s something I didn’t know about you! I learn new stuff about you all the time!”

“Our marriage is saved,” I deadpanned.

He didn’t think that was very funny.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Shocking confessions!

  • I've never read any of the Harry Potter books. Or seen any of the movies.
  • I am a bit confused by people dressing up and camping out at bookstores.
  • I am, however, pleased that children are reading. Because I believe that children are our future. Or some crap.
  • Although I've lived in some part of Tennessee for the vast majority of my life, I've never been to Graceland.
  • I look at the newspaper online for the town in which I last knew my ex-husband lived in hopes that he gets arrested for something so I can feel all smug and self-righteous.
  • I just saw an ad for a t-shirt which reads "b ur dream" and I spent like two and 1/2 minutes wondering what a bur dream was.
  • Due to the show, "Scott Baio is 45 and single" I now have the assumption that he is not only single he is infested with crabs. Which is probably not even fair, but it's how I feel.
  • I am perplexed that Hulk Hogan and his lovely wife Linda might potentially be having marital issues. I really want them to work it out.
  • I watch far to much television. Vh1, I am your bitch.
  • I found like 25 gray hairs. No one else has noticed because my other 800 million hairs are brown, but still.
  • I want to get a big white fluffy dog and name it "Blackie" and stand out on my porch and shriek thing like, "COME HOME BLACKIE!"
  • I have no idea why.
  • I should be doing something productive.
  • I can't because it's almost time for "Rock of Love".

Saturday, July 21, 2007

Shame has a name. It is Chick.

Despite the fact that my Girl Card should have been revoked at birth, I find myself having a lot of "friend crushes" lately.

I meet someone and desperately want them to like me and be my friend. You know? Or if they are my friend, I want them to be my best, best friend and think I'm the coolest ever.

It's so freaking lame.

Take for example my work friend, Ben. Ben is not his real name. Because even though he doesn't read my blog and, in fact, doesn't find me all that interesting, I would be mondo-embarrassed if he knew I was blogging about him.

Anyway. Ben.

I've created this elaborate backstory for him. For example, I am completely convinced that he was born in Hawaii. Why, I have no idea. It doesn't even make sense. But in my mind he was.

Oh and his parents are dead. He was raised by a kind and benevolent grandfather who left him a bunch of money when he died.

Oh and his ex-wife was really mean and tried to steal all of his money and verbally abuse him. But he might have actually told me that part.

Also? He might have been in the circus at one point. I'm just not sure.

See, though? Ridiculous. If you ever met this guy you would laugh at this story, because he's very quiet and unassuming. He would either find this hilarious or he would run away from me, shrieking.

But because of the friend crush I have on him, I imagine him telling me these stories while we walk our dogs and drink lattes. I also try to find nice single women to set him up with.

Well, okay, I do that already, but generally he recoils in horror. Because, um, well, he knows me and I'm a bit loud and I guess he just ASSUMES that all my friends would be loud and do things like dance the macarena in the breakroom too. Gah! So judgemental.

I think Ben thinks I am a nice and interesting, albeit extraordinarily loud and overwhelming, individual. I don't think he wants to hang out with me after work and come over at Thanksgiving and break bread with me and my family.

I have girl friend crushes too. It's so high school and I just can't seem to stop myself. One of my best friends has a circle of friends who have somewhat accepted me and I'm so freaking nuts about the whole situation. I want them to do things like call me up out of the blue and be all like, "Hey! Let's go scrapbooking!" or whatever. They never do.

They are nice enough to me, don't get me wrong. They always laugh when I say funny things, which is more than I get from, you know, the majority of my family and co-workers. But they don't call.

Not that I call them either. I don't want them to think I'm a stalker.

I don't know. It feels pretty weird to me. I think it's probably just my obsession with stories.

I think everyone is so interesting, even if they don't know it yet.

Friday, July 20, 2007

That's kind of how it works, son.

Somehow, and I honest to God have no idea how, I had a conversation with my children recently about sex.

Yeah. With two nine years old children.

The conversation included me shrieking things to my daughter such as:

"Boys will lie to you! Don't believe them! They will tell you whatever they can to get you to do stuff with them! Boys are not looking out for your best interest!"

I probably also said some other stuff. I can't really recall.

Now, keep in mind that both children think that sex means kissing with tongues. I'm not that horrible of a mother. Maybe.

Anyway, while I am ranting both children are listening with somber expressions and then the Boy Child says:

"So! Mom. How many people are you supposed to have sex with?"

No. He really asked that.

It was a pivotal moment in my life. Seriously.

I always swore I'd never lie to my kids. But that? Good God. Not a topic for anyone, much less my child. My own husband knows none of the details. We agreed when we got together: it's enough to know you've been around the block a time or two, just spare me the exact addresses.

So I said, carefully, "Well. Ideally, just one. The one you marry."

Then I quickly added, "Of course, that's in a perfect world. You know? Things don't always work out that way. After all, mommy's been married two times."


Then Boy Child, looking alarmed asked, "What do you mean you've been married two times?!!?"

I was surprised. He doesn't know his sperm donor, but he knows of his existence. I wondered to myself if he had forgotten. It's been so many years.

So I said, "You know. I'm married to Daddy. And I used to be married to your biological father."

Boy Child stared at me and said in absolute horror and disgust:

"You didn't have sex with our biological father, did you?!?!?!"

My life is awesome.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

NC-17 here I come!

“Why do they make coupons so big?” I lamented on a recent Sunday morning.

“Hmm?” Jason said, somewhat uninterested.

“Look!” I said, holding up a coupon the size of my left buttock. “What is the purpose of making that so large?”

