tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73105569359097501392024-03-05T16:51:28.498-06:00Blue EyesIf the eyes are the windows to the soul, I need to buy some curtains.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-61011606680048759652014-08-20T21:05:00.000-05:002014-08-20T21:05:02.253-05:00My Real-Time Reactions to Nicki Minaj's, 'Anaconda' VideoSo, I watched the Nicki Minaj 'Anaconda' video. Without sound. And I decided to type out my real time reactions to see what would happen...<br />
<br />
<i>Is this Katy Perry's Roar?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Nope. Butt.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And legs. Whoa shaky butt.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Metaphor for jism.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Ugly shoes. Really fucking ugly shoes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>More butt.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That bikini top looks really uncomfortable. My titties would not enjoy that.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh, twerking. Who would have imagined?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So much butt.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Those girls are flexible as fuck.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sir Mixx-A-Lot would love this video. Babies got back.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That's a waste of alcohol.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So, alcohol and butt? That's the entire video?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Aww yeah, blowjob eyes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>She needs to pull up those pajama bottoms. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What is with the fruit on the record player?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And there's the booty smacking.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Butt so big it's shaking the goddamn camera. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Fellatio metaphors!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I think I would have laughed if I had been on the set. That much jiggly ass would have cracked me the fuck up.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This would be far more impressive if I didn't know that she bought that ass...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And Drake just put his hands on his face like he's sad that he knows she bought it, too.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The end. Jesus. Maybe it's better with sound? I doubt it.</i><br />
<br />
You're all welcome.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-53341229969800075362014-06-07T18:34:00.000-05:002014-06-07T18:34:04.570-05:00"You're a trooper!"I can't even begin to describe my abhorrence for that platitude.<br />
<br />
In the last month, I have lost both of my grandparents. They raised me from the time I came home from the hospital until I was 15. So, essentially, they were the parents of my childhood. And losing them, kittens, has been unspeakably difficult. There are no words to describe the depth of my grief for the loss of their presences in my life. They taught me so much, gave so much, loved me so much and were undoubtedly two of the best people I have ever known. The sheer amount of people who have shared so many wonderful memories of them with us is a testament to the type of people they were. They were lovers. They were helpers. They were servants. And they did everything with a song in their hearts. And it is to them that I owe so much of who I am today.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, in a way I am thankful that they are together once again and that they are both no longer in pain. My grandpa had a rare form of cancer that made living a painful experience as it spread all throughout his abdomen and eventually ate away at his internal organs. I was with him when he went into the emergency room with severe abdominal pain three years ago, and I was the first person to know that he had cancer. It's a moment in my life I'll never forget. My sweet grandpa, who was always so strong and capable, eventually wasted away to a shell of himself. I will also never forget what he told me three years ago as I was there with him in the E.R.: "I'm glad you're here with me." My grandpa and I had a special bond, an understanding, and a relationship that I am incredibly thankful to have had. I was one of the very few people to whom he would listen. He trusted me, was proud of me, and loved me beyond all bounds. And his death hit me harder than I had ever thought possible. It was peaceful, it was quiet, and it was the best possible end of his life on this Earth that I could have thought to ask for - excepting the possibility of his family being by his side as he passed.<br />
<br />
My grandma had more things medically wrong with her than I could probably even remember to list. She had been in and out of nursing homes and hospitals for the past two years. One of the last straws to her no longer being able to be home was the day I was helping her to stand up and instead her legs gave out and I had to slowly lower her to the floor so she wouldn't be injured. The final straw in ending her life was her right leg dying from the knee down and beginning to gangrene. She opted to go into hospice care rather than risk more pain and suffering with an amputation. And I believe wholeheartedly that she made the right decision. And so began the week-long process of helping my grandma to die. And it was around this time that I began to go completely numb. There was so much grief and sadness that I couldn't continue functioning if I allowed myself to feel any of it. And for days, my family and I sat at the nursing home and spoke softly to her, said our goodbyes, reassured her that we would all be okay because we had each other, and told her that we all loved her.<br />
<br />
It was bittersweet. It was a relief. It was unforgettable.<br />
<br />
And then she passed with her family by her side. I'm not sure if it was the numbness or something else, but I could hardly even cry. Even seeing her room empty and all of her things packed up, it didn't seem real. The entire month of May felt like a bad dream, and one that I had hoped so desperately to wake up from. But after my grandma's funeral and the graveside service where we saw their urns interred, I woke up. And the reality has been worse than the dream. Why can't I just go back to sleep?<br />
<br />
I've been coping by trying to continue living my life as normally as possible for my little one. I've been going to work, I've been smiling and joking with my co-workers, and outwardly I've been what people have come to expect of me. But I've always been really good at hiding the type of pain that cuts you to the core...<br />
<br />
And so, when my boss' wife gave me her condolences this past week and told me to keep on keeping on, my co-worker chipped in with, "Oh, yeah, she's been a real trooper!" I know he meant well, and I know it's meant as a compliment to the capability with which I am continuing my life after all this loss.<br />
<br />
But a trooper? As if this is simply a trek through the wilderness? It's a journey, for certain; but it's one that not many people, even some who are close to me, can begin to grasp how hard it is for me to take. And for someone who doesn't know me that well personally to assume that I am trooping through this is infuriating. If I had the option of simply wallowing in my sadness and crying in the dark, I would. To me, it almost feels wrong that I'm not doing so. As if by continuing to live my life, I'm not appropriately showing my devastation for their loss. I break down a little each day, and it definitely doesn't make it any easier. But the thought that keeps me going is that they raised me to do better than that. They taught me to rise above the difficult, to shine through the dark, to lift the heavy burdens and to do so with a smile on my face and love in my heart. And so I continue to live for them. To carry their songs in my heart.<br />
<br />
Not a single day has gone by that I haven't been hit by a memory or a thought of them and my vision is blurred and my heart breaks all over again. Not a single day has gone by that I haven't felt empty without them here. Not a single day has gone by that I'm not wordlessly thankful that they gave me something worth missing so hard.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-83907238787577262182013-12-30T17:00:00.000-06:002013-12-30T17:00:01.465-06:00The 2013 MommyWantsVodka Meme!<div class="MsoNormal">
1. <i>What did you do in 2013 that you’d never done before?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I enrolled in a 401k at work! (Also, how lame am I that this
was my first answer to this question?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. <i>Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you
make more for next year?</i><br />
My New Year’s resolution is the same every year; to be a good mother to Caden.
