Rainy Day Play Time

Tomorrow I will stand in rain for easy hair wash

The rain has come and it seems like it is staying for a while. I am not going to complain since California is as dry as… uh, well think of something really dry. Did you say overworked starts-with-p-ends-in-y? Sucio fuck! You totally did. Well, fuck it. You said it, an overworked pussy. So California is finally getting the lube job its been needing for sometime. Thank you to all those people doing the lube dance.

I went to the mall today in order to beat the stir crazies. That was a huge mistake because the real crazies were at the mall since it is much drier than the freeway underpass they usually reside under. After my kids and I sat down next to the play area with our Hot Dog On A Stick lemonade and French fries some total fucking nut started pacing the kids play area. He was without children, and looked like he was off his much needed meds, so we decided to skedaddle before he whipped out an AK-47 and started gunning everyone down.

We went to the Nordstrom ladies “Lounge,” which is a bathroom, with a huge adjoining room that has soft velvet couches and mirrors. So nice, especially since the food court bathroom usually has poo smeared on the wall. Nords bathroom is insider info for mall rats. The only challenge is making it through the store without being lured into to buying something. They got me this time! Ahhh!

After we came home, I looked at the clock and it was only 11am. Don’t judge, but yes, we were eating fries at 9:30am. So, I had a moment of, “oh fuck, we ate fast food for a midmorning snack,” as well as, “what the hell are we going to do for the next 8 hours?” The rats go to bed at 7pm, with the youngest taking a nice 2 hour nap midday, but still, that is a lot of hours to sit and read, clean up spills, try to convince them that swan diving off the sofa

Fucking Weirdo, doing guns, as hippie
Carmen Sandiego

is a bad idea, and constantly shush the inner voice seductively whispering to me, “Turn on Doc McStuffins, then you can surf the web and relax.”

We ended up killing a lot of time playing in my room. I was pulling out clothes from my closet and seeing what kooky outfits I could come up with. My daughter, as usual, was being very demanding and ordering me around. She wants me to drape her in every article of clothing I have with glitter, sparkles or sequins. Then she walks around dragging them across the dirty floor leading to unnecessary laundry and stretching the seams beyond their intended strength. She also comments on everything I put on. Usually she says, “Take that off,” to any piece of clothing that is not a dress, skirt, pink, purple, or sparkles in some way (I am not too sure how I over girled-the-girl, but it really has me questioning nature vs. nurture.) The baby wandered around collecting things and putting them in handbags, then stacking toilet paper rolls.

Now it is after 7, and the kids are fast asleep, and I am looking at a house that is destroyed. Luckily it is going to rain all day tomorrow because we are waking up and cleaning!

Abridged Brain Exercises

I found my baby’s monitor yesterday. It was under the sofa, even though I am pretty sure I looked under there a couple times before finding it. I think my brain is mushy lately. It could be temporary damage from too many libations during the Turkey Day festivities, or because I forgot to take my fish oil when I went out of town. Most likely, it is because I have not been reading before bed because I forgot my book when I went out of town and since being home I have been catching up on all my DVR shows that mainly consists of House Hunters International.

I have been double dosing on fish oil to catch up. My daughter calls them my brain meds. We usually play out a dramatic scene as I take my vitamins. I am feigning illness, and she shouts for me to hurry up and take my medication. Unless I use my brain for a bit more than watching TV shows where people complain about the paint on the wall, or reading kids’ books then I guess this fish oil is a fruitless endeavor. Even though it is quite a brain exercise practicing how to pronounce Quetzalcoatlus from the baby book on dinosaurs.

Concentrating

During 5^th grade my sister’s teacher stood in front of the class and asked the students if they have heard of a book called Moby Dick. My sister’s hand shot in the air and she announced, “Of course! I have read Moby Dick like 5 times already!” Her teacher likely shot her an excuse moi look, and then carried on with what she was talking about. By 5^th grade my sister had read the equivalent of a college English major, the only difference is her books were called, The Great Illustrated Classics. The Great Illustrated Classics are adapted versions of classic novels. My mom frequently bought us these books. They are a font size 16 and have a picture on every other page, so it takes an hour to read a novel that in reality would take a couple weeks. If you are ever looking for some bragging rights, go around and tell people that you read Gulliver’s Travels in 45 minutes.

I have The Confederacy of Dunces on my bedside, again. I think I have started this book and put it down at least 5 times. When I go through my books in the garage I always pull it out because I want to finish it. I think Neon Bible is a great book, and people only have rave reviews for COD, but for one reason or another I put it down midway through, and then have to start at the beginning when I start it again. I can perfectly call to memory when Ignatius’s mom drunk drives their car into the balcony after they have watered down drinks and pastries at a dive bar. It is as if the book and I have a negative attraction working against us. I don’t even set it down because I am bored. I usually get a new book that I have been looking forward to reading, and it gets first priority.

After I finish the book I am reading now, I am back on COD! This time I am not going to put the book down until I finish it. I already looked it up, and it is not available in The Great Illustrated Classics. Whan whan whan.

RHOBH Recuperation from Shark Tank (& Wine) Hangover

Too much Shark Tank? Or wine?

