Friday, February 25, 2005

What's Another Penis Story Among Friends?

This had me giggling like a 13 year old girl who just learned what a blow job was! Apparently there has been a great artistic debate raging for 500 years over the size of The David's schlong.
"But according to a study to be published at the end of this month by the Dutch Institute for Art History, in Florence, David's genitals are anatomically correct for a male body in a "pre-fight tension."
Phew! I'm glad that's settled. Isn't there more important news to report on? Like who the Bush twins are screwing or something?

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Where was Cialis when they needed it?

Those poor Norsemen and their flaccid members! Just think, one tiny man with a prescription for Cialis could have changed world history...

Tiny Viking about to board a ship for Greenland: "C'mon Leif, why should we freeze our 'nads off sailing to some Thor-forsaken island out in the middle of nowhere? We're PLAYAHS, dawg! With this stuff we could be knee-deep in hot Viking ass!"

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Small Talk

As you might have guessed I spend a lot of time surfing the internet - I mean A LOT! I also spend a lot of time (probably too much) thinking about my role as a mother. I wonder if I'm doing a good job, what I could be doing differently (read: better), and most of all I think to myself, "who thought it was a good idea to give ME a child?" (Oh, and by the way, whoever it was forgot to include the fucking instructions.) So naturally I was intrigued when my web surfing led me to this blog and the recent post about the mother drive-by phenomenon. Saying it struck a chord with me would be an understatement! Not only have I been a victim of such "drive-bys," but I've also (unwittingly!) given them too. It was never my intention to make other moms feel bad, sometimes I just lose control of my larynx and all sorts of strange words come out. Really. I mean it.

You see I'm terrible at small talk. Eye gouging-ly, stomache heaving-ly bad. I know that and accept it. Just the thought of going to a party where I hardly know anyone is enough to make my insides twist like a truck-stop stripper around a pole. One time when I was at a baby shower for a friend of mine I got stuck between two MILFs that had obviously spent more time on their hair and make-up to go to this shower than I had spent getting ready for my own wedding! Then of course once that thought pops into my head other, even more inappropriate, thoughts follow on its heels: "How long did it take her to get ready?" "Are those REAL?" "I wonder if she thinks the term TROPHY WIFE is pejorative?" "Can she even spell pejorative???" and so on and so forth.... You can see where this leads me conversation-wise. Yep, uncomfortable silence.

Add to that fact that I absolutely despise talking about the weather and you get a recipe for small-talk disaster. Which is probably why I end up sticking my foot in my mouth by spouting inane compliments that sound snarky such as when I was trying to compliment the receptionist at my dentist's office:

Me, looking at photo of her two kids: "Wow, you look way too young to have school-age kids!"
Her: "Yeah. I am." (followed by stony silence in which I'm sure she's putting a note in my dental record to schedule 5 root canals)
Me: *vacant smile* "Oh." ... note to self: shut mouth, open only to drink massive amounts of tequila. How the fuck was I supposed to know she got knocked up at 17!?

I'm an idiot. Don't worry because karma's a bitch. I've been the recipient of more inane / stupid comments than I can list here.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

You canna' change the laws of physics, cap'n!

Oh, but you CAN Scotty! Well, YOU can't, but a toddler with a shitty diaper surely can. I know this for a fact because of what happened yesterday:

Yesterday afternoon I picked The Boy up from his sitter's house and buckled him into his carseat in preparation for the 30 minute drive home. At about Minute 10 The Boy unloads what can only be described as a 'dirty bomb' (bin Laden's got nothin' on him!) in his diaper; the smell of said diaper began to permeate the car and threatened us with sure death if I ddn't get the windows rolled down in time. So a commute that normally takes about 30-35 minutes ended up taking at least an hour -- surely proof that the space-time continuum was ruptured by one toddler's colonic blast.

Take that Stephen Hawking!

Monday, February 14, 2005

More Mushy Stuff

Or Why I love The Man, Part II

(attention Christians, members of the Kirk Cameron fan club, and others who who might take this post too seriously: this WILL offend you. I would be highly disappointed if it didn't so be warned.)

