Not a food blogger. Just me being a dick.

I am over MySpace.

I never use it anymore.

I now default to Facebook for my need to spy on the lives of others and pass judgment on ugly babies and closeted gay husbands.

Plus, the emo blog posts and grainy cell phone pictures of my half naked teenage cousin remind me, I am way to old for MySpace.

I am pretty sure I hit the age where my milkshake stops bringing boys to the yard.  In fact, it’s less of a milkshake, and more like one of those yucky Ensure shakes old people drink to stimulate bowel movements.  You know, the things they call a shake, but is totally just thick flavored old people milk.

Ok, I have to stop talking about it.

I’m getting all gaggy.

Regardless.  I want out.

But, it turns out, MySpace?  Impossible to quit.

It’s like the Taliban.

Or that stupid gym I joined that won’t refund my money even though I won’t go because they deliberately make me feel fat, plus they stopped serving everything bagels.

Oh!  Or that stupid BMG Music club thing…my mom is still pissed the 12 Salt N Pepa and Spin Doctors cassettes I got for 99 cents went on to ruin her credit rating.

I keep trying to quit, but to do that, you need to confirm the I fucking quit this shit link they email you.  But, the email they have on file for me is no longer in service, as in, along with MySpace, I have also outgrown my bustygurl81@hotmail.com email address, and it is now rendered inactive.  So, I can’t check it.  Ever.

So, I tried to change my email, but to do that, you need to confirm your new email address in your old email account.

WHICH MAKES PERFECT SENSE OMG YOU ARE ALL ASSHOLES.

So, I emailed them to ask them to change it, and they were like, dude, we will totally change it, just confirm this here link in your old email address, and your new one will then be active.

I KNOW!  I AM FUCKING JABBING MY EYES WITH HOT POKERS, TOO.

And, I was like, listen, I can’t access my old email anymore, is there anyway around this, I really want to close my account, can you please just do that for me?

And MySpace was all, quit!?  Why would we make it easier for you to quit?  We need to keep our numbers high, and bodies are bodies, even if you have removed your entire profile and are merely just a faceless box with a status message that says “MySpace can eat my balls.”

And that? Pissed me off.

I mean, I have the freedom to lie about my politcal views and post photoshopped pictures of myself on any social networking site I want, and if I want to stop doing that, I should totally be allowed to.

So, I emailed them back and was like, Ok MySpace, you win.  I am totally staying, but can you maybe tell me how I can use all your new features to make my profile more appealing to underage children, specifically minorities and children who don’t speak english but look like they like to party?

And then, they must have sensed the urgency of my previous emails, and passed them onto that MySpace Tom guy or something, because they canceled my account, like, 10 minutes later.

Thank God.

I am a mother of three, and I can’t spend an entire afternoon fighting with MySpace.

Plus, there was an Ace of Cakes marathon on, and I can concentrate on petty shit when I need to take my underwear off to watch cake shows all day.

Obviously.

__________

I am also at Aiming Low this week, talking about…um….egg rolls?  Britney Spears?  Periods?  Nothing?  I don’t know, I obviously set the literary bar too high.

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This morning we had cake for breakfast.  Chocolate cake with purpley pink frosting.  In honor of Maddie, and her second birthday.

Lovely.  Always.

This amazing post always make me smile. I will hum this song all day.

In honor of Maddie, on her birthday, please consider donating to Friends of Maddie, a charity started in her name, to support families of critically ill children in the NICU.

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When I was little, I wanted NOTHING more that to take a bubble bath with Mr. Bubble.

According to the commercials, the bubbles Mr. Bubble produced?  Fucking bananas.

But, my mom was, like, Joan Crawford about the Mr. Bubble.

Nyet Mr. Bubble.

She was like, girls can’t use stuff like that, so, naturally, I was convinced it was made with pedophile sperm, and took her at her word.

I mean, the temptation was there, but I was a kid, and who the fuck wants to see an eight year old in maternity pants?

Actually…I do.  But only because I bet their little bellies are adorable.

Anyways, like it’s laced with fucking crack, my kids go nuts when they see Mr. Bubble.

And, because I am determined to be a waaaaay cooler mom than my mom, who did selfish things like not let me go to Color Me Badd concerts alone or have sex with hobos who lived in empty train boxcars, I bought them the Mr. Bubble.

