A Blog in Which I Overuse the Word "Ass"

"We're really assholes, aren't we?" My husband chuckled as he turned out of the parking lot of the "ghetto" Wal-mart (we have two here in Huntington, WV, within about five miles from each other. And, yes, we have gone to both on the same night before.).

"No!" I proclaimed and sat up straighter in the passenger seat of our mini van that we swore we'd never buy.

"Yeah, we are. But it's okay."

"No," I continued. "We just don't like it when people say things or do things that are impolite or make us feel bad so, ya know, we get pissy and stuff."

He paused, looked at me and then said: "No, we're assholes."

Funny thing is - he may be right. How can one really tell if they're the ass in the room? Is it the same theory as the sucker one? "Look around the room and if you can't spot the sucker - you're it?"

I think so.

But the thing is - we're not usually this bristly. Only since we became parents did our patience for things like bad parkers, doorway smokers and door slammers really start to wane. So, maybe it's not US who have become the Assholes - maybe the Assholes have just become more noticeable leading us to, of course, point out their assishness which then, in turn, makes us asses too?

Wow.

Talk about your double-edged (ass) sword.

:)

Sweaty, Sweaty, Sweaty - or - How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Actually I'm not even on vacation yet.

I'm just sweaty.

Sweaty.

Oh-so-sweaty.

And don't get me wrong. I don't "glisten." I don't "sparkle" like some Twi-hard vampire. I don't "shimmer" either.

I am just - sweaty.

I know some of it has to do with my extra, er, fluff, as one may call it. But some of it, I think, is purely mental - as I'm starting to think I am.

Mental.

I can't seem to go out in public without breaking into waves of panic and sweatiness. My perfectly coiffed hair? Sogged. My quickly-applied-but-heck-I-tried make-up? Heading toward chinsville. My freckles? Popped out like they were summoned by Abby the Sesame Street Flying Fairy.

It's horrible.

I'm wondering if, in my stay-at-home-mom role, am I becoming a bit Agoraphobic or if it is, ya know, due to my fluffiness and my oh-so-stylish knee high compression garments that keep my swollen limbs in check.

Either way - I hate being sweaty.

That's why I don't exercise. Yeah... THAT'S it... :)

But with this blog I issue one final plea - please don't ask sweaty people WHY they're sweaty, or say asinine things like "Why are YOU sweaty? I'm fine!", or, even worse, make comments like "MAN! Your cheeks are RED!" or "The heat doesn't bother ME!". Because, and this is my promise, I Will--- Kill you. Okay- maybe not really - since, after all, a sweaty gal throwing a punch is probably gonna just slide right off your cool-to-the-touch cheek, right?

But I can fling sweat beads at you.

Yup - like a monkey with his poo - I will come for you.

(hmmm- I like that--- bumper sticker worthy??? hee hee).

Happy Vacationing!

Prom-a-drama and Karma

While watching the "Glee" prom episode I can't help but think back to my own high school moment of Promenade. I found my dress, a red silk number, low cut to show off what God failed to give me and, best of all, it was $30 dollars at Kauffman's. So, even though my family was so poor that we envied the dirt poors for at least having dirt - my mom bought me the dress.

I was the happiest girl in the world - who was apparently going to go to the dance barefoot.

Due to my lovely loopy lymphatic system most dressy shoes were not going to work - and then, one day, at the mall, a light shone upon a pair of red satin not-too-high-heels. It was like all the good Karma I spread was coming full circle. I was finally going to get mine. And they were on sale.

Needing a minor repair, I dropped my found footie goodies at a local store which promptly burned to the ground a few hours later.

Karma's apparently a real fickle bitch.

The day before I was to attend Prom I found a pair of stripper shoes at the local discount store that were about four inches too high, platformed and of the worst shade of whore-red I had ever seen. And they were too tight. But I bought them. And I suffered. But lucky for me I actually had one of those sweet boyfriends. The ones who will fetch you food, rub your aching feet while others partied their pants off and who, later, let me sleep on his chest at the after party. Romantic? Yes. Sweet? Yes? Drooled over the ENTIRE front of his sweatshirt? Unfortunately, yes.