So The Man and I watched Left Behindover the weekend - yes, you read that correctly not only did they make a movie of that hideously-written-wouldn't-pass-my-10th-grade-English-class-no-talent-"novel," but they also shrewdly cast KIRK mother-fuckin' CAMERON in the lead role! How awesome is that? The Man and I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to see yet another movie that was made to be serious and thought-provoking yet ended up stinking worse than a broccoli-induced diaper.

Be it known that The Man and I are probably the least religious people on the planet (and we're definitely the least religious in this part of the country) so why were we watching this movie? Well, for one thing it stars Kirk mother-fuckin' Cameron - I mean seriously could YOU turn it down? For another thing, The Man and I have always been drawn to bad movies (as in "stinky bad" or "geez that really sucked donkey dick, didn't it?") such as Starship Troopers, Striptease, Glitter, Honey, Bats, and any made-for-Sci-Fi movie that we happen to flip to after The Boy goes down for the night. So how could we resist adding Left Behind to our Netflix queue?

How bad was it? Well, if you had the same reaction to the book that I did (namely you vomited a little in your mouth every time the authors described 'Captain Rayford Steele's' spiritual agony) then it'll come as no surprise that the movie sucked just as hard - perhaps even moreso than the book. Just picture, if you will, Kirk Cameron as the plucky (but Godless) reporter who unwittingly delivers the world into the hands of the Antichrist. Add to that fact that when he finally does find God it's in the men's room of the UN.

So, the premise (for all my pagan brethren) is that when the world's about to end then all the saved will get taken up to Heaven (aka The Rapture) while the rest of us languish about on Earth for 7 years waiting for the final battle between JC and the Antichrist. I know, I know, there's more to it than that but for the sake of this puny blog I think that's sufficient. Anyway, when the saved get zapped up to heaven they leave everything behind - clothes, jewelry, cell phones, spouses, etc. Well, when this happens in the movie you see all kinds of close-ups of clothes and wedding rings that were left behind and it's supposed to be moving and poignant but to me it was just a reminder that people in movies don't have to wear retainers or girdles or anything else like that. The Man was obviously channeling my thoughts because his response to this was, "So, if you're on your period would your tampon be left behind, too?"

Yep, I LOVE this man and he LOVES me! Which is good because it means that whichever of us gets to Hell first can save the other a seat!

Thursday, February 10, 2005

This just ain't right...

These are the reasons I spend WAAAAYYY too much time on the internet.

I don't get the paper so it's the only way I can read earth-shattering stories like these -

Rugby Fan Cut Off His Own Testicles


My Life as a Phone Sex Operator

Gator-Tossing Mom

Then you throw in ebay and craigslist and, well, I'm swamped!

I also surf several dozen blogs a day. I start at one, click on some of the links, then click on THOSE links, and so on, and so on. After a while I have no idea how I ended up reading somewhere that Joanie 'Chyna Doll' Laurer has a 3.5 inch clitoris....

Need I say more?

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Love is in the Air

With Valentine's Day less than a week away my brain starts to get all mushy and I get all sentimental thinking about my sweetie, The Man. I've also been looking through the card section at my local CVS (nothing but the best for my man!) and realizing just how dopey most cards are. Why didn't I get a job writing copy for Hallmark? I 'gots da mad skillz' PLUS most of a graduate degree in English! But I digress.... The card I want for The Man just hasn't been written - and probably won't be. If it were available, it would go something like this:
"You rock! And just for the record if you leave me for some young intern after I've given you the best years of my life then I'll hunt you down, glue your ass cheeks together, and pour depilatory lotion on your privates. That's not going to happen, however, so Happy Valentine's Day sweetie!"
Now that's a card I'd spend $3.95 on!

Seriously, I have been thinking about what it means to find your soulmate - the person who you want to spend the rest of your life with. I used to think it meant finding someone who you were desperately in love with; someone who wrote you poetry. Now that I'm older and presumably wiser I KNOW what makes The Man my soulmate: his ability to quote movie lines.