Which I totally planned to try out first, because, while I may be old enough to realize it is not, in fact, made with the left over sperm from castrated pedophiles, there had to be some reason my mom was so insane about it.

So, I cleaned my tub, because it was totally nasty, full of hair and bath crayons, and I am convinced my husband pees and blows his nose in the shower, and I need to relax in a clean place.

As I am pouring the stuff in, it is bright pink, and smells like I emptied every bottle of perfume my grandmother ever owned into the tub.

And, while the bubbles are fucking glorious, I quickly realized why my mom would not let me buy this stuff.

It was not made for vaginas.

In fact, as I tried to step into it, my vagina was like, fuuuucccckkkkk no, we are not fucking going in there, just coat me in monostat now and call it a night.

But, I had to.

It was about the principal.

The bath was lovely.

I shaved my legs.

I read a few chapters of Twilight.

And, when I felt I had bathed long enough to make my point, I got out.

That was yesterday.

You know those dogs you see on America’s Funniest Home Videos?  The ones who scoot their butts around on the floor, which looks super hilarious, until you realize their are totally wiping their ass on your carpet?

It’s like that.

Only with my vagina.

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OMG I am home.

At last.

And now, I can relax and go back to posting on a not at all consistent basis!

YAY!

So anyways, yes.  I went to Boston and New York.  By way of airplane.

And I lived to talk about it.

BARELY.

It was totally touch and go for a while, there.  I sweated so bad the whole plane ride, I am pretty sure my seat was wet.  I think I carry all my tension in my ass.

So yes.  Boston was lovely.

Would have been lovelier if James Spader was still practicing law there, but you can’t win them all, and I was there for work, not having sex with the creepy boss from The Secretary.   Also?  Where the fuck was Norm?!

Sigh.

And then, we traveled by train to New York City, just like the old days…if the old days included gang rape and sidewalks littered with pigeon poop and gutter condoms.

It was, um…big.  Scary.  Not friendly.  And moist.  Everything was moist.  Like, the bad kind of moist.  I don’t know, hot diaper moist?  Does that make sense?  Yes?  It was like that.

But, I made it to my hotel, and then things kinda broke down.

You know that scene in the movie Big, when that weird red headed kid, the one who looks like the human version of ALF, left Tom Hanks alone in the city the first night, and Tom Hanks cried and hid in his bed?

I did that.

Only it wasn’t a bed, it was the tub…in my underwear…with the tv up super loud so no one could hear me sobbing.

But, here’s the thing.  Maybe I would have been friends with New York City, if I wasn’t such a germ freak.  Which, I mean, is obviously a shocking revelation, no?

Distinction?

I am messy, not dirty.  The difference between those two things?  Maggots and a live hepatitis B virus.

When I was 8, I was in girl scouts.

We had this insane leader with all these grand ideas about doing all this outdoor shit, when in reality, all I wanted to do was get the high score on Paperboy and puffy paint some sweatshirts.  Whatever.

So, we were at some campground in the middle of nowhere, like, straight wilderness, and the only thing that resembled a bathroom was this old wooden outhouse thing.  Basically, a wooden box and a hole in the ground.  It looked haunted and smelled like it had been pooped in for, at least, the past 20 years.

Anyways, I refused to go in there.  But there was this girl in my troop who, at like, 4am, totally couldn’t hold it, and woke up a leader to go hit up the haunted outhouse with her.  Well, next thing I know, I heard people yelling, and everything was all crazy outside, because, holy shit, the girl fell through the floor of the old rotting porta potty, into the disgusting pool of feces.  I mean, FECES!  OLD, ROTTING, FESTERING FECES.

And, she was throwing up everywhere, the owner of the campground called the ambulance to come, she had all these little cuts and splinters all over her from falling through the wooden floor, and the diseased old shit water was all over her and in her cuts, probably giving her some weird fecal disease.

She was in the hospital getting antibiotics for a week, she totally quit girl scouts after that, and since she went to a public school, I never saw her again until high school, but I totally didn’t bring it up.

I mean, who wants to remember falling four feet below an outhouse into a pool of old human waste?

So anyways, my point is, since that day, I have had issues with germs.

I treat everything I touch, from grocery cart handles to door knobs, like they were just touched by some 8 year old soaked in old crap.

And, if that means full body antibacterial baths in the dining car of a dirty train, ANISSA, then so be it.