Only time will tell if I have irrevocably fucked the kid up, but he seems to be
doing just fine for now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. <i>Did anyone close to you give birth?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not anyone I’m particularly close to. Plenty of people I
know on Facebook, though. My timeline this year looked like a brag book for an
obstetrician.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. <i>Did anyone close to you die?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t say I was particularly close to him, but my grandma’s
ex-husband (my aunts' father) died this year. He was always nice to me, and I
was very sad for my aunts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. <i>What would you like to have in 2014 that you lacked in
2013?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An apartment that doesn’t have a ghetto couple screaming at
odd hours on one side and a drug dealer on the other with pot-smoking loafers
down the hall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. <i>What countries did you visit?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The United States of You’re an Asshole for Reminding Me That
I’m Too Broke to Travel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. <i>What date from 2013 will remain etched upon your memory,
and why:</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to skip this one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. <i>What was your biggest achievement of the year?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Probably not killing anyone. 2013 was kind of a shitty year,
and I’m quite happy it’s almost over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. <i>What was your biggest failure?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why the fuck is this meme so depressing? All of 2013 was
pretty much fucked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10. <i>Did you suffer illness or injury?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Um, not really, I don’t think I was ill at all in 2013. 2012
saw my first kidney stone and an abscessed tooth, though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11. <i>What was the best thing you bought?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A skirt for $0.97 that was originally $43. And is totally adorable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12. <i>Whose behavior merited celebration?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son - for being an incredibly hilarious and tough little
cookie. He dealt with so much crap this year, and he’s still an amazing, sweet,
affectionate little love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
13. <i>Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of my family members’ behavior. I reiterate - 2013 was
full of fuckery. I really hope 2014 sees a better year for everyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
14. <i>Where did most of your money go?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bills. Always bills. <b>Y U SO DEPRESSING, MEME?!</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
15. <i>What did you get really, really, really excited about?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apartment hunting. Fuck I’m old.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
16. <i>What song will always remind you of 2013?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a few that I think will always stir up memories
from this year. My mind has very powerful associations with things like that. A
song can make me re-live things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
17. <i>Compared to this time last year, are you:</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
i. <u>happier or sadder?</u>
Happier.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ii. <u>thinner or fatter?</u> Fatter. (I read that word in the
Dylan/Cole Sprouse voice from Big Daddy.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
iii. <u>richer or poorer?</u> Depends on your definition. Fiscally,
I’m better off, though not necessarily richer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
18. <i>What do you wish you’d done more of?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being more confident in myself. Giving my feelings validity instead
of discrediting my gut instincts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
19. <i>What do you wish you’d done less of?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second-guessing myself and my feelings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
20. <i>How <s>will you be</s> did you spend<s>ing</s>
Christmas?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent Christmas Eve with Caden at my aunt’s house for a
late lunch and then brought Caden to church. We went home and snuggled together
and watched The Polar Express. Christmas Day we opened his gifts then hung
around for a while until it was time to go to my parents’ for dinner.
Afterward, we brought him to his dad so he could spend the remainder of
Christmas vacation with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
21. <i>Why does the term “designer drugs” conjure up an image
of a bunch of pills hanging out wearing tiny Chanel and Prada clothing and
snappy accessories?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t for me, but Vicodin always conjures up images of
my beloved <a href="http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/" target="_blank">Aunt Becky</a>. Even though Vicodin is too suburban.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
22. <i>Did you fall in love in 2013?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fall in love with Aaron all the time. 2013 was no
exception to this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
23. <i>How many one-night stands?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
None. I’ve never had one in my life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
24. <i>What was your favorite TV program?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Game of Thrones. WHERE IS THE GOD OF TITS AND WINE?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
25. <i>Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time
last year?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are certainly people that I wouldn't feel horribly overwhelmed with grief if they happened to be mauled and consumed by a bear, shit into a stream, eaten by fish, then massacred by sharks. But hate? Hate is a strong word.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
26. <i>What was the best book you read?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t really read any new books that I can recall this
year, except for caving in to purchase, ‘Breakfast At Tiffany’s’ to see how it
compared to the movie. I was delightfully surprised. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
27. <i>What was your greatest musical discovery?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I re-discovered a love for Pink. Walk of Shame and Slut Like
You are both amazing songs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
28. <i>What did you want and get?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Uh, shoes? I think that’s a safe bet as I generally tend to
be a shoewhore. Too bad living in Wisconsin renders my adorable shoes useless 9
months out of the year. This weather has been fucktacular.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
30. <i>What was your favorite film of this year?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think I obsessed over a particular film this year
the way I have in the past – where I watch it over and over again… But getting to see Desolation of Smaug in theatres was pretty epic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
31. <i>What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked and then I went out for dinner with Aaron and
Caden. I turned 28 this year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
32. <i>What one thing would have made your year immeasurably
more satisfying?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having had the capacity to move out of Rape Me Stab Me
Murder Me-Ville sooner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
33. <i>How would you describe your personal fashion concept in
2013?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
34. <i>What kept you sane?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son, without question. He is what keeps me grounded when
I’d rather surrender myself to the chaos within.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
35. <i>Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have developed a deeper appreciation for Jon Stewart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
36. <i>What political issue stirred you the most?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pshaw, politics. I don’t mess with that shit. It’s all a
rather stunted game of who can lick balls the best.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
37. <i>Who did you miss?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
George Carlin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
38. <i>Who was the best new person you met?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if I really met anyone this year that would qualify
to be listed as the ‘best new person I’ve met’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
39. <i>Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2013:</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a lesson I always tend to forget; to allow myself to
have a voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
40. <i>Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:</i><o:p></o:p></div>
“If you speak, you’ll only piss ‘em off. If you don’t, you’re
another robot. If you stop, they’ll just say you quit. If you don’t, you might
lose your shit.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-60373040290767437852013-11-20T16:39:00.000-06:002013-11-20T16:39:11.061-06:00The ABCs of Me, a.k.a. How I Hate Everything<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
A- Age: 28, and I don’t feel old because I’m almost 30. 30
is young, and I’m still a puppy in a world of bitches. Er… dogs?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
B - Bed Size: Futon. Fuck you for teasing me with all this
‘bed’ talk. I want a real bed to sleep on. You people with your good night's sleep can kiss my left meat curtain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
C - Chore You Hate: Cleaning anything. At all. I’m the
anti-Mary Poppins. I hate doing dishes. I hate taking out the trash. I hate
picking things up. I hate rearranging furniture. I hate paying bills, too. Fuck
hard stuff. Adulthood blows.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
D - Dad's Name: David<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
E - Essential Start to Your Day Item: Shutting off the
goddamn alarm. It’s far too chipper for 6:00 a.m. Maybe I’d be happier upon
waking if I could smash something, but my $150 phone coverage deductible says
otherwise. Jerks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
F - Favorite songstress: Kelly Clarkson. Love that woman. If
I could have her baby, I would.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
G - Gold or Silver: Silver, white gold or platinum. Very
rarely will you see me donning anything with a yellow gold or bronze hue when
it comes to jewelry. Also, do you know how difficult it is to find emeralds set
in anything not yellow? Jeweler bastards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
H - Height: 6’0”. Plus heels sometimes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I - Instruments you played: Ha, instruments. I am way too
stupid to read music notes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
J - Job Title: Website Quality Control Analyst I. That
sounds way fancier than it actually is, and it basically means I’m anal and
correct things that don’t necessarily need correcting. Sometimes I actually fix
shit, though. And it’s pretty cool.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K - Kids: 1 that I know of. Pretty sure I haven’t given
birth without my knowledge, though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
L - Living Arrangements: I live in a shoebox. From Kmart,
cause its ghetto. Stupid apartment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
M - Mom's Name: Noelle<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
N - Nicknames: Ash or Trashley. Yay for having an unoriginal
name.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O - Overnight Hospital Stay: Firing my fetus cannon and when
I had toxic shock syndrome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P - Pet Peeve: All the little OCD things that Aaron enjoys
provoking. Like leaving time on the microwave, not changing the toilet paper
when you use the last of it, movie cases being out of alignment or sequels not
being placed next to one another… The list goes on and on. I’m batshit crazy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Q - Quotes You Like: If you’re going to be real with
someone, be prepared for them to be real in return. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R - Right or Left Handed: Righty tighty. Which has nothing
to do with my crotch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
S - Siblings: 4. And I only really speak to one of them on a regular basis. I am Facebook friends with another sibling, and don't speak to the other two.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
T - Time You Wake Up: During the week, 6:00 a.m. On the
weekends/my days off, however late I feel like it. Unless Caden decides
otherwise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
U - Umbrella: I haven’t owned an umbrella in about 5 years.
