Wednesday, February 29, 2012

My Apologies

Yeah, I know. Before you guys start in on my, know this: I know.

Well, I know a lot of stuff. Also, by me over-using the word know, you'd think I was getting paid to use it. I am not. But, if any of you are interested in paying me to use specific words, email me! Heh.

Mainly, I am fully aware that I am kind of a huge Blog Slacker these days. I've tried to explain myself with poor woe-is-me posting and general stupid rants. Did it work? No? Funny. I was sure that all that whining and complaining would convey to you my deepest, darkest feelings of chaos that surround me daily.

No matter. Today I am BACK! And I have a story! A good one! And an excessive use of exclamation points!!!

Okay, so last week a friend of mine was here visiting! (Oh. Sorry. I'll stop now.) My friend and I are now in a fight because I recently discovered he doesn't like chicken. I KNOW. WHO doesn't like CHICKEN?! The conversation pretty much went like this:

Me: We're having chicken for dinner tonight.


Friend: I don't like chicken.


Me: WHAT. How do you NOT like chicken?


Ex-Friend: You've known me for over 10 years and never once have I eaten chicken at your house, even though you always make chicken. How do you not know this?


Me: It's CHICKEN. Everybody likes chicken. Is this new? Did you recently decide this?

Ex-Friend: No.

Me: Are you sure? I mean... it's CHICKEN.

Ex-Friend: You keep saying that.

Me: Not even BBQ chicken? What about chicken salad?

Ex-Friend: No.

Me: Huh.

Over the next few days my ex-friend (we'll call him Dre) may have become increasingly annoyed at my steady stream of questioning. I even continued it through Facebook which I realized may have been too far when I logged in the following day and saw this:


Me: [posting to Dre's wall] Uh. It's not even legit. You forgot to fill it out.

[a few minutes later I get this]

Me: Thank you.

Since his visit, Dre may or may not have fallen victim to anonymous fowl postings to his Facebook wall. I am not certain, but I suspect that I am solely to blame.

In retaliation, there have been some not-so anonymous postings to my Facebook wall.

And another photo that I am pretty sure I shouldn't post here because someone used Photoshop to paste a dead horse into a scene from Office Space where the guys beat the copier to death and I don't really want anyone to think that I did that, or know anyone who beats animals.

Also, am I supposed to give some kind of credit to the people who created these photos? Because Dre stole them and I don't know where they came from.

Moving on.

Actually, that's about all I have for tonight.

Elle and I have something in the works that links directly to this. We should be back tomorrow with the full story.

Stay tuned!

And I'm totally not leaving you in the lurch on purpose. I'm just not quite done wrapping things up and until then, you guys will have to wonder what in the freak I'm up to next.

Toodles.

Monday, February 27, 2012

This is the Complaint that Never Ends

[sigh]

I don't even know where to start.

Let's just use bullet points from last evening in hopes that you guys will cut me a little slack over here with the whole sporadic posting (GARY).


  • CHILDREN SCREAMING AND YELLING ALL THE TIME
  • Water Park Style bath time complete with splashing, tidal waves and ugly flip flops
  • Baby falls down stairs (relax, she was okay. I guess. She wasn't my kid. And it was only 3 steps)
  • I met my new neighbor. Unfortunately, she was returning Elle's fat-butt cat and happened to be present when the toddler catapulted down the steps.
  • The local Sheriff showed up in my driveway. Elle and I were freaking out because we were certain that the new neighbor thought we were child abusers and called Child Protection Services on us. Turns out, he spun his lights a bit and took off.
  • Tumbling Toddler slipped and crashed her face into the bath tub, bleeding everywhere (on account of all the flipping water on the floor). And into the computer screen. And tripped over air and fell on the ground. (After typing this all out, it seems as though we don't do our job very well. Nah, this kid is 19 months and VERY accident prone)
  • My house is a mess and I can't find the phone book to call for Housekeeping Help. That means I'm going to have to do it all by myself. I love cleaning, don't get me wrong. I just don't love re-cleaning the same crap every 4 hours.
So. In the spirit of complaining, which is all I seem to do lately, I am going to go and try to make sense of my day.

Also, Elle has this in the freezer (compliments of Rawr) and I am going to steal it.
Is this cool, or WHAT?!


Sunday, February 26, 2012

Happy Belated Birthday, Elle!

Quick story. (Then again, it's me, so this could take a bit)

Yesterday was Elle's 29th birthday. Yay!

Here's an example of how my night went:

This guy (wearing an enormous cubic zirconia stud in one of his ears) walks over and attempts to converse with me as Elle, Rawr and I did one's level best to hear him over the blaring bagpipes and drums. He gestures to an empty chair at our table and I tell him to take it as we weren't using it. He sits down instead.


Me: [quickly switching gears] Hi!

Fake Stud: [mouth moving but no audible sound]

Me: WHAT?

Fake Stud: Hi.

We entered the usual conversation and asked where the other was from, how the night was going, whatever. He had a slight accent, but I couldn't place it. He almost sounded like he was trying to be Irish (we were, of course, at Kells and quite often poor saps think that if they act hot and Irish it will improve their chances with the ladies. I am here to inform those saps that it does NOT), but he also sounded a bit European.

Me: Where are you from?

Fake Stud: I'm German.

Me: Really. What brings you here? [recognizing that this fool does NOT sound German. Thinking perhaps he's from deep in the backwoods or something and maybe there's a very rare form of German accent that I've yet to experience]

Fake Stud: I'm here for the summer.

Me: [confused] But it's February.

Fake Stud: [stare] Let's dance.

Me: Oh-kaaaaay.

That lasted all of five seconds because I do not particularly like the bump and grind style of dancing that he was accosting me with, and after I was thoroughly creeped out, Fake Stud nearly licked my face when he leaned in and shouted "YOU'RE SOBER, AREN'T YOU?!"