So yes, next time New York City, I am wearing rubber gloves, nothing personal.

Oh, and also, on the plane ride home, there was a celebrity on my plane.  I actually totally didn’t even know she was a celebrity, until she announced it in front of everyone at the ticket counter.

The daughter of Rev Run was on my flight, she apparently has a show on MTV.

Also, Rev Run is not the same as MC Hammer.

And, she flew coach.

Oh, and she had an entourage, and they all looked hard core, except for this one guy who looked like Chaz Bono.  You know, the dude version of Chaz Bono.  The one with a wiener.

P.S. Oh look, pictures!

P.P.S. Not pictures of wieners, pictures from the trip.

P.P.P.S. Updated in response to the NYC HATE MAIL taking over my inbox: I totally bought an I *heart* New York tshirt, because, for the most part, as long as I wore rubber gloves and a diaphragm, New York City was wonderful, especially the food.  Specifically the bagels.   And the frozen hot chocolate from Serendipity.  And any meat product on a stick sold from any cart at the corner of any intersection.  Anyways, I only buy tshirts that say things that are true, except for my shirt that says Got Crunk…but that has less to do with truthfullness and more to do with being drunk in Vegas and having a shifty moral compass.

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Ok so, I am here.

In New York City.

It’s super big and kinda smells like pee.

And meth.

I’m not gonna lie, I got into my hotel, took off my bra, and spent the next 30 minutes sitting in the bathtub begging my husband to come get me on the phone.  Like, fucking now, OMG, I watch Law & Order, and this shit never ends well.   People die.  And, they have to solve the crime by rifling through my underwear, and none of that shit is hot anymore.  It’s big.  And the elastic is all stringy.  And they smell like the pizza I ate earlier while sitting on the bed watching Cash Cab.

My legacy can’t be oily, gigantic underwear.

It’s being the world’s best competitive fruit roll up eater.

Because the Chinese can’t win at everything.

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Ok, so here is the deal.

I seldom get all mommy up in here.

This is my place.  For my life stories.

Sometimes the stories are about me being a parent, mostly they are about me being an asshole.

In fact, not a week ago, I would have written some scathing post about that ballsack of a father that creepy, Village of the Damned balloon kid has.

Or about my dad’s recent decision to conduct his daily business in denim overalls.

Or even about this old boyfriend I had that I caught in bed with a stripper named Shauna, whose entire upper lip is now just one giant, oozey herpe sore, and I am pretty sure his dick fell off.

But today, I can’t.

I’m gonna take a moment, as a mommy, to tell you…the last thing you should have to do, as a mommy, is to sit with your sick kid in a quarantined hospital room, with needles coming out of his arms.  And, the only contact he has outside of his mommy is with people in scary masks and full body rubber suits, who treat him like he has the plague.

And, there are all these other kids, just like him.  Equally sick.  Equally miserable.  Totally fucking freaking out.

And to think.  If the vaccine would have been available sooner, this all could have been prevented.

Get yours.

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Next week I leave.  On an airplane.

This?  Is where I convulse, shake uncontrollably, and then vomit on my keyboard.

I just don’t think it’s natural for things to be floating in the air.

Back in the 80’s, when the news was all, we’re all gonna have flying cars by the year 2000, I was like, no thank you.

I’m scared enough driving on the road, the thought of driving in the air is out of the question.  I totally don’t even car if I am the only one who doesn’t have a floating car.  I’ll be like that weird neighbor who insists on riding his bike everywhere because he loves the earth more than you, and you fantasize about hitting him when you see him biking along the side of a major 5 lane highway, with his aerodynamic helmet and bicycle rear-view mirror, like some kind asshole.

I would have been that asshole.  Only with my old fashioned road car.  Not a bike.

Luckily, that never panned out.

Unfortunately, people are still relying on the whole experimental airplane thing to get places that are too far to walk or roller blade.

The level at which I freak out in the air?  EPIC.

And, that fact that everyone else is totally calm on the plane only aggravates me more.  They are reading magazines, or listening to walkmans (fyi, haven’t flown since the 90s), or just sleeping.  Like, restful sleep, not I AM GOING TO FUCKING DIE sleep.

The stewardesses just walk up and down the aisles like NOTHING is wrong.  Like we aren’t going against nature in this giant flying tube.  They are all like, can I get you soda and trail mix, and I am like, is that going to save me when we fall from the sky in a burning ball of twisted metal?  How about you get me a fucking lawyer to write my fucking will and a bottle of whiskey?