I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West, for fuck’s sake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
V - Vegetable You Dislike: Onions, tomatoes, mushrooms,
peppers… I basically eat like a two year old. Give me some chicken nuggets and
French fries, and I’m good. I’m good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
W - Ways You Run Late: Usually ‘cause I’m lazy and wait
until the last possible minute. And that’s just when I start getting ready to
leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
X - X-rays: When I got pneumonia, when I had TSS - they used
a portable x-ray to insert a catheter into my vein to inject antibiotics as
close as possible to my heart, when I had a broken ankle, and when I had a
kidney stone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Y - Yummy Food I Make: Parmesan tilapia seems to be my most
popular dish.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Z - Zodiac: Taurus. I’m a stubborn motherfucker.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-89965052232878114482013-10-28T16:45:00.000-05:002013-10-28T16:45:00.679-05:00Tales From The Ghetto...I live in an apartment building that features what has to be one of the trashiest collections of human beings this side of Section 8. That's not to say that everyone on housing is trash, because I know some great, hard-working people who are on, or who have been on, assistance. However, my apartment building features cheap rent and no background checks. You do the math.<br />
<br />
I have now lived in this building for nearly three years. I chose it because it was what I could afford on my foray into single parenthood. My city features ridiculously high rent for apartments that, most of the time, aren't anywhere near worth what they're asking for them. And the majority of the rentals you can find that are reasonably priced have income limits. It's all sorts of rampant fucktardery. But I digress.<br />
<br />
Some of the tenants there have been fairly quiet, and a few seem like they are semi-normal. Of course, as my luck would have it, neither of the apartments on either side of me have housed any of those types of tenants... When I moved in, there was the crazy ass couple in the corner apartment (<a href="http://ashleysassypie.blogspot.com/2011/12/put-fucking-lotion-in-basket.html" target="_blank">featured in this old blog post</a>), and it has only gone downhill from there.<br />
<br />
The newest tenants both moved in within a few weeks of one another on either side of my apartment. With the exception of their playing annoyingly loud music at inappropriate times during the night, I thought the couple who moved in seemed pretty decent. Oh, how wrong I would be...<br />
<br />
My little guy was spending the weekend at his dad's house, and it was a good thing since the female decided to go full-on, Jerry Springer, who is mah baby's daddeh, batshit insane. Around 2:00-3:00 a.m. Saturday morning, we were startled out of sleep by what can only be described as a body being thrown around the apartment next door. Thuds against the adjoining walls, things crashing and breaking, and all manners of twatwafflery. And then, oh sweet baby Jeebus, she got on the phone. And proceeded to fill just about every stereotype she possibly could.<br />
<br />
The majority of it was muffled screaming that was pretty much unintelligible. I don't speak fluent Ebonics. One phrase that stood out was, "WHERE IS MAH DAMN BAYBAY!? YOU COME GIT MEH AND BRING MEH TO MAH BAYBAY!" My favorite line of the night was, "YOU AIN'T MAH BABY DADDY, YOU JEST MAH BO'FRIEN'!" She apparently decided that she was being too loud after a while, and went outside. We have our windows open because the site manager doesn't know the difference between, 'too warm for heat' and, 'too cold for no heat' and enjoys turning on the heat when it's far too warm for it. So the crazy bitch is now outside, her insanity echoing off the brick walls in the alley, and is now clearer and louder than she was in her apartment. Great. Why didn't you just use a fucking megaphone in case they couldn't hear you WITHOUT the phone? She's screeching at her bo'friend' to come pick her up and bring her to her baybay because apparently she's NOW concerned about the welfare of said squalling meal ticket.<br />
<br />
The time for that is past. Try leaving your crotch muppet with someone you actually trust instead of the dude you're banging. This continues for a period of time, and then she shuts the fuck up and comes back inside. We breathed a sigh of relief and started to fall back to sleep. But she wasn't done with her spree of murdering REM cycles, oh no... She gets on the phone AGAIN and starts screaming at someone different. Wash, rinse, repeat. She ends up outside screeching like a howler monkey once more. Ugh.<br />
<br />
And then, on the other side of us, there's another moron. This one sat in the doorway of his apartment the first few nights on his laptop. No joke - half in the hallway, half in his apartment. Then he proceeds to set up a router that's got a signal booster on it in the hallway. Real smart, numbnuts. We had to call our IP to fix our WiFi, and they tagged his booster. Two days later, I come out to this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3jgU6JqhQqFou2zrcFba0GL4PRUBe8xqw357o9zLt0b0Qp1wci9UhPbEUe61DWGCKhIBm8trPpC0lxxIr7kG__V3ZWFtbcwrvi6lSRe_iUMHBOuEI2Hk6BcfG8CPdYfwUNLyyc9Qt1jg/s1600/20131018_070227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3jgU6JqhQqFou2zrcFba0GL4PRUBe8xqw357o9zLt0b0Qp1wci9UhPbEUe61DWGCKhIBm8trPpC0lxxIr7kG__V3ZWFtbcwrvi6lSRe_iUMHBOuEI2Hk6BcfG8CPdYfwUNLyyc9Qt1jg/s1600/20131018_070227.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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This is what it says:</div>
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"<i>To whom this may conserne.</i></div>
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<i>first off who is stealing cable? I get my wifi from my sister in apt. 2. we split the bill. 2nd off If it was illegal to use a wifi extender than why do they sell them. So before you go accusing people of crimes get the facts straight. nobody is stealing shit.</i></div>
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<i>Sincersly</i></div>