I just turned around and walked back to my table only sit sit down, give Elle and Rawr the "Gee, what a weirdo" look and find Fake Stud grinning at me from across the table. Dude was like fly paper.

Elle and Rawr laughed and abandoned me there (worry not, for retribution is on it's way for those two buttfaces). After he and I stared at each other for a while, Fake Stud leaned in and kind of spit a little on my face when he told me (again) that he was from Germany. I thought he was trying to sell the exotic thing a bit too hard.

Me: You don't really sound German.

Fake Stud: I'm from Auschwitz.

Me: [blink] Did you just say-  As in the.... In...

Fake Stud: Near Berlin.

Me: [stare, blink, ponder, incredulity virtually spewing from every pore] Uhmm....

Fake Stud: [sitting there with a blank look on his face]


Apparently he thought I was effing retarded, because while I sat there trying to wrap my head around what he just said, Fake Stud moved on to ask me if I spoke any languages. I told him that I knew a tiny bit of Spanish, but not enough to lay claim to being bi-lingual. He assured me that not only did he speak German, but Spanish, French and Russian. I told him that Elle could speak German [which she totally cannot) and watched as he FINALLY excused himself and never came back.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY? This dude claimed to be from Auschwitz. I'm willing to bet that there isn't a soul on this earth that hasn't heard of World War 2 and what the hell happened to the Jewish people, and this guy tells me he's from a concentration camp. It's like, if I lived in L.A. and someone asked where I was from, I say to them Hey, I'm from Disneyland just because it's well known. WHO DOES THAT?

I turned around and (rudely, I suspect) interrupted the table behind me just to clarify whether I was bat-crap crazy or not. I got a few different responses:

  • You're Jewish, right?
NO! I'm not. And wouldn't that be WORSE?!

  • I'm a performer
Okay, that's somewhere I am NOT going.

  • Are you Irish? (from the same guy who thought I was Jewish)
No. Wait. Why do you keep trying to guess my heritage?

The rest of the night was awesome and I think the best part was when we were on our way home and Elle informed me that after our 20 minute drive home back to our city, I needed to drive the sitter home which was AWESOME because the sitter lived clear on the other side of town which was another 20 minutes our and twenty minutes back.

I told Elle that I hoped she would expire before morning and finally crashed into bed at 3am.

Still earlier than last time.



Cookie Monster

I need some opinions.

Say, hypothetically, that you have a 10 year old boy.

And, hypothetically, that the 10 year old boy takes after you and has the worst case of Sweet Tooth ever seen on God's green earth.

What, pray tell, does one do when said boy steals a case of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies from his sister and proceeds to EAT THEM ALL?

I am not kidding, guys.

As most of you know, my 9 is in Brownies. Rawr's daughter is a Junior Girl Scout. Last night, both girls were upstairs when I heard a thump, a couple of gasps and frantic whispering.

I was pinning everything I could find on Pinterest doing calculus for fun when the two girls stomped into the living room holding empty and torn cookies boxes and looking pret-ty pissed. I looked at my 10, he looked at me and immediately looked back at the TV. I stared harder, he sunk further into the couch.

Me: Boy.

Him: [clears throat]

Me: [staring, eyes boring holes into his little brain] BOY.

Him: [looks at me, looks away. Looks back] Yes, Mother?

Me: ....

Boy: I have no idea what happened here.

Riiight.

It appears that my 10 had taken an ENTIRE CASE of cookies and hid them (we're talking 12 boxes of cookies. 28 cookies to a box. That's about 336 cookies. IN A TEN YEAR OLD.)

From that case he consumed 3 boxes. And then I found 3 more. Add in the other 2 boxes I found a few days ago and I'm pretty sure that comes out to 1,056 cookies.

When I put him in the interrogation room (which is pretty much just my living room with the overhead light on) and proceeded to grill him about what the crap he thought he was doing and that taking those cookies from a CHARITY was called stealing and that cookies can kill you, he broke down in tears and told me, "I'm just so addicted to those delicious cookies, Mom!"

I tried not to laugh and kept my composure. I asked him why he took a case and hid it under his bed.

I didn't, Mom!


No?

They wouldn't fit under my bed. So I put them under the 5's bed.

Oh. MY MISTAKE.

The child is already grounded for refusing to complete his homework last week.

So I ask you, dear readers. What do I do to this child to make him understand?

Also, I locked up all of the cookies in Elle's room.

And, as this was going to press (heh) the 9s found three more boxes under the 10s bed. Apparently, they were from before the last shake-down we had.

Obvoiusly, I've already made him pay for the initial boxes he took. The last 3 boxes I charged him $10 a box. The $6 surcharge goes toward the mental health care that I'm going to need after this.

Do I take away every one of his favorite foods and make him eat dry cereal and broccoli?
Do I send him to reform school?
Discuss.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

It's WEDNESDAY already?

Hey peeps.

This has been a busy week for me. My older brother sent his 16 year old daughter (we'll call her Jemimah) up from California for Elle and I to entertain for a week. I think his exact words were "take this and don't bring it back until it has some character."

Gary took Jemimah to Seattle for a day and they did all the fun stuff I wanted to do when we were up there last (at least, all the stuff that didn't require valid ID for 21 and over).

They had a blast and last night I drove up to Mumsie's house to do the prisoner swap (this is what we call it when we don't meet at the porn store).

I'm lucky that I can even post anything on here while I'm way out here in the sticks. Mumsie's internet speed is so prehistoric that I like to think it's horse drawn and this post will arrive sometime in the next 2 years.

I guess I just missed everyone and wanted to check in.

Oh, no.

I'm addicted to the internet.

Wait. I already knew that.

Someday, when we have time, we'll sit down and talk about how angry I get when it comes to constant texting and FBing. Elle.