My Thanksgiving weekend with the family has ended. We had a feast every night for three days, and the last one was a real ding-dong doozie. My family drank 9 bottles of wine, and the next day our tombstones were resting in the front yard. I am still dehydrated, tired and bloated as fuck from eating a large pizza to cure my hangover. I am thankful to be back home and I really need a night of recuperation, complete personal time. Since my family watched Shark Tank for a total of 15 hours over Thanksgiving weekend, I need of some light entertainment. Shark Tank is a great show but the music gets me too tense. I find myself hiding behind the couch cushions anticipating Mr. Wonderful assassinating someone’s dreams by calling them a greedy pig and telling them to get the hell out of his sight. I put on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills because I guess a bunch of grown ass women screaming in each other’s faces and crying over a broken nail relaxes me.

We are bursting with Shark Tank potential

I watch RHOBH because of the little dogs, these women have about 4 each, and they are cute little fluffiness, the only kind of dogs I like. My neighbors have pit bulls, which are fucking terrifying. They look like the type of dogs that roam around junkyards and have spiked collars. I know, “Pit bulls aren’t bad dogs!” screams every person who has a pit bull (before that pit bull attacks someone.) The thing is, I am afraid of dogs, and dogs smell fear, so they know I am the easiest one to pick off and pit bulls are the most effective at picking off. When I walk into a room with a dog, I am the first person the dog goes over to, sniffs my lady parts as I try and shield it as best I can with my hands. I laugh from the awkwardness but in my mind I am thinking, “this dog is going to kill me, and he is starting at my vagina.”

Dog lovers are a special kind of people. They don’t seem to notice how dogs smell, or that male dogs have a slimy penis that shoots out as they look you in the eyes with their tongue hanging out. Owning a dog would be a good appetite suppressant for me though. One year I worked at a distribution center and one of my friends was an older hippie lady. We ate lunch in the employee lounge and she always wanted to watch Animal Planet. I probably lost ten pounds that summer because I can’t manage to get a bite down while I am watching a hairy ass gorilla scratching its exploding butthole on TV.

I like my dogs to be self-cleaning and defecate in a litter box, or Yorkshire terriers. I have a soft spot for those little fur balls. My mom’s dog is a 12 year old Jack Russell.  For the past 4 days I had to follow my 1 year old son around screaming, “Nooooooo!” as he toddled to her dog repeatedly shouting, “Dog! Dog!” Jack has a life littered with trauma; he was attacked by a coyote, ran over by a house boat, almost drowned when he fell through an icy pond, and dognapped for over a month (this was the darkest time of my mom’s life, and then one day he was tied to the door knob. She must have been doing some crazy visualizing.)

The face of a dog who can't be trifled with

The dognappers probably returned Jack because he is such a little shit, and my mom enables his shit behavior. Jack flips his dog bowl over and spills his food across the kitchen floor. We think it is because he would rather have prime rib, but for fucks sake, he is a dog! When Jack gets his psycho growl and begins barking at my little defenseless baby, my mom looks at me and says, “Jack has arthritis, and the babies hurt him, so keep them away.” This would be fine if Jack didn’t follow the kids around anticipating the cookies, crackers and cheese that fall from their little baby hands.

I am glad to be home and spared from the duty of keeping my kids away from my mom’s dog. I am the master of my domain, and can spend the next couple weeks recuperating from Thanksgiving by watching awful TV. By the time Christmas rolls around I will be able to do it all again, as long as I have not been eaten by my neighbors pit bull first. My mom and I will stay in communication daily with our brilliant ideas for Shark Tank (keep your eyes peeled for ice cream croutons). We are modern day Thomas Edison, thinking up crap that can be made in China for cheap. No matter what we think up, we know Daymond is the perfect shark for us!

Healing

Holiday Season Glitter Metallic Suit of Armor

Suiting Up

Ding ding dong, or, dong dong dong. Either way (ding with a side of dong, or dong with a side of dong), holiday season has officially begun. It is Thanksgiving. The next month is an absolute shit show of endless parties, and the fun of dressing up for the festivities. Now is the time to wear all the metallic and glitter in your wardrobe, and by the time January 1st rolls around there will be metallic burn out. Nonetheless, by next Thanksgiving an insatiable jonesing to dazzle in head to toe glittery sparkly shit will come out of nowhere.

I hate this time of year because on the surface it is the time to let loose and show all your office friends the “real you,” but in reality it is the only time hob nobbing with the higher higher ups is acceptable so its time to pull on the serious pants and act like a career oriented bitch. Not going to happen because of the open bar. I am the person who goes to a party to drink, so a holiday work party is my worst nightmare. I am the woman dancing with a lampshade on her head as all my colleagues look on in judgmental pity.

The face of a woman about to go wild!

The two months following my inevitable scenes of embarrassment are usually filled with shame and regret which add to the post holiday blues, but at least I know I was dressed for the occasion. Maybe my “dancing by myself” dance moves made it a little too clear to my boss’s boss’s boss that I am le freak. The mask comes off this time of year, and I guess the “real me” might be a bit much for all my stuffy ass office mates.

Holiday parties suck balls because the concept of letting loose is really all a sham and there are expectations of being supremely proper. The open bars always do me in and I end up a source of gossip for months. Bad publicity is still publicity, and Im looking good while I act like a fool, so ha! Plus, I am having loads of fun, even though it comes off as desperate and sad to people who seem to have their shit together. But they are just jealous, and I really mean it! They can’t ever let loose, it’s a control problem. The real them is buried too deep under their cute little business suits. I put it all out there, and it might be ugly to see, but I wrap it up in sparkles and glitter to make it a little more dazzling than disastrous.

Happy holidays!! Let the shit show commence!

Glitter looks good the next morning