And then, for the rest of the flight, they talk to me in this weird sing-song child voice, because I have been added to the list.  The handle with care she is gonna freak the fuck out and we will have to shoot her before she brings the plane down list.

Which totally happens, by the way.  When I was little, I watched a movie called International Velvet, and when they were shipping the horses overseas by plane, one of the horses started flipping out mid air, and they had to shoot it.  It was bananas.

So now, I feel like I am living on borrowed time, and the hell if I am not going to make the most of it.

Which is totally pissing Andy off because the house is a mess and I haven’t done dishes or laundry in a week.

And, I understand it can be annoying, because who likes fruit flies, but Jesus Christ.  I am about to fly in an airplane and probably die.

Why would I want my last memories on Earth to be of me cleaning things?

If I die, I am going out with pretty painted toenails and a belly full of hostess cupcakes.

__________

You can also find me on Aiming Low, talking about how Glee cures everything and schools hate gifted kids just because they pee themselves.

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When you have two boys, people treat you like you are in this weird state of girl purgatory.

Gotta keep trying for that girl, eh?

Still chasing your girl, eh?

I heard this crap all the time.  From, what appears to be, Canadian strangers.  While I was pregnant and pushing a cart full of boys through Target looking for the Vaseline, which is totally never where you think it is.

And I was like, dude, what’s wrong with only having boys?

Look at the fucking Jonas Brothers!

Three boys who play musical instruments, harmonize, and don’t let girls play with their wieners?

Best thing ever, right!?

I mean, I’m too young to be a grandmother, and teenage pregnant people are fucking insane, have you seen 16 and Pregnant?!  They are irrational, and homicidal, and they can get away with empire waist halter tops from fucking Hot Topic their entire pregnancy, and that makes me stabby.

So yeah, three boys who go onto pop stardom and virgin rings?  Um, sure.

Plus, I think if you tell everyone you want another boy, then you won’t get the pity parties, or the maybe next times, or the ohhhh, I guess God didn’t want you to raise girls bullshit.

But, here’s the thing.  I wanted a girl.  Really, really, really bad.

I ached for it.

To have something else in this house with fucking ovaries and little toenails I could paint.

So I googled stuff, and came up with my own super secret baby girl recipe.

Well, it was a secret, until last night when I was chatting with some of my bestest friends, and I had to spill the beans.

And now, this is where I tell you how baby girls are made.*

If you want a girl, the basic concept is that when it comes to sperm, boy making sperm? Gigantic pussies.  Girl making sperm?  Fucking amazons.

Girl sperm are way stronger and live longer than boy sperm.  So, it became my goal to kill the boy sperm before they got all up in my eggs.

This is sooo way harder than it sounds, and I could not talk Andy into wearing little boy underpants so they would get squeezed to death, or let me blow his balls with a super hot hair dryer.

It’s like I am the only one who even cares anymore.

I also read that when you want to have a girl, you should have an acidy vagina.  Which totally freaked me out at first, because I remember in Fight Club when Brad Pitt put acid on Edward Norton’s hand, and it was fucking disgusting, but that on the plus side, I would never ever have to get waxed again.

Turns out?  Completely off base on the whole acidy vagina issue.

Sidenote:  In case anyone is interested, after this conversation, the girls and I totally formed a rock group called Hasidic Vagina.  Think Simon and Garfunkle meets Lady Gaga…with way more eyeliner and fish nets.  It’s going to be mind blowing.

Anyways.

It relates more to the food you eat, like acidy fruits, than to third degree labia scalding.

So yes, a week of three square meals of fruit, and a couple accidental nut kickings later…we were pregnant.

But, I still had to wait, like, 20ish weeks until my body did it’s whole Harry Potter magic shit to the fetus to see if it worked.

And obviously?

I’m a genius.

P.S.  In a strange turn of events, my husband now totally digs the hair dryer thing.

*I’m pretty sure, medically speaking, this has a 50% chance of failing, so don’t blame me when your little girl comes out with balls.

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I worked at The GAP for four years in High School and College.

I came away with that job with two things.

First, a Pavlovian response to fold and refold my jeans whenever I hear the song Seasons of Love from Rent, ’cause you know their blared that shit every Christmas, because The GAP is the epitome of all things youthful, hip and relevant.