Good day, citizens!

Monday, February 20, 2012

Episode 2- City Style

Yesterday Elle and I tag-teamed here on Eloquence and shared a bit of our late-night antics.

When we left off, Elle was dancing with Flanney and it reminded me of when Gary danced with an oddly-shaped woman in a Dublin Pub. Let's take a look. No real need for this, other than to further embarrass my brother on the inter-web.

Now, picture Elle and Flanney jiggin' it up at Kells. It was exactly like this, only different.

Back to present day. 

Or rather, last weekend.

Anyway. 

Elle and I spent a while avoiding any and all contact with GWNF, dancing with Flanney and Middle Martin. Without making Elle sound hussy-like, I'll just say that she spent some time beating boys off with a stick while I stood close by, ready to leap to her rescue if needed. I'm afraid that what I was actually doing was keeping an eye on her while trying to look like I wasn't which in turn made me look like her creepy keeper. I do believe that I ended up catching the eye of New Bartender (we'll call him Bernard) for this very reason, but once we chatted a minute I'm pretty sure I put any of his fears to rest.

Bernard: [polite] So. You doing alright? I noticed that guy seemed to be bothering you both earlier.

Me: Nah, I'm fine. If anyone touches her, I know how to judy-chop pretty well.

Bernard: ....

Me: She's my sister.

Bernard: OhThankGod.

Me: Oh. OH, no. I see what you thought there. No, it's cool. Um. Okay bye.

After a bit, I noticed that Bernard seemed to be keeping a watch over us which was really nice and I'm positive that it had nothing to do with my hot sister. It was kind of cool being part of the Bartender Protection Program. When GWNF showed back up and trapped me against a wall, Elle managed to convince GWNF that we were scoping out two hot guys next to the fireplace and if GWNF could just go away and do a drive-by, we'd appreciate it so much. GWNF managed to get in a pretty disgusting story about his co-worker's brush with bestiality and how GWNF was really cool because instead of being grossed out (which I totally was, by that point) he instead asked what breed of dog it was. My face was pretty screwed up in disgust which led GWNF to inform me that I could do worse than him in that bar and that was pretty much when Bernard came to our rescue and GWNF disappeared.

Now, I'm not saying Bernard had him whacked or anything. I'm also not saying Bernard didn't have him whacked. All I know is that GWNF never came back.

Sometime after, I noticed the bartop on fire. I tried to nudge Elle, but she was busy dancing with some Brazillian guy ("he smelled ah-mazing, Em!") so I just stood there watching things burn until I realized Bernard was making drinks and lighting them on fire. Dangit. Can you imagine how cool it would have been to have 35 firemen flood the bar? A dream come true, that's how cool.

I sauntered over (I'm absolutely sure it as as smooth as I think it was) and watched.

Me: Hey, if I get a refill on my water, can you light that on fire, too?

Bernard: Does your water have alcohol in it?

Me: [sniffs drink] No.

Bernard: Well then.

Bernard was making a Spanish Coffee and offered to make me one. The first sip? Awesome.  It's just like coffee, only better. The second sip? Disgusting. I swear, that thing must have been 100% alcohol. 

I abandoned the coffee (which Elle managed to discover and polished off rather quickly) and stuck to water.

About this time, we met Bernard's friends and ended up hanging out with them. One of them could have been my twin's twin. 

My brother Gary tends to make a joke and take it just past horribly inappropriate. This new guy (we'll call him Joe) was the same way. I won't get into details, but there were an awful lot of references to window-less vans, zip-ties and dark roads.

Around the time the bar closed and the lights came on, Huge Bouncer Guy encouraged us to get the eff out. Elle and I decided to leave all on our own accord (heh). On our way out we were joined by Bernard's friends and invited to join them in sampling "the world's greatest bratwurst" just up the street.

Me: [nudging Elle, whispering] Are they serious? Or am I missing a huge innuendo?

Elle: WOOO! WE'RE GOIN'! YEAH!

Me: [nervous smile] We're going to DIE.

I mean, seriously? It was like 2:30am and three guys we just met encouraged us to go hit up an alleged mobile bratwurst truck two blocks away. I just knew they would discover our slain bodies in a dumpster the following morning.

Surprisingly enough there was a bratwurst truck. And they made us get in it. Now, I've had 12 years experience in judging mobile eateries and I was pretty reluctant to climb aboard. I thought I was sly when I just hung out under the awning and almost got away with it until a hand reached out and yanked me inside.

Me: [sliding in next to Elle, whispering] This is where they gut you and ground you up in the sausage roll. We've got to get out of here!

Elle: [oblivious] Hey, this is Anna. She owns the truck! Isn't this COOL?

Me: [eyeing Anna, who by the looks of it could easily kick my butt] Uh huh...

Anna: [eyeing me] Where the heck did you come from?

Me: [PANIC]

Now, you all know I didn't die and end up as a 3am feeding to drinkers, because how else would I be writing to you? Unless... UNLESS it was from beyond the grave! Spooky.

After enjoying our bratwurst (actually, they were AMAZING) and hanging out, we started back to the car. Two of the guys decided to walk back with us which was pretty nice since I had no freaking idea where we were. One thing I didn't mention earlier was that Joe was referring to zip  ties and the windowless van in every other sentence. I'm fairly certain he had plans to murder us and Elle was certain it was our brother Gary's long lost twin (the other one). I wasn't so sure that I wanted him to accompany us to our vehicle, not because I was actually afraid of him, but because I think he was mildly in love with Elle and wanted to clunk me over the head with something and steal her from me. No one steals my Elle! No one, I tell you! I need her for doing dishes and washing cars. I'm pretty sturdy, but it was cold and I didn't have a coat. It's hard to defend yourself when you're shivering.