I don't mean the obvious movie lines like, "I'll be back!" I mean quotes from obscure B-movies that probably only 5 people in the world know well enough to quote (that's me, The Man, and 3 lonely 47 year old men who live with their mothers and eat nothing but hard boiled eggs). That's only part of the attraction, however, the other part is being able to pepper ordinary conversations and e-mails with so many movie lines that you forget what you were originally talking about:

Me: "So, what do you want to do tonight?"
The Man (in his best Conan voice): I want to 'crush your enemies, to see them driven before you and hear the lamentation of the women'."
Me: "ok, then what 'you anally rape my mother while pour sugar in my gastank?'"
The Man: "'As you wish!'"

Now that's love!


Thursday, February 03, 2005

Shopping Experiences

Have you ever noticed how certain stores lend themselves to a certain type of shopper? Not only that, but they seem to attract certain types of employees as well. Whilst shopping at a certain high-brow department store's "Rack" outlet (said store has a name that starts with N and ends with M and rhymes with "whore-drum") I noticed a few things:
1) Deep-discount outlet-type stores employ very mannish looking women, while uppity, elitist, "we only cater to a very select clientele" stores (usually called "boutiques") employ very feminine-looking men.
2) Deeply discounted shoes will bring out the worst in even the most liberated feminist.
3) Stretchy halter tops with rhinestones should never be sold in any size, but if they absolutely must be allowed to litter the clearance racks they should be limited to sizes in the single digits (and yes, I have worn double-digit sizes since high school - but never a rhinestone halter top).

I don't usually enjoy shopping. Sometimes I get it into my head that I MUST shop. CONSUME!! Most of the time, however, I look on shopping as something to dread much like cleaning the litter box - although with less need to wear rubber gloves and spray everything liberally with Lysol.

When I was little I accompanied my mother on many shopping excursions that could last whole afternoons. I remember little of these expeditions except my propensity to hide in the middle of those circular clothes racks and jump out at my mother while shouting "BOO!" I thought I was hilarious and was injecting some much-needed fun into our trips; I think my mother thought otherwise. We were poor so we never went to those big department stores except to cruise the basement clearance rooms that looked like they had only recently been converted from nuclear fallout shelters. I suspect that behind some of the clearance racks there were cans of peas from the 1950s. Ahhh memories!

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

definition of "shitty birthday"

When you're already ensconced in one of the little work bathroom stalls and someone runs into the stall next to you with barely enough time to shut the door before they launch into the most obnoxious bout of diarrhea EVER. I counted 3 courtesy flushes before I could make my escape (don't get me wrong - I am EXTREMELY grateful for the courtesy flushes).

60 second post

...as in I have 60 seconds before I have to go to lunch (the most important part of the work day) and will write more later. I have been mentally flogging myself for my terrible tardiness at updating this site. I mean, how hard is it to sit my ass in front of my computer and type about the daily inanities of my life??? I sit at my computer almost everyday to do less meaningful stuff, so why can't I find the time to write about what's important? ME! Me, me, me, me, me!

Of course, today is all about me. It's my birthday. I'm well into the fourth decade of my life and it's time for some reflection about what everything "means." So with only 60 seconds (well, ok, more like 15 seconds by now!) I'm not going to be able to delve very deeply into my psyche to hunt for those pearls of wisdom that I SHOULD have...somewhere. I'll just have to sign off with a final thought about age, wisdom, cottage cheese thighs, or hair growing in weird places.

I think the next few birthdays will feature lasers ("Where are the frickin' lasers???). As in lasers fixing my eyes and zapping the excess hair that has taken residence on my body. Gawd I'm old.

Dr. Evil: You know, I have one simple request. And that is to have sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads! Now evidently my cycloptic colleague informs me that that cannot be done. Ah, would you remind me what I pay you people for, honestly? Throw me a bone here! What do we have?