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<i>Adam Apt 10"</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Oh my lord, the grammatical and spelling errors. It makes me tic just reading it. A few days later, the router disappeared from the hallway. Then, a bunch of tires apparently lost their rubbers and spawned a fuck-ton of tire babies, because there were five tires in the hallway resting against the wall. And then a day or so later, this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAG-rcIZQqIX_P6u0SHKQt433eOtl0VzunVwTdHp0fjrPJMQ0eQlZ6f2E_j-Sv-xx8B_WoyY2haH027QwcU5aI9mQKdHHBhw413NlbwZfCLm5D87vEgIcMRRa8NwVaN-WqcksMJ-eHnG8/s1600/20131027_181556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAG-rcIZQqIX_P6u0SHKQt433eOtl0VzunVwTdHp0fjrPJMQ0eQlZ6f2E_j-Sv-xx8B_WoyY2haH027QwcU5aI9mQKdHHBhw413NlbwZfCLm5D87vEgIcMRRa8NwVaN-WqcksMJ-eHnG8/s1600/20131027_181556.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Hiding your illegal router fail.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And just for good measure, someone has left this nasty-ass thing that looks as if it is covered in the ass-juices of 100 anal whores who didn't douche before buttsex:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8QF8f_mMNRTlJtSqszhdCUl8em_Nlbx8aug1BeXTd-vyyV8IFvPPW_BhbOakwFY1pVZe1ZSeZY1KKW10S0UGHtfcEWrogWYJNzC6wAY0iyeQ0jDVVq69aiH1SCodkH-7zRuI5I7t_tg/s1600/20131009_072101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8QF8f_mMNRTlJtSqszhdCUl8em_Nlbx8aug1BeXTd-vyyV8IFvPPW_BhbOakwFY1pVZe1ZSeZY1KKW10S0UGHtfcEWrogWYJNzC6wAY0iyeQ0jDVVq69aiH1SCodkH-7zRuI5I7t_tg/s1600/20131009_072101.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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It's been in the hallway for at least a month and a half. Aww yeah, you wish you lived in my apartment building. FML. I need a shower in straight bleach while I scour myself with an S.O.S. pad covered in Comet. I wonder how much the skin grafts will run me?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-21338478822543576202013-09-09T17:00:00.000-05:002013-09-09T17:00:05.177-05:00My Reluctant Journey<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a confession to make…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never wanted to be a mother when I was younger. I can
recall a moment in middle school when a girl who was a good friend of mine in
elementary school told me that she thought she was pregnant. She was cradling
her stomach and humming soft songs to herself. My first internal reaction was
revulsion. I could barely put together a school project; how could someone my
age possibly take care of a child? Why would anyone possibly be happy with that
situation? How could she be so cool and relaxed about it all? She ended up
getting excited over a false alarm. After that, I kept my distance from her.
Callous? Perhaps, but it was so similar to the circumstances surrounding my
birth that I couldn't bear to be around her. She wanted to keep trying, and I couldn't be around to watch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately for me, it was a similar situation into which
I was conceived. The woman who gave birth to me was 14 when she became
pregnant, and my dad was 16. I ended up being the real thing instead of a false
alarm. For years, I carried the guilt that my birth had ruined my parent’s
lives. To some extent, I still wonder. If I had been a false alarm, would
things have turned out differently for them? Neither of them had been ready for
parenthood at that age, and they both knew it. Her father tried to convince her
to have an abortion. Finally, they settled on giving me up for adoption. I came
very close to a very different life than the one I have, all without any say.
Thankfully, my father fell in love with me at first sight and couldn't let me
go. You can see it in the photos taken at the hospital after my birth; my dad
had my tiny fist wrapped around his finger, and his eyes were gazing at me in
love and wonder. She looked as if she had better places to be. Probably disappointed
that my dad no longer wanted to allow her the option that would have let her
walk away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My grandmother volunteered to raise me, and it was to my
grandparents’ house that I went home for the first time. When I was around 3,
my father brought home the woman who would become my mother, the woman who
has loved me from the moment she heard my tiny voice cry, ‘Da!’ when she came
through the door with my dad. I was very fortunate to have some very loving
people in my life as a child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, all of this turned me off to the idea of having a
child. What if the maternal instincts of the woman who gave birth to me were
somehow hereditary? What if I ended up being like her? I couldn't handle the
idea of a child feeling about me the same way I felt about her. I didn't want
to be responsible for hurting a child like that. I was afraid of ever having a
child. So I made up my mind not to have children. I didn't want to take the
risk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fate usually has a different plan in mind than the one you
have for yourself. At the age of 20, I found out I was pregnant. I have never
been more afraid in my life. I was afraid of being responsible for someone
besides myself. I was afraid to have a tiny life dependent upon me. I was
afraid to tell my family. I was afraid because we lived 4 ½ hours away from
home. I was afraid of how ecstatic my fiancee was. We were working
commission-based jobs that had both of us traveling all over the state and didn't
guarantee any sort of steady income, how could he be happy with this? So many
women would have been thrilled to receive the news that they were going to have
a baby. What was wrong with me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family’s reactions were all over the map. My grandparents
were excited to become great-grandparents. My grandpa was looking at bassinets
online. My mom was pretty pissed. My dad asked if I had considered all my
options, and told me he supported me with whatever choice I might make. My mind
was made up, however. We were responsible for starting the life of this child,
and I wasn't going to harm it or give it up, even if my fiancee had been in
agreement. And so I reluctantly decided, a little too late, to become a parent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We moved back home when I was about 6 ½ months pregnant. I
barely showed even when I was about to give birth… I carried far back,
and just looked chubby. Matter of fact, when I was a few weeks away from giving birth, I was working a temporary job and informed them that I could possibly go into labor at any time. They had no idea I was even pregnant. I had morning sickness all throughout the summer, and
lost weight until my 7<sup>th</sup> month.