Upon reaching the 24 hour lot where my car was parked, we discovered a locked and dark booth where the jerkwad operating the joint apparently abandoned ship AFTER keeping my keys.

Elle: Uh.

Me: Uh.

Both Boys: COOL! Need a ride?

Me: [silent scream]

We called all of the emergency contact numbers listed on the sign that was hung right next to the "24hour parking" sign, but no one answered. I vowed to kill someone and Elle vowed to use the parking garage around the corner next time.

We finally caught a ride home (20 minutes away) and had to drive straight back to get my car (with my spare key) because apparently the 24 hour ticket I bought that night at 9pm would expire at 6am the next day. Makes total sense. I still have to go back and get my original key from some drop-lot where they take all of the stolen leftover keys.

We rolled in at 5:15am and crashed.


Me: I love Ikea.

Elle: Yeah. Me too.







Sunday, February 19, 2012

Two Dumb Biyatches In the City (Episode 1)

Yesterday's tease gave minor information regarding a trip to Ikea and a Time Lapse.

There are many events that are recalled only by one or the other of us, so Elle will be here today helping me out. Say hey, Elle!


Hey, Elle!  (heh heh heh)

As you now know, Elle is a smart-ass. She'll be in RED today. I will remain black and neutral.

Elle and I seem to fall into these Lapses often. We occasionally "run to Target" and make it back several hours later. Maybe we browse, maybe Target filters some kind of Memory Erasing Gas into their air ducts. I dunno.

We did have a mission, initially, when we left for Ikea. Elle needs a box spring for her twin sized bed. See that, underneath? That would be a toddler mattress posing (and not well, either) as a box spring. Check this out.

Welcome to my room, yo!

We spent some time testing mattresses. It was all very scientific. I tested the spring resistance from objects (me) catapulting from five, ten and fifteen feet away. Elle's job was to judge how much the mattress jiggled when I jumped on it. Also, to be on the lookout for store employees. 

Readers, you have a task, If you have an Ikea near you, please immediately drop what you're doing (after reading the rest of the Adventure, of course) and run out. The two mattresses in question are: The Ikea Sultan Fossing, a foam mattress much akin to a Tempurpedic, but not as expensive and probably not quite as good. I require a king sized bed, as I have two tiny terrorist children that you've read so much about. They ambush me of a morning and I need to have room to fight back without worrying that they'll fall over the edge and break something expensive. Like a lamp or their back. But I digress! The cost of this mattress is $549. The catch? You have to buy the bottom part too, for an additional $200. The other mattress that I'm considering is the Sultan Hasbo. It's a mere $499 (plus $200 for the base) BUT! it's a spring mattress. I think it's smothered in foam as well, because it behaves much as a foam mattress would when overgrown women-children leap, screaming, onto the bed. What's this? You can buy a much cheaper slatted base? Quickly, Ikea Experts! What's better? Solid, more traditional base or a cheap Ikea slatted base? Foam or spring? I have an as-yet-not-in-my-bank-account tax return to spend!

Oh-kay. Now that Elle has both advertised for Ikea and hijacked my blog-

It needed some revamping. What? 

.....

Yeah. That's right. Hey, E, wanna grab a single drink at a restaurant bar not far from here? 

Yes. Back on track. So. We decided to grab a drink at a restaurant close to Ikea. I was fighting a headache and since it was Friday night, I knew any other place would be blaring bad music and I would most likely succumb to the involuntary urge to gouge out my ears. After three seconds deliberation, we decided to instead drive twenty minutes to the other side of town and hit our favorite (and most popular) Irish Pub in town, Kells.

A moment. You may not know this (and I'm judging Emily harshly for not mentioning this earlier) but our entire family is borderline obsessed with all things Irish. Is it because we're very Irish? You'd think so. We're Vikings for the most part, with a small percentage of Scotch-Irish. Doesn't matter, our entire clan was destined to live in castles and cottages in The Motherland, raising sheep and professionally drinking Guinness. Except Em. She's a disappointment to the Guinness drinking members of the family. 

I am not! I like Sparkly Drinks. Beer's just- You know what? I'm not doing this again.

She's also the only one who doesn't like beer. We're very generous, though, and we allow her to remain a slightly shunned member of the group. Also, we need someone to drive us home after a few too many car bombs at our favorite Irish pub. Yeah, I'm well aware how shameful it is to use my sister like that. I also don't really care about shame when it comes to finding ways to sample more delicious beers. Somehow I've slid off onto another tangent. IRELAND! We've been, we actually have a club. A club sporting tattoos instead of sweater vests or jackets. We're Club Ireland. (We're also very creative when it comes to naming things.) It was four years ago this March and we're all afflicted with a tangible yearning to Go Back Home. Home! Where the grass is always so green, the daffodils adorn every freeway, the signs are written in both English and Gaelic, allowing hours of entertainment trying to sound out the words. The land of goat paths lined by small mountains which allow no wiggle room and are traversed by semi trucks and actual goats. The land of the happiest people on Earth, where there are no outsiders, only friends you haven't met yet. Where the accents seep into your soul and before the first day is out you find yourself saying things like "feck" and "lass". And the ruins of castles! They're EVERYWHERE! It's like it's portrayed in the movies, people, but even better. So when that itch strikes, we set out to Kells to see if there are any visitors from across the sea to help dampen the desire to sell off everything we own and hop the next plane to Dublin. Usually all that happens is that we make the sickness worse and actually start setting up Craigslist ads on our smart phones. Bad idea when you're several drinks in. It's a good thing my smart phone outsmarts me nine times out of ten and nothing gets posted. PHEW! It would be difficult to explain to my ex how I sold the kids to a soccer ball factory in Indonesia for sixty seven cents American. "It seemed like a good idea at the time..." I tell you, drink and technology are not meant to mix.