So even though I ended up with a cheap dress, a pair of shoes that were meant for Frankenstien's mistress and accidentally tried to drown my pre-fiance in a puddle of my own drool, I still had a great time.

So what happened to Mr. Drool? Alas, he was meant for another - who was meant for several anothers. Just goes to show you that high school is a long way off of who you are, who you're meant to be with and who you are going to be. If someone had pulled me aside that night, pushed a tacky decoration out of the way and said: "In fifteen years you will be happily married, living in a big house, have a mini van and be totally crazy for a thirteen month old baby," - I'd have decked them.

Or at least blinded them with glitter.

Huh.

Karma.

Pulitzer? Puh-lease.

Recently I double tapped a book, quite by accident, on my iPad and was the not-so-proud owner of "A Visit From the Goon Squad" by Jennifer Egan. Due to my shaky pointer finger I had just paid $12 for a book I didn't want and didn't have any desire to read.

I wanted Vampire Smut.

Not this--- Pulitzer Prize Winner???

In spite of myself - I was intrigued. And since my spasticness bought the damn tome, I was going to read it.

As punishment.

I can't even recall the last Pulitzer-worthy book I held in my greasy lil' hands - which should tell you how much I enjoy reading "intelligent" fiction.

But I digress.

I settled in each night, iPad pressed against my nose lest the sleeping baby tyrant see the glow and roar his disapproval. I got to know the characters somewhat, each flushed out to be intelligent or drug-addled, all damaged in some "cool" way that real people never are. All had smartass answers to seemingly innocuous questions and each person introduced was cleverly intertwined back to the original love-triangled teenagers we met in a previous chapter. The book spanned decades and - I got lost. I felt like I was being apparated and got splinched, to steal an example from JK Rowling's books. Each time a new chapter hit I was left wondering whose head I was in, what time was it and why should I care.

By the time I got to the chapter written entirely in Powerpoint Slides (no, not joking) I was ready to toss the book out the window.

But, seeing as how I like my iPad, and was not near a window, I forged ahead.

Through 300 pages.

It was like watching a soap opera where all the characters were ones you didn't care about but you couldn't change the channel because your half-dead Aunt Lulu has watched it since she was twelve. So you suffer through it. Catching snippets. Getting caught up in one of the 30 storylines weaving across the screen only to find out it was a subplot that wasn't even important enough to be tied up neatly.

So - my final review?

I didn't like it.

I didn't get why it was a "winner," per se.

So I downloaded Rick Riordin's new book.

Knowing that, if all else fails, the main characters were not likely to end up as drug abusing hookers in Venice.

At least, I hope not. :)

Security Needed - Apply Within

I'm going to post an ad in the paper/Craigslist/local Unemployment office.

LOCAL SECURITY NEEDED

LATE HOURS

RUDE CUSTOMERS

BRUTE FORCE NEEDED

MUST KEEP WOMAN FROM HER OWN REFRIGERATOR.

For the past two nights I have cuddled my kid, let him thrash about on top of me while crying and giggling like some sort of bi-polar rolly-polly, and then drifted to the kitchen to stare in to the fridge.

Last night I decided, at 11pm, that the only way to be able to sleep well was to load up a casserole dish with broccoli, cheese and Panko and eat my way into oblivion. Tonight was no exception as I scooped up the last of the sour cream, salsa and chips into my gaping maw.

I've tried busying myself with other tasks but I find that only delays the inevitable.

So, instead of dieting (that would be foolish), I have decided the only reasonable option is to hire a large man to stand in my kitchen like a bouncer and make sure my name is NOT on the list.

Yup. That's the only reasonable option.

Maybe I could be the next Jenny Craig?

Or Marie Osmond?

Or Kirstie Alley?

Yup - I'm totallllly Kirstie. :)