The nurses were thoroughly amused when I told them I was happy to have started gaining weight. They told me that most women aren't that happy about it. I had been
worried that all of my morning sickness had been keeping my child from being
healthy. I felt like the character of Jenna in the movie <u>Waitress</u>… I still
didn't feel anything like affection for the child inside of me. This increased
my anxiety about my maternal potential. I didn't want to end up like the woman
who gave birth to me. People around me told me that my life was going to be
over; it would no longer be mine. How right they would be, but not in the way
they meant it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up on my due date, a Friday morning, with cramps…
Eventually, I realized that they were coming at regular intervals. After timing
them for a bit, I realized they were a minute and a half apart and remained so
until I gave birth 12 hours later. I was more afraid of giving birth than I had
been when I found out I was pregnant. What was going to happen once this little
guy - who had a fondness for wedging his feet into my ribs - took his first
breath?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 9:35 p.m., I found out. I saw him for the first time, and
I knew exactly how my father had felt. I fell in love with him. He was my
heart, and my world, and it was right that he was part of my life. The doctor
laid him on my chest after he was born, and the world I knew stopped. The life
I had before that was over; a whole new one had begun. How anyone could turn
their back on that? I couldn't fathom it. His soft skin, his tiny face and
hands and his sweet little breaths all quelled my fears. He didn't know it, but
in that moment I resolved that he would never feel about me the way I felt
about the woman who gave birth to me. I would use my childhood to make myself
into the mother he needed me to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been 7 ½ years since the day my new world began. My
son is still the one thing that can make me happier than anything else on
earth. We've been through a lot together, and times have been tough, but even
at this young age he knows that I will be there for him. And my pride in him
knows no bounds. He is tall, fit, strong, handsome and smart. He is wonderful,
and he has made me a better person. He is a Momma’s boy, without question. His
at-the-hip attachment can be overwhelming at times. However, I take it in
stride, because I know that in just a few short years the affection won’t flow nearly
as freely as it does now. I can’t bear to stifle his affection and love. I sing
him to sleep most nights, and he still loves it when I do. I know that these
days, too, are coming to an end. However, I feel confident that they will be
cherished memories when he’s older. He’s becoming more independent, and he
performs stunts on the playground equipment that have my heart in my throat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sometimes wonder how I could ever have had the doubts I had.
It seems so long ago, and so surreal, that I was afraid of this. It was, and
still is, the best thing that ever happened to me. Perhaps for me, the mantle
of motherhood was one that I fought against until I found that I wore it well.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-16597537169685236682013-07-30T17:30:00.000-05:002013-07-30T15:58:15.333-05:00Totally Would Have Been A Rat-Pack Groupie<div class="MsoNormal">
My experience with Pandora radio falls into a few different
categories… As I mentioned in my post about how completely stunted my thinking
process is, I spend most of my work day listening to Pandora. Occasionally I
listen to it while in the shower at home, or while putting on makeup (ha, like
THAT ever fucking happens) or while doing my hair (ha, like THAT ever fucking
happens either – ponytails and plastic clips are my BFFs). But mostly, I listen
to it at work. Because my thinking process could be equated to that of a three
year old cracked up on Pixie Stix and Mountain Dew, I often have strange ideas
while listening to Pandora.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
While I listen to my Kelly Clarkson station, I
often have fantasies of bursting out in song at work. As if it is socially
appropriate to bust out in a terribly off-key rendition of, ‘Tough Lover’ in
the middle of a workday. After all, who the fuck doesn’t want to be serenaded
by my screechy voice squeaking out a horrible version of something by Christina
Aguliera? The answer to that is NO ONE, of course. There is no one person who
would not be completely blown away by the sweetly well-intentioned sound of my
pathetic attempts at being an awesome singer. In my ego-centric delusions, I am
met by applause and copious amounts of flattery… Why no, I haven’t had any
professional singing lessons. It’s all pretty much self-taught,
thankyouverymuch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
While I listen to my Alan Menken (read: mostly
Disney songs and musical numbers) station, I think to myself that it would be
so damn awesome to be a mermaid. And it becomes really difficult to keep myself
from singing along with the songs I’ve had memorized since the age of 7. To
satisfy my insanity, I will lip-sync along with these words and I will promise
myself that this year, goddamn it, I WILL dress up like Dorothy from The Wizard
of Oz to satisfy my inner 8-year-old – even if I have to hand-sew myself a
fucking blue gingham dress. And because my son would look motherfucking ADORABLE
in a Cowardly Lion costume. Except he’d be majorly pissed that I prevented him
from being Batman, Spiderman, Iron Man, Thor or some equally masculine comic
book character that reigns supreme on the playground that year. But fuck it, I’m
paying for the damn thing. Sadly, this will only end one way; with me buying
the $25 comic book character costume with the fake muscles that he will
inevitably try and convince me would be the best thing ever to wear to school
under his clothes because MOOO-OOOOMMMM…. Everyone will think I have big
muscles! No, kiddo. No, they won’t. Because the fake Styrofoam muscles look
like a 12-year old photoshopped them onto a costume. This station constantly
leads to disappointment and sadness all around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
When I listen to my Static-X station, it is
usually up deafeningly loud and it is usually because I’m pissed and
contemplating things that would inevitably end up with me playing a game of cat
and mouse with a profiler from the FBI.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
When I listen to my Christmas Don’t Be Late (Alvin
and the Chipmunks) station, it is because I’m not listening to it because it is
my son’s station. And he loves nothing more than to listen to (and be sung)
Christmas carols any time of the year. Perhaps he thinks that if he listens to
Christmas music, it will make the joyous holiday come around that much faster. I
don’t know. His mind is as screwed up as, if not more so than, mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
My Dean Martin station is another station that
constantly leads to sadfaces and dashed hopes and dreams. Because I listen to
the music of an era long gone, and I see myself in a beautiful A-line cocktail
dress with some super adorable coordinating shoes and a jaunty little hat
perched flirtatiously over one eye, cat-eye makeup and red lipstick, and
completely in my element. I see myself at some glamorously Mad Men-esque party,
martini in hand, telling funny jokes and stories that have everyone enraptured.
And then the band strikes up something wonderful like, ‘In The Mood’ or the
French, ‘La Vie En Rose’ (also, I can’t hear that song and NOT picture Audrey
Hepburn serenading Humphrey Bogart in <u>Sabrina</u>), and a dashing partner in a
well-tailored suit whisks me out on to the dance floor. He leads me through a
beautiful dance, and the atmosphere is intoxicating. And then I realize that
the era I would have thrived in is long gone. We just don’t have the same class
and standard that we used to. Granted, a lot of other things have come a long
way in terms of social acceptance, but some of the wonderful qualities that
were commonplace have gone the way of the Dodo bird. I am also incredibly sad
that I’m too young to have had the opportunity to thrown my cat at Dean Martin.