So, Em and I set out to have our single drink. We did well getting to the block that Kells is located on, but then we remembered why we usually end up there on a Tuesday or a Wednesday night at 8 pm. Because downtown is crawling with bar flies. They're everywhere, and most of them think that because they're on foot they're somehow invincible when stepping in front of a six ton Soccer Mom Mobile. We learned them different. They can try to walk through the side of the vehicle, but solid steel ain't moving for no 124 pound five-foot-five white boy wearing suspenders and short pants. So after we peeled Hipster off the side of the car, we circled the block no less than forty-six times, sometimes turning left, sometimes turning right, but to no avail. At one point Em looked over and noticed that the bouncer outside of a bar had grown a beard since the first time we drove past. She then decided to turn left (consequently in the opposite direction we wanted to go) to find parking.

Me: "Um, Em, that's a bridge. You can't turn around on a bridge. You need to get off this, now. I have no idea where that bridge takes us." (there are millions of large bridges in town. I'm still looking for the one that will take me to Neverland.)

Em: "Crap. Ok, uh, here!" 

She whips over into the center of the road. Directly behind an enormous stone support for the bridge we're sitting under. 

Me: "Heh. Hey, Em, how's that oncoming traffic looking? It's on the other side of the freaking stone mountain you parked behind."

Em: "It's fine, I can see. It's clear." and she pulls out directly in front of a small car. There was much screaming, mashing of the accelerator and immediate stomping of the brake. Because she pulled into the tiniest "parking lot" I've ever seen. Good to know that she's got good brakes, though. 

So we circle back, feeling very much like a flock of vultures after.. parking? Sandwiches? Men? Beer? 

Em: "I love this city. That window, the one adjacent to the.. um.. gentleman's club, says "Jesus is Lord."


For the record, I did NOT almost kill us. I almost maimed us. There's a difference.

The rest is true.

We eventually parked in a 24 hour lot for $10 (rip off!). After parking and walking across the street to Kells, we noticed a parking garage just to our right for $4. Awesome. Looks like someone owes me $6, Elle.

We got wrist-stamped (867-5309! The doorman appreciated that I was apparently the oldest person in the joint because I laughed and he said, "Oh, hey! SHE gets it!" Like all night long no one knew why they were having phone numbers stamped on their wrists). Elle and I headed to the bar and tried to elbow our way in. Fortunately for us, Elle picked a prime spot between Geezer and Guy With No Filter. 

Look, Em, it was the only place with even a remote chance of getting close to a bartender. The rest of the counter was 5 people deep. And now we know why. 

Since I fired my bartender, Adam, I tried to get this bartender to re-create the magic (it did not go well AT ALL). I'll go ahead and cut out about 20 minutes of lame-sauce where GWNF chats up my sister and because she's nice, we're stuck for a while and I'll get to the part where GWNF buys me a drink that I swear had about 95% alcohol in it. Yay. My first drink bought for me by a guy who's about 20 years older than me, leans inappropriately and smells like gasoline. 

Elle and I gracefully thanked GWNF, I downed the drink and ran like hell for the ladies room.

Elle: What the-

Me: Yeah. We aren't going back there. New spot.

Which ended up being next to the doorway to the hall because during the four and a half minutes we spent in the girl's room, 957 people had apparently bum-rushed Kells and there was pretty much no place to go.

It worked out pretty well, as it placed us right near a clear spot at the counter. No matter that it was technically reserved for the staff to put orders in the computer and drop dirty glasses. It was clearly intended for our use. 

I scanned the bar counter and spotted GWNF and his buddy. I planted myself just behind a group of people where there wasn't a chance of being spotted.

And that's when we saw him.

He danced like a dream, completely betraying the laws of nature by effortlessly leaping hither and thither, his feet kicking like only Michael Flatly can kick. His green plaid pants contrasted his bright red Ultimate Tee shirt and the black beret could only barely hide the glint of the dim barlight upon his pale hair.

He was 75 if he was a day. And he was out-dancing every hot woman under 35 in the place! 

Elle and I dubbed him Flannegan. We decided he was authentic Irish (most likely he was not) and applauded his efforts to pick up a hot piece of woman in the pub instead of staying at home with his knitting.

He inspired Elle and I to actually dance when we were each dragged out onto the dace floor completely against our will (if you look in our high school yearbooks, you'll see both our photos under the listing "completely talentless and most likely to injure someone while dancing"). And by "inspired," I mean he physically hauled Elle out there and made her prance around (and she was good at it, too. Dangit!). 

He literally danced me out of my shoes. And then I went and got another Guinness to rehydrate. Dancing is hard work!

 That's okay. I was later inspired by a guy I like to call "My middle name is Martin" (because that's all I could understand due to the noise level in that place) when Elle shoved me from behind and I sort of flopped onto the dance floor. I made things better by warning Middle Martin that he would "most likely limp away from this with a broken toe."

And this is where I will leave you, good friends. I've got kids to put to bed and a house to run! But come back tomorrow, for it gets infinitely better after the dancing bit. And Elle danced more. I'll also tell you about my shiny new bartender and how he lit my fire. Sorry. My drink on fire. Elle was the one he actually lit on fire.

Well, not actually. Sometimes I get a bit dramatic.

See you tomorrow!



Saturday, February 18, 2012

Why I stay in

Around 7:30pm last night, Elle and I went to Ikea last night for a box spring.

We rolled in at 5am this morning.

I learned two things: Bratworst is not a rolled meat loaf as I originally thought and I exude something only appealing to forty-year-old drunkards.

More on this later.

Friday, February 17, 2012

How I roll, yo

For all the parents out there who plead, threaten and fail to follow through with their kids, let me just share a gem with you. 

This morning Rawr and I had to go replenish the cookie supply. I left the three youngest girls with Elle and Rawr and I took off in the Cookie Mobile.