He squinted at it and said, “So you won’t forget to purchase tampons.”


“You know. You’ll look in your purse and you’ll see that huge, pink coupon and you’ll think, oh, I need to buy tampons. Wow! I have a coupon!”

I sighed.

“The fact that I have a vagina reminds me I have to purchase tampons, hon.”

He said, thoughtfully, “But you can’t cut a vagina out of the Sunday paper.”

Monday, July 16, 2007

Tell your mom and them it's Open Letter time.

Dear Co-worker who looks like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever except skinner and more weaselesque,

Dude. Seriously. Shut up.

Since you have started working here you have managed to tell everyone in the building that you were fired from your last job. Where I come from, Earth, that is not a good or responsible thing to have happen, so you might not want to tell everyone about it. It makes you look foolish.

Also? I know you don’t have anything to do and you are bored.

I have a lot to do and I am not bored. Talking with you about the weather is not going to help me get my work done.

Please check yourself, before I wreck yourself.


PS: That substance that you are drinking that looks suspiciously like urine? Yeah. Please stop that. You are grossing me out.

Dear My Sister’s baby,

Would you come out already?!?!? I’m dying to meet you here!

Impatient Auntie

Dear male co-workers who apparently have excruciatingly small wangs,

Okay, let me make sure I understand this. You came to me four weeks ago in an absolute tizzy and demanded something THAT DAY and I spent my entire day working on it and delivered it to you THAT DAY and then today when I go to ask you if you’ve reviewed it you tell me you LOST IT?

Seriously. Bite me.

You suck,

Dear brainless female co-worker,

For the love of all that is holy, what makes you think that a wife-beater and jeans that accentuate that “camel-toe look” you have going on is appropriate attire for work? No one wants to see that mess.

Okay, maybe some of those guards want to see it. But didn’t your momma ever tell you not to show things like that? You have to make them work for it. Not just give it away for free. To everyone. Some of us, and I’m waving my hand wildly here, do not want to see it.

Here’s a hint, snookums: When a man says you look like a prostitute? He’s not complimenting you. He’s INSULTING you. There is, actually, a difference. Even on your planet.

And do I have to mention that you are twenty-six years old and really, honest to God, should know not to do such things?

Keep your business to yourself.

Thanks and whatnot,

Dear husband,

Lately you have been the best husband on the planet.

You have been attentive, sweet, loving, and funny. In short, you have been my dream husband. You have made me remember all over again why I married you in the first place.

So thanks. For that.

Your wife

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Don't show everyone your business honey.

Mason and Terri's mom tagged me for a meme in which I am to tell 8 facts/habits about myself. I like meme's because they provide me blog fodder on days when I've just spilled my guts out for the last 12 days and am feeling like a bit of an emotional wreck. I like Mason and Terri's mom because there is a hilarious photo of her drinking with the preacher's wife on her blog. I like the way she rolls.

But I'm having a hard time with this meme, because, um, really? I've pretty much spilled the beans on all the major crap about myself.

But in the spirit of, blogginess or whatever, I'll try.

1) I'd like to be a professional storyteller. Yes, there really is such a thing. With guilds and festivals and everything.

I do have to wonder who awards that distinction. Hmm. Apparently you can get a Masters degree in such things (Thanks Google!).

Anyway. My point is, I like to tell stories. I think I'd like to tell stories to children. Not stories about myself, obviously, since I'm not into traumatizing people for life. Just funny stories.

Or something.

2) I'm always jealous and amazed when people say they are going "home" for some holiday or occasion. I don't feel like I have a home, anywhere. Wherever I am with my children and husband is my temporary home, but I don't have a "home" home, if that makes sense. I'm still trying to find where I belong.

3) I talk to my dog like she's a person. I carry on long, one-sided conversations with her.

I swear to Cod, if she starts answering I'm going to crap myself.

4) I am never my truer self than when I am singing in the shower.

5) I've posted here about my bulimia, my mother-in-law, miscarriage, being dumped, being in therapy, and my fat ass, and yet I cannot bring myself to post the number that is my weight. Some things are better left unsaid.

6) I always find it amazing when people say that I am intimidating, because really? I'm probably the least intimidating person you'll ever meet. Everyone I see I say "Hey y'all! How's your mom and them?"

Really. I'm just a rough old girl from East Tennessee. That's all I will ever be, I suppose. When you count Dolly Parton as one of your personal heroes, I don't know that you could ever be anything else.

7) Lately, I'm scared of driving. Which blows because I drive about 90 miles a day. It seems like no matter what I do, I'm waiting for the next accident. I just wear my seatbelt and hope for the best.

8) In my house, your "business" is your penis or vagina. Common usage of this word:

"Girl Child. Close your legs. No one wants to see your business."

When I was little I remember someone (don't remember who, but I remember it being said) who, if anyone had their legs open while they were sitting would say, "Don't take my picture!"

Now that's funny. I don't care who you are.

I don't want my picture took though.

So there you have it. It only took me about two hours.

Friday, July 13, 2007

School Glue Jesus

I said some really crazy stuff this week and I didn’t get a chance to blog about it. Like the other day? I was walking down the hall at work and it's a really long hall so I said to a co-worker, “Do you ever want to do a cartwheel down this hall?” and she’s all like, “I don’t think I can do one anymore.” And so I said, “I could do one, maybe, but I don’t want to. Because I’m angry. And I don’t want to do an angry cartwheel.” And she laughed. And then I said, “Wouldn’t that be an awesome name for a band? Angry Cartwheel?” and then she laughed some more.

And that made me think about this one time that my nephew said he had made a School Glue Jesus and how my sister thought that would be a funny name for a band too.