And if you are young enough to think that ‘Little Bitty Pretty One’ was
originally sung by Aaron Carter, you can go fuck yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Pandora is depressing as all fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-26933444676063346352013-07-23T17:15:00.000-05:002013-07-23T17:15:00.054-05:00It's Almost Back-to-School Time!<div class="MsoNormal">
The first day of school is coming up in just over a month. A
new school year, full of struggles, arguments to get homework done, tearing my
hair out because he just won’t put on his pants in the morning… And, best of
all, celebrating his progress, achievements and growth. First grade was a year
of leaps and bounds in terms of his academic progress. His method of learning
is very similar to mine. It may look like Greek to him at first, but once he
understands something, he doesn’t lose it and he flies from that point on. He’s
a smart little boy, and I’m so proud of how well he does in school.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I found this great article today, <a href="http://shine.yahoo.com/parenting/31-best-back-school-tips-2013-144300493.html" target="_blank">The 31 BestBack-to-School Tips for 2013</a>, and I wanted to share it with all of you. Some of
the tips I read will be really beneficial for us this school year, and some of
them don’t really apply to us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Some of my favorites include:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b>Celebrate the first day</b> – Start a
first-day-of-school tradition, such as making their favorite breakfast, going
out for ice cream after school, or slipping an encouraging note in their
backpack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b>Choose brain food, not junk food</b> – I’m just as
guilty as some other moms are of slipping my son processed cheese and cracker
packets as a pre-dinner snack, but peanut butter on whole wheat crackers or a
smoothie would be so much better for him – not to mention he loves pressing the
button on the Ninja blender.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b>Create a home gallery</b> – They suggest stringing up
empty picture frames with clothespins glued to them so you can rotate artwork,
graded tests and school projects. I don’t know about you, but I’m personally
convinced that schools are singlehandedly responsible for deforestation with
the INSANE amount of paperwork that comes home in my son’s folder every day.
This is a good way to allow him to choose what to display while letting me
recycle a bunch of the stuff he doesn’t so I can avoid the Leaning Tower of
Handouts on my side tables.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b>Expand attention span</b> – This focuses on reading
aloud, or having your child read aloud to you, a book every night. This allows
their attention span to get back into the groove of remembering details.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b>Schedule playtime before homework time</b> – This is
one of those, ‘of course, why didn’t I think of that’ type tips. My son is 7,
and he’s got enough energy, if it could be harnessed, to power a skyscraper. It
makes sense to let kids burn off that energy to help them focus better on their
schoolwork.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b>Make a morning checklist</b> – I can’t tell you how
many times last year I wondered if CPS would be called if I allowed my son to
just go to school in his underwear because it was such a hassle to get him to
dress every morning. The checklist idea puts them in charge of getting
themselves ready, and they can feel it is an accomplishment rather than a chore
and can help motivate them to take on more responsibility in the future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b>Take an a.m. breather</b> – I have done this
sporadically in the past, but I have always enjoyed it. Setting aside 5 minutes
to crawl into bed with your child and snuggling them quietly can be a very
peaceful way to start the day that benefits both of you. My son is a cuddler,
so this suits us to a T. Tweaking this for you and your children’s
personalities and relationships shouldn’t be too difficult.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />These are just a few of the great tips in the
article that I think will work for us this year. However, I encourage you to
check out the article, because there are plenty more tips – such as making them
more responsible for their allowance, downloading apps to keep track of
after-school engagements, and exploring ethical dilemmas with, ‘what if’
scenarios – that I’m sure will hit home for you and your child or
children. After all, as a parent you know that anything that will ease the
school year turmoil is one small victory on the way to winning the war…<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-85421170567739009522013-07-17T17:00:00.000-05:002013-07-17T17:00:05.882-05:00My Mind Jumps About Like A Spidermonkey Jacked Up On Mountain Dew.I had a brilliant stroke of genius for a blog topic today. I
had to start making a list, because I was busy doing worky-things and I
couldn’t just start writing, much as I would have liked to. If you need
evidence that I’m batshit crazy, here it is, my idea list:<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<li>Penny per mile to operate.</li>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<li>Math is bullshit.</li>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<li>Aliens don’t wear hats.</li>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<li>Circus peanuts – eating a bagful.</li>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<li>Lip-syncing at my desk.</li>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Yeah, there’s something irrevocably wrong with my
mind. I’m also slightly impressed with myself that I spelled, ‘irrevocably’
correctly on the first try. So now that I have my introduction of sorts typed
up, let’s move on, shall we?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><b><u>Penny per mile to
operate.</u></b></div>
<o:p></o:p><div class="MsoNormal">
<br />My job essentially to be an un-glorified Grammar
Nazi. It suits me really well, even if my brain sometimes wants to commit
brain-suicide a’la jumping into a running Ninja blender as a result of some of
the terrible things people do to the English language. I wouldn’t call myself a
crazy, hardcore Grammar Nazi… I am far too lazy for that. I’m more like Grammar
Nazi Lite. I see things everywhere like the restaurants that spell, ‘vegetable’
as, ‘vegetabal’ or, ‘pickle’ as, ‘pickel’. Or the car wash that used the
incorrect version of, ‘too’. And then I take pictures of these things and look
at them by myself, giggling at their stupidity and feeling strangely complete
in my superiority.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />As satisfying as I find my grasp on the English
language to be, I find my grasp on mathematics that much more lacking. I hate
math. So fucking much. So this is also going to be <b><u>Math is
Bullshit</u></b>, because I said so. I was proofing a slide today
that stated that a particular model scooter costs a penny per mile to operate.
I attempted to rouse my math-brain to figure out how many miles per gallon a
scooter would get if it cost a penny per mile to operate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />And how do these assholes get off assuming
something costs a penny per mile to operate? Have they not seen the prices of
gas bobbing up and down like a hooker’s head? It’s $4.39 per gallon, and then a
week later it’s $3.59 per gallon. How does that allow you to accurately
advertise it as operating for a penny per mile?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />And then I remembered that I don’t know math,
because I suck at it. And I gave up the fight. Because honestly, this is what
always happens:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><u>Story Problem:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />If a scooter operates at 0.01 cents per mile and
the cost of gasoline is $3.59, how many miles per gallon will the scooter run
at?<br />
<br /><u>My Brain Turns It Into:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />If I have 10 ice cubes and you have 11 apples, how
many pancakes will fit on the roof? (Answer: Purple, because <b><u>aliens
don’t wear hats</u></b>.) Fucking hate math…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I bought a bag of <b><u>circus
peanuts</u></b> today. Circus peanuts seem to have a Quentin
Tarantino effect on people… They either love them or hate them. I love them. I
can only seem to eat part of the bag on very rare occasions. Usually I start
eating the bag, and I’m happy. And I continue eating them. And I think to
myself that I should stop eating them. So I stop for a bit. But I’ve already
made my crucial mistake… I forgot to put the bag away. Aw, one more won’t hurt.
I’ll stop after that. Three more later, and I’ve decided that I’m going to stop
eating them. They’re delicious and all, but I’m pretty sure that they’re made
from the same chemicals that are in sheet rock. My resolve strengthens, and I
pick the bag up to put it in my drawer. And I realize there are only four left.
Fuck it, I may as well eat them. What’s the point of saving four circus
peanuts? So I’ve eaten the whole bag. And I feel slightly sick to my stomach.
This probably explains why I only buy circus peanuts every six months or so.