Upon my return, I knew something was amiss.

Scene: Front sidewalk between Rawr's house and mine. We're loaded down with cases of Tagalongs when suddenly, the air changes.

Me: [stops, sniffs the air]

Rawr: What are you doing?

Me: Don't move. [sniffsniff] Dangit. My house is trashed.

Rawr: Here we go.

You see, after raising those little hellions for nigh-on ten years, I've become pretty adept at sensing when things are off-kilter. Or rather, since trashing the joint is pretty much an hourly occurrence, might I say I've become well versed in the normalcy of chaos. 

I banged on the front door while holding three cases of cookies and as soon as it was opened, I was greeted by the smell of toast and a vision of pure pandalerium. 

I used to have an entryway. Some of you may remember what it looked like last time I posted a photo (which was clean compared to today).

They burned it down while I was gone. Moving down the hall into the dining room, or rather what was supposed to be a dining room until they forgot to build it with the house, I nearly vomited because of the stench of uncaring. Everything, everything, from every surface was dumped on the floor. Dishes, plants, knick-knacks, cereal, toys, people, cats. All on the floor.

In the midst of it, the 5s were playing a game. 

Elle's 5: You will grow up to be a firestarter.

My 5: [maniacal laughter] I already am!

Me: ELLE! What did you do to these kids?  I was only gone for an hour!

Elle: [on facebook] Huh?

To be fair, I may or may not have exaggerated some things. The cat was not on the floor. He was on the stove. The rest is true (or false).

I demanded that the kids pick up their mess which of course was met with whines of I don't wanna and I didn't do any of this!

After I explained to Elle that I was talking to the children, I set about correcting their behavior. I ordered things put away, swept and put back together.

Of course, none of them wanted to do any of it.

So out came T-Bag.

I initially introduced T(rash) Bag back in '09. My eldest two had refused to clean up some huge mess they'd made in their respective bedrooms (which sort of bled from one room, out the hall and into the other) and I was pretty tired of always cleaning it up for them. I told the two kids that whatever was left on the floor after bedtime was going bye-bye.  They laughed, picked up and two things each and left the rest. When they awoke to a spotless floor in the morning and realized what happened, their screams were most likely heard in the CPS office across town.

For a long time after, the mere mention of any kind of bag would send the kids into a panic.
Hey, kiddo. Do me a favor and grab your lunch bag for schoo-
AAAAAAAAAAUGH!

See? Terror. 

Back to present day. My niece's haven't really experienced T-bag Day, so I introduced them. (Is that too gross? Should I stop saying that?)

Allow me to rephrase. Not many have experienced T-bag Day. I made three requests that the kids tidy up the living area. Three requests that were ignored. I explained what would happen if they did not acquiesce my request. They were unwilling, so I brought out the big guns.

Only, I didn't exactly have a trash bag so I just started grabbing crap and telling them that I was throwing it away. 

You should have SEEN the scramble. And snotty, teary faces. Awesome.

Before you get all Judgy McJudgerson, know that I love my kids. I even love my nieces. I just want them to know when I mean business. 

And relax. Their plethora of crap was returned to them. After they picked up everything else. And made me lunch. And scrubbed the toilets.

Just kidding. I made my own lunch.










Thursday, February 16, 2012

Furthering my Education

As some of you know, I recently applied (and was accepted!) to the local community college (I know. I am SO totally proud of myself for getting into this very exclusive school. The prerequisites are tough, man! High School diploma required. Thank goodness I decided to pass on the whole drop-out phase that swept my high school and instead honed in and passed with a B average. Imagine what could have happened if I had studied. Those state schools would be knocking my door down!).

I digress.

Elle and I applied to the school, paid our application fee and yesterday our schedule of spring classes arrived. I was flipping through it this morning and was amazed at the variety of classes available.

Should I take Biology? Look at all those English classes (most of you are nodding your heads right now. I can see you)! Wait, what is this? Management classes. Huh. Cooperative Work Experience. I could have used that class back when I was running the restaurant. Rather, my crew could have used it. I'm willing to bet a quarter that you guys wouldn't guess half the crap those kids used to argue and fight over.


How come she gets to scrub the equipment legs and I have to wash the wall? It's so unfair!


Usually, I responded to that complaint with an additional chore, like requiring them to bring their own toothbrush from home to scrub the urinal. Those pumice stones are overrated.

Anyway, again. Back to the brochure of classes. Power Utilities? What the heck is that? Electrical System Components. Hm. Bo-ring.

I looked through the physical education portion and my eyes landed on Individual Sports. Can you imagine the training for those? "C'mon, Me. You can do this! Thanks, Me. You're such a positive influence."

Reading? What in the he-- Wouldn't you think that Reading would be kind of a pre-requisite for college level classes? For that matter, wouldn't you think it would be a pre-req for first grade?

After that, I pretty much slapped the book closed and decided (from my head) that I wanted to take photography, writing, art and ASL (sign language). Cool. Now that I've got a schedule full of "electives," when do the real classes start?

When I say so. That's the beauty of being an adult in her, ahem, thirties. I do what I want, when I want.

Ooh, look. Baking classes!

Dude, I'm never going to finish college.



Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Emergency!

Quick. I've only got a small amount of time before Gary gets in his truck and starts to operate it.

Any tips on how to go back in time and not press the odometer thingie that normal people reset in order to track gas mileage? I filled up his truck after I drove it all over the back woods and when I did, I reset his trip tracker and as it was clearing, I realized it hadn't been reset for several thousand miles.

La de da... hm hm hmmm.. filling the truck. Let me just reset AH! Why is that count so high? WHAT IF I RUINED HIS SECRET MILITARY TRIP-TRACK? What if it activates auto pilot and this thing takes off again?