Secondly, I learned there are some things in life that are just never acceptable to do in public.

Wait, I also came to adore soft pretzels dipped in cream cheese from the food court.

But it’s the second item that’s relevant to my story.  The whole pretzel thing is only relevant to, like, the size of my ass.

So, The GAP used to have a kick ass return policy.  I remember someone returning stonewash jeans from the 80’s that they still had the tags and reciept for.  Full refund.  No questions asked.

Which is insane.  Who waits a decade to return jeans that don’t fit?

I mean, I am lazy about doing shit, just ask the Redbox DVD I have had on my counter for 23 days (I love you Hank Mardukas), but that shit is crazy.

Unless she was just super embarrassed about her jean size.  I mean, who hasn’t been there?  After my second child, I was so embarrassed about how big my pants were,  I used to ask for a gift receipt when I checked out, so that the 17 year old Hills reject at the register wouldn’t think that I could possible needs jeans that size, and they were totally just a gift for my super huge, anonymous relative…who apparently trusts me to do all her clothes shopping…because she is bed ridden…on account of being so fat…you get the point.

Either way, a decade is excessive.  I mean, even I would have broken down and returned them by now, burrito money is burrito money.

So anyways, yes, as long as the item was unworn, and you had a receipt, boom, refund.

Except this one time, during the Christmas season, when things are particularily busy and chaotic, I was working at the registers, because I don’t like being on the floor interacting with crabby old people shopping off a list for their grandkids, who feel the need to remind me I’m ass raping their food, medicine and old people stuff budget because they aren’t used to paying more than $5 for a pair of “denim slacks.”

So, I hid at the cash register, so that I could play God as I called people up from the line.  Like, some kind of super awesome bouncer, appointed by God. I could be all, whoa, back the fuck up lady, I didn’t call next yet, I am busy doing GAP shit that you wouldn’t even understand, so you need to take your slippers and your V Neck sweater, and take about 10 steps back. Do you know how to fold a puffy jacket in 10 seconds?  No.  Beause you are not me, and  I am so busy and important right now, it would blow your civilian, non-GAP, mind.

Ahhh…the holiday GAP line que.  So bad ass.

Plus, it also let me stall so that I could avoid certain people in the line that looked totally mean or like they might smell really barfy.

So, back to my story.

Up next in line was this 300 pound Hispanic lady, who looked super pissed off and had a tattoo of a skull on her neck.    Not quite my target GAP checkout line demographic, so I pretended to re-tie my Dr. Martens so that someone else could get her.  Plus, she had a return in her hands, and that was just more work than I felt like doing that day.

But, apparently everyone was on to me, and I got stuck with her anyways.

So, she pulls out these jeans, and clearly, they were worn and something definitely went down in them.

They stunk.  Like…um…vagina sweat.

Yes.

Like that.

So, I was all, unfortunately, we can’t return items that have been worn, and she was like, I never wore them, I decided I didn’t like them.

So, like, in my head I am like, Dude, somebody’s naked or leaky vagina has been in these jeans.

But how do you tactfully say that to someone who probably poops things bigger than you?

So, I desperately tried to make eye contact with my manager, and like, send her some kind of secret message with my corneas like, OMFG get over here, this lady’s jeans smell like a dead whore’s vagina, and she is way too big and scary for me, and under-paid, non manager, to have this conversation with her.

So, my manager came over, took one whiff of air surrounding the denim yeast infection, and was like, sorry, but the jeans have been worn, we are unable to return them.  And the lady got all mean, and was like, listen, I told you I never wore them, give me my money back.

Ok, what happens next was literally the thing of GAP legends, and would forever be remembered in the Southwyck Mall GAP store until the end of days!

My manager picked up the jeans, turned them inside out, and smelled the crotch.  Of the jeans.  In front of everyone.

SHE PUT HER NAKED NOSE ON THE CROTCH OF THE SMELLY JEANS OF A 300 POUND LADY WITH A TATTOO ON HER NECK.

And she was all like, see, this smells like private parts, the jeans have been worn, I cannot return them.

And then?  I fainted.

Two things.

To this day, I have never returned a pair of pants to the GAP.

And, I still smell vagina in the mall at Christmas time.

__________

Did you hear we’re throwing a PARTY!?  Aiming Low will be LIVE in NYC and Boston, we’d love to see you there!

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