That’s about how long my stomach-memory takes to stop flip-flopping when I look
at circus peanuts after a binge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I am fortunate enough to have a job that allows me
to sit in my wee sparkly cubicle (I have decorated my cube with a ridiculous
amount of sparkle and glitter – and I’ve got Christmas lights in it) and I can
listen to Pandora pretty much all day long. Because I had to upgrade to
Pandora|One - because they’re fuckheads and only allow so many hours of unpaid
play per month without it – I have my stations fairly customized. And as a
result, I know the words to a lot of songs that play throughout the day. On a
related side-note, I’ve always had a secret yearning to perform. My closest brushes
with performing were my solo in 10<sup>th</sup> grade, a duet with my good
friend at a talent show, and karaoke. Of course, that’s not counting my poor
car… If cars had ears, it would probably look weird, and its ears would be
bleeding. The point of all this is that I really enjoy sitting at my desk and <b><u>lip
synching</u></b> to the songs that play on Pandora. I have a (not
so) secret desire to perform at a drag
show sometime. As a female. Yeah, I know, drag queens are usually men dressed
as women (and some of them are hotter dressed as a woman than I am), but it
would be so much fun to get up on stage, dressed in something over-the-top
sparkly and lip sync to a fabulous song. And I don’t just lip-sync. I perform
that motherfucker. Anything from the movie <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1126591/?ref_=sr_1" target="_blank">Burlesque</a></i>
is a surefire guarantee to get my ass moving, along with Selena Gomez And The
Scene. Cause my heart pumps the blood of a performer. Or a dork who flails
about like the white girl she is.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-29592834759490572242013-07-07T17:53:00.003-05:002013-07-07T17:53:50.587-05:00People Should Be Thankful That It's Not Socially Acceptable For Me To Hit Them In PublicI swear to all that is holy, while I have only waitressed a time or two in my life, I have enormous respect for anyone who can be considered waitstaff. If you have ever seen the movie <u>Waiting</u> - you know the cardinal rule. Don't fuck with people that handle your food.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Almost all of us, at some point or another, have witnessed the douchebaggery that abounds when crotchety assholes decide to crawl out from underneath their rocks and go out to eat. If you haven't, you are extremely fortunate. There are people who go out in public and make general fucktarded spectacles of themselves.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Today afforded me one such observation. Aaron and I went to Olive Garden for lunch around 11:00, and being as they had just opened it was really quiet. A first, I must say. Usually Olive Garden is crawling with everyone and their grandparents who all want tables for 46 with 19 high chairs for the herd of baby sonofabitches they towed along that will inevitably screech like howler monkeys while no one takes them to the restroom for a 'talk'. (Hint: You're all fucking stupid.) However, we were seated at a nice, quiet booth and had a really sweet waitress. It was looking to be a very splendid meal.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Shortly after we had started in on our soups, an elderly couple was seated at the booth next to ours. When I see older couples out having meals together, my first thought is generally, "Aww, that's so sweet." Today was no different. To me, food is love, and sharing a delicious meal with someone I love... It just generally tends to not get much better than that.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Deceptively cute old people are seated and the waitress brings them a sample of wine and asks what they would like to drink. The fact that they sampled the wine and ordered Diet Cokes should have clued me in to the fact that they were grade A cheapskates. The waitress brings back their drinks and asks if they're ready to order yet.<br />
<br />
<br />Old Woman: "Yes, we're going to do the two for steak thing."<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Tolerant Waitress: "I'm not sure what you mean."<br />
<br />
<br /><br />OW: "You know, the steak thing for $25. The one on the chalkboard."<br />
<br />
<br /><br />TW: "Oh, yes! You mean the steak gorgonzola alfredo?"<br />
<br />
<br /><br />OW: "Yes, that's what I meant."<br />
<br />
<br /><br />TW: "Sure! Just so you know, it will be an extra $4 per person for the steak because it's a premium entree."<br />
<br />
<br /><br />OW: "What do you mean? They didn't put anything about that on the board up front!"<br />
<br />
<br /><br />TW: "Well," *picks up the table card where the 2 for $25 list is printed, where it clearly states that the premium entrees are $3.99 extra* "Actually, it says it right here."<br />
<br />
<br /><br />OW: "Well it doesn't say so on the chalkboard up front."<br />
<br />
<br /><br />This argument then proceeds to volley for the NEXT. FIVE. MINUTES. I was so thrilled with the waitress for not backing off. They tried everything they could think of... It was so funny. They tried asking how much it would be without the appetizer or dessert (which is part of the 2 for $25 deal) - would it be just the $25 then? She tells them it will be full price ($15.50) each, but they won't get the choice of an appetizer or dessert. Basically, they would pay $31 for the steak entrees alone, but for $33 they can get the entrees and a choice of appetizer or dessert. This seems like a no-brainer, right? $2 for dessert? BRING ON THE LEMON CREAM PIE!! At least, that's what I would have said.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Old lady and her husband just weren't having it. They were so indignant that the chalkboard advertisement was so 'misleading' and 'deceptive'. Meanwhile, all Aaron and I can do is look at each other and try not to roundhouse kick the bastards in the face. As Aaron observed, just fucking order something else! It's not fucking rocket science! You're going to Olive Garden and you shouldn't really assume it's going to be cheap unless you're getting the unlimited soup, salad and breadsticks meal.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Finally, they settle on something and order their soups. All is finally quiet, or so we thought. As they're eating their soup, we are quietly mocking them to ourselves. Hey, don't judge. If I acted like a royal twatwaffle in public, I'd fully expect that other people would mock me. Then they are almost finished with their soup. And proceed to scrape the bowls. *SCREESCREESCREESCREESCREESCREESCREE* Are you FUCKING kidding me?!! There is more in the back, all you have to do is ask!! The look of shock and incredulity in Aaron's eyes was mirrored in my own. What possible call is there to scrape the bowls? Ugh. Use your motherfucking breadstick like a normal person, dickbag.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />So as we were leaving, I left a note on the restaurant copy of the receipt; "Seriously, you have the patience of a saint. I would have flipped. You are awesome." Hopefully she understood what I meant. I really wish it was permissible for waitstaff to hit people on the nose with rolled-up magazines... Like dogs. "You want to get premium entrees for standard entree prices? No." *smack* "No." Wouldn't that be the best thing in the history of EVER? Don't be a goddamn fuckrag, and you won't have issues. I sincerely hope that she spit in their steak alfredo.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />After lunch, we decided to go see a movie. (Also: Superior Value Cinema is the shit - $6 for two people... I'll gladly wait a while after a release date to pay less for two people than one regular cinema ticket.) And there were two morons in the theatre eating their popcorn at the rate of what sounded like one kernel at a time. With their mouths open. Why are people allowed to leave their houses when they can't chew with their mouths closed?! It is so abhorrently disgusting and just generally fucking annoying. I could understand chewing with your mouth open if your nose is stuffed or something similar... But even then, you can still chew slower so that you don't make the annoying cow-chewing-cud sound.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />Moral of the Story: If you can't avoid being a giant gaping cuntface, just stay the fuck home.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-74988333547658171652013-06-26T08:31:00.000-05:002013-06-26T08:31:00.824-05:00Leave The Yoga Pants Out Of This<div class="MsoNormal">
Why is it that women continually insist on wearing clothing
that is not at all flattering to their body type? I just don’t get it. I’m
aware of my body type, and I’m sure every once in a while I mess up and wear
something unflattering. However, every time I venture out in public it seems as
if Wal-Mart is contagious… How else do you explain people in normal situations
wearing clothing you normally see Mart-necks wearing to take advantage of this
week’s exciting rollback prices?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><br />I don’t understand why a woman should
need to be told that she’s got a body that could be likened to Danny DeVito’s
Penguin fatsuit. If you one day find yourself watching Batman Returns and
envying the Penguin for his adorable tuxedo shirt onesie, STEP AWAY FROM THE
YOGA PANTS. And when the fuck did yoga pants become interchangeable with
sweatpants? To me, yoga pants are great for working out and wearing to bed as
pajama pants. However, I don’t look like the Penguin. My ass doesn’t look like
a frog put on a pair of pants and stood up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><br />If you have back titties, don’t wear
tiny tops. Smearing a cute shirt over your muffin top doesn’t make you a
cupcake. It makes you incapable of dressing yourself properly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><br />Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m a
(platitude for chubby) girl. There is nothing wrong with bigger women, nothing
at all. If you wanna flaunt what you have, I’m all for it. But please, for the
sake of everyone’s sight, don’t flaunt it in jeans that are three sizes too
small! Wear pants and shirts that fit properly. If your shirt is so small it
hikes up while you’re WALKING – it’s time to rethink your wardrobe choices.