I thought of a few options:

  • Reset both trackers and drive the truck around the block several hundreds of thousands of times
  • Buy a new truck with the exact same mileage count as the truck he currently owns
  • Pull a Ferris Bueller and prop the truck up on blocks. On second thought, there are a lot of kids in the neighborhood. Don't want to give them any ideas for their teen years.
  • Cop to the fact that I may or may not have compromised a secret military mission
  • Blame Elle


I'm leaning toward option 2. It just seems to make the most sense.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Make no mistake

I pretty much made it until 8pm before feeling obligated to jump on here and confirm that yes, I live in an alternate reality where there is no Valentine's Day. I'm not bitter and alone. I'm selectively happy. Plus, I totally got the best card from Mumsie. Gary and Elle are clearly the lesser-liked of us kids.

Let's take a look-see. 

(Oh. Gary's at our house, which means he hasn't technically seen his card, but do you honestly think his is better than this?)

Oh. Sorry. Petey got in the way.  


In case you can't see, the card says,
"Whether we're talking
about the latest news,
family events,
or just updating
one another
on the
day-to-day happenings
of our lives,
its so easy
to love a daughter like you."

Aww! Mumsie. [sniff] I love you, too!

Here's Elle's card.
Freaking cat. Apparently the camera strap is a cat toy. 


You'll notice her crappy handwriting where she took a pencil and scrawled "favorite" on the front. I would never deface a card from my mother. 


Told you. Mumsie likes me more.

Where have I been?

It seems there are folks out there wondering what happened to me. I'm sorry. I really wanted to be here with you guys, laughing, sharing stories, etc.

Instead, I've been dealing with this:

  Pay no attention to my tiny living room The point is, it's trashed.


Girl Scout cookies are in.
That slimy puddle there? Silly putty. Same stuff my 5 woke up with in her hair a few months ago. I banned it from the house but it just keeps showing up.

 These things are EVERYWHERE. And what's more, I found an unaccounted-for box in the upstairs trash. HOW did it get there? WHO did it? And WHY didn't they share with me?


Going up? Not likely. My kids have created a pretty good Death Trap. 


 Hi, Ma. We're home from school. Let's just dump all our crap here while we scrounge for Pop Tarts and cheese.



I decided to make Valentine's for my 9s class this year. I saw a really cute idea on Pinterest and tried to create my own version.



Yes. That is absolutely my stove top. I live in the world's tiniest house and there's not a lot of room for crafting. Not when the rest of my house looks like a refuge for crap.


After much deliberation, two trips to the store for candy and tons of stellar craftiness on my part, my 9 informed me, "Hey Mom? We can't have any peanuts in class because of allergies. These candies have peanut butter in them."  
[you probably heard my scream through your computer screen]


So we did this instead.

And what could two 5s, a 4 and a 3 get into while I was downstairs rocking my craftiness? THIS.

Thanks for helping with the laundry, girls.


So yeah. My hands have been a bit tied the last day or so. Today should be a bit better.



Well.... this just happened, so maybe not.


 There was an explosion of tears from the 3 after dumping this everywhere.

 Elle's words to her 3: "There's no use crying over spilled milk."
And then Elle jumped and clapped her hands at the sheer joy of being able to use that phrase.



Saturday, February 11, 2012

Peace and Serenity. What I've been looking for.

This morning I awoke to silence.

So this is what normalcy sounds like. I always wondered.


Last night, my friend took my 5 and my 10, leaving me with my 9 (the Girl Scout Kid). Elle's home from work, which means I can legally ignore her two kids for like, ALL of today. I love her children. I just love them in small doses (yes, Elle. I'm prepared for you to cut up my bedspread for that. Gimme a few days and I'll post some gorgeous little momento about how cute your brats are when they play horsey together or cut each other's hair in the bathroom when they're supposed to be napping).

Previous to my peaceful awakening, I was rousted sometime around 0-dark-thirty to see a shadow standing in front of my window. Now, I don't know about you, but when I awaken in the middle of the night to Shadow People, I tend to experience an instant transport back to age four when monsters lived under my bed and used to try to grab my foot if I happened to leave it hanging over the bed (that could also have been my cat. Either way, I was nearly killed like six times).

9? Is that you?
Yes, Mom.
Are you trying to scare me to death?
No. I had a bad dream.
Want to talk about it?
No.
Then climb in and stop trying to give me grey hair.
Mom, your hair used to be red.
I hate your auntie.

When I finally dragged myself from bed this morning around nine and came downstairs, I was greeted by Flogging Molly pounding from the stereo.

It's going to be an awesome day.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Pop it, Lock it, Cookie Dot it

I come to you after the longest endeavor EVER.

I've spent no less than three consecutive days hours ferrying Girl Scout cookies all around town. And since I've only lived here a few months and pretty much only know where the grocery store is, I'm amazed that I made it back alive.

You'll remember Rawr, my subordinate cookie co-chair (longest name ever) and I are in charge of all things cookie. This evening we set off with a map, one permission slip (Seriously. For two grown adults) and twelve minutes to spare and headed off to Cookie Headquarters. Rawr was driving (in the rain) to the unfamiliar part of town and we quickly realized that we then had only minutes to get to our location that was fifteen minutes away. Add in every red light in the nation and we were soon ten minutes behind.

Eventually , we rolled up to the address and peered through the chain link fence at a huge warehouse with a bunch of trailers parked everywhere.

Rawr: What the heck is this?

Me: Prison. Do you see any crazy minivan moms? Where is everyone?

Rawr: Did you check the address?

Me: Yeah, this is it. Go around back.

Rawr drove us into the back lot where there was a fleet of minivans. And not a single soul.

Rawr:  ....

Me: Uhm....

I spotted a shady looking character rummaging through a tool box in the back of a semi trailer. He stared at us and then disappeared into the trailer.