There’s no call for wearing shirts that let your belly sag out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><br />I’m honestly baffled sometimes. Do these
people not own mirrors? I know its June and it’s getting warm out, finally. But
they do make tank tops and shorts in plus sizes. I know, I own some. Stop
deluding yourself into thinking you can still shop in the junior’s section. You’re
not an 11 if it looks like your torso is melted ice cream dripping out over the
too-small cone you stuffed it in. And for fuck’s sake, leave the yoga pants at
home unless you’re going to the gym! They didn’t do anything to you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Unless, of course, you think this look is sexy:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/10/107715/2015062-batmanreturns380_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/10/107715/2015062-batmanreturns380_3.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Bring me the first-borns!"</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-54985152136594216032013-06-24T18:59:00.003-05:002013-06-24T18:59:34.023-05:00GM Update and Heels.<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I am a total and complete loser, I thought it would
be worth a shot to actually contact General Motors about my car (which, by the
way, is actually at almost 361,700 miles – I underestimated, apparently) and
tell them about how appreciative I was that their vehicle not only has lasted
so long, but has been extremely reliable. Within 24 hours, I got a phone call
from a nice guy at GM named Rob who wanted to, ‘reach out and acknowledge me
over the phone’. Not expecting much, I figured I’d call them back when I
finished up with work on Friday. I ducked out early because I work right near
where a marathon was a’brewing, and I didn’t want to get caught up in all the craziness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
He called twice that morning, and then
again in the afternoon. There wasn’t much going on, so I answered the third
call. Turns out they think it’s wonderful that my car has an ‘unbelievable’
amount of mileage and I must keep it in excellent condition (HA! *snicker*) for
it to have lasted so long., no. Not really… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
Either way, they are going to send me a
$100 service certificate as a thank you for maintaining my vehicle to such a
high amount of miles, which is really pretty damn awesome of them. I wasn’t
expecting anything except perhaps a form letter thanking me for my feedback.
This was certainly beyond my expectations. So once it arrives, I’ll probably
take my poor Beast in for an oil change or transmission flush… It deserves it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
On another note, it is finally gorgeous
out today, and I am sporting an awesome pair of nude suede heels with AB
crystals on the heels. This is awesome in every way. I also ended up being teased
quite a bit this weekend for wearing heels when I’m already tall enough… <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<b>Words to Live By: Heels do wonderful things to a woman’s ass, regardless of how tall she is.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310556935909750139.post-9693068057023996632013-06-20T17:30:00.000-05:002013-06-20T18:55:45.667-05:00My Love/Hate Relationship with My Car<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
I have a confession…
<br />
<br />
I’m contemplating thievery. Honestly. Now, hear me out before you start calling the cops to report me. I live in a horrid apartment building. There is a parking lot that is a long line of cars against a fence. Because so many of the people in my building are losers (yes, I’m aware of what this says about me – the rent is cheap, and I moved there when I was a newly single mom, so bugger off), there are 5 vehicles that NEVER. MOVE. Honestly. A few of them have been stationary in the lot for at least a year.
<br />
<br />
What does this have to do with thievery? I have terrible tires on my car. Really terrible. I have a love/hate relationship with my car in the sense that I love that it’s got 361,000 miles on it and still runs pretty well… and hate in the sense that it’s got 361,000 miles on it and I’ve beat up the exterior and interior so much that my boyfriend refers to it as, ‘The Abortion’. It will go once I can save up enough money to buy a different car, and I’ll be sad when that day comes. Because of the high mileage and the fact that I’m going to replace it as soon as possible with a (hopefully) newer car, I don’t want to spend a ridiculous amount of money for new tires.
<br />
<br />
So a part of me has started hatching a plan to check the tire sizes on the stationary vehicles and if any of them are the same size – and in better condition than mine – I’m thinking about stealing them. They’re not using them, and the vehicles show no signs of being moved.
<br />
<br />
I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t do it. But a part of me keeps saying, ‘Why not?’ I’m struggling with my sense of frugality. Unused tires are sitting right there. And on the other side of this argument, these stationary vehicles are parked in such a matter as to cause one to question the owner’s mental facilities. Because they are parked in the most nonsensical way, and it really tends to fuck up the parking space left for the rest of us with running vehicles. So maybe I should do it, as karmic justice. Some days when there’s no parking left when I get home (because some of the local businesses’ employees use it as their parking lot), I want to smash in their windows and key their paint. Surely this is a much less extreme alternative. I could call and have them all towed, but what fun is that?
<br />
<br />
On a related note, my dad told me I should write to Chevrolet and tell them that one of their vehicles has made it past 361k… I think it’s slightly over 361,400 miles now. And it still runs pretty well. I do love that I can start that beast up in the winter without any issues (in Wisconsin, that’s a huge deal when we start hitting -30). Maybe they’ll give me a new car and all of my plans to steal tires from my crackwhore neighbors will be rendered unnecessary! I’ll still want to key their cars, though.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148107893834351535noreply@blogger.com0