Me: I'm not asking him. You do it.

Rawr opted to just get out and walk around (probably accepting the fact that she would eventually be bludgeoned to death by Creep Dude's hammer) while I tried to phone our troop leader (who wasn't answering). Our permission slip instructed that we join in a line to pick up our cookies so we were expecting to see a line of cars or something. Finally, we spotted a dark figure dressed in a parka hauling boxes around the far corner of the building.

Rawr motioned me over and we entered the warehouse.

Me: Ho-lee shiznit.

For behold, there was a metric crap ton of cookies. Do you know what two million boxes of cookies looks like? Here. I'll show you.

How do I get THAT in THERE?



So yeah. I've never seen so many boxes of deliciousness in one place. Our troop leader screamed a hallelujah that we'd made it (apparently she has no faith in either of us), we loaded up and went on our way.

Rawr was having trouble seeing out the back window. She had to sit on two cases of cookies and I wasn't much help because I was encased in boxes myself. I'm serious. They had to pack me in. I could barely turn my head. It was like a cookie coffin.

We had to drive the Cookie-mobile to the leaders house, drop them off, dash back to my house, grab the two girls, get to the troop meeting, run back to Rawr's house, trade her vehicle for Gary's truck (can't let it sit too long! The battery could die!) get Rawr's cookie sheet and then we decided to get a coffee to reward ourselves for being over-taxed and hugely irritable for driving all over tarnation.

Except Starbucks in Safeway was closed. Fine. We drove to the closest location (about half a block) and Rawr told me to hit the drive through.

No problem, I told myself. Rawr doesn't know that even though I managed a drive through restaurant for most of my adult life, I cannot order correctly to save my soul. I'll just wing it.

Welcome to Sarbucks, can I take your order?


Me: Hey. Heh. Um. I'll have one um... (whisper) Rawr, what did you say yours was again?

[blank stare from Rawr that says we're no longer friends, you lame dummy]

R: A white mint mocha (or something, I still can't remember what the heck it was!)

Me: She'll have a hot.. mint.. mocha.. venti white coffee. Thing.

[static] What?


Me: Heh. Um, I'm sorry, I'm really terrible at this. I'm probably your worst customer. Uhm. Heh.

[I glance at Rawr who is looking at me like I'm some alien nut job who's never hit a coffee shop before. I'm a home brewer! I don't visit coffee shops!]

You want a white peppermint mocha?


Me: YES! THAT! Right there!

And for you?


[HUH? I have to order something else? GAAH!]

Rawr: Oh! Get two of those birthday cake pop thingies.

[I repeat Rawr's request]

Okay. Anything else?


Me: I'll have a black coffee with a shot of mocha in it.

Huh?


Me: A drip coffee? Um, hot? And black. Except with chocolate syrup in it. Yeah? [I start speaking to her very clearly in hopes that she thinks I'm on a short bus and she won't spit in my drink]

Okay, do you want any cream?


OHMYGAWD. Does she mean spit? Is she going to spit in my coffee? Oh, gross. GROSSGROSSGROSS.

Me: Yes. A little. Thank you! And sorry. Sorry about... all of... that.

We pull to the window, I smile super big, the chick smiles back and assures me that I was not, in fact, the biggest eejit to ever hit her window and we left.

The cake pops? Ah-mazing. I'm sure there was about a zillion calories in one. Rawr told me to shut up and eat it.

It was yummy. I think I'll go back tomorrow. Only, no coffee this time. I'm not sure either of us could handle it.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Impossible Mission

There comes a time in one's life where they must do the inevitable. They must suck it up, put on their best pair of overalls, flannel shirt and a clean hair scrunchie and trek to the Dollar store.

For me, that time was last night. Except that I don't own overalls or flannel and I haven't seen a hair scrunchie since 1996. At least not in my house.

I needed to go find a pill box (you'll see the irony of this in a few paragraphs) because I saw a cool craft on Pinterest and I wanted to make something like it, only better. Because I'm competitive. And awesome.

I tried to sneak out of the house, but my 9 and her friend got wind of it, and then both of their brothers wanted to go also, which led me to driving my brothers truck and hauling four kids on Mission Whiskey Tango.**

** Whiskey Tango = White Trash
(Now don't go getting offended because I referred to the Dollar Store as Trash Central. Because I didn't. I called it Whiskey Tango. Big difference. Besides, they occasionally have good deals that normal people need to get. Hang in there.)

I've never driven Gary's truck and with him currently classing up Alabama and too far away to stop me, I decided it was a great time to take it for a spin. I donned his special forces cap, cursed the smell of cigarette smoke and prepared for take-off (I may or may not have pretended that instead of driving his truck, I was attempting to take off in an airplane complete with beeeeee-owwwww noises).

Until I noticed this little exclamation mark below the odometer.

Me: Huh. That's funny. [tap tap] Wonder what that means. [check e-brake, lights, mirrors] Hm. HOLY CRIKEY. I'll bet it's some sort of secret military code, like a call to action. What if it goes into auto-pilot and returns to base? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THAT IS. At least I can use his I.D. and make it past Air Force One.

** Gary and I joke that we're the same person because we're look-alike twins, only he's like a foot taller, doesn't look like a girl and does not possess my gorgeous NOT ORANGE hair. (Elle) It's red. At least it used to be.

Then I remembered that I was not, in fact, flying a plane, but sitting in a parked truck that hadn't even left the driveway yet.

Oh. Cue frantic texting to Gary.

Me: DUDE. I broke your truck.

Gary: No, that's for low tire pressure. There's a problem with the sensor. It's good. :)

Me: Oh. [deciding to mess with him] Hypothetically speaking, about how far can you drive with the e-brake on before you trash your car?

[I'm pretty sure I heard him scream all the way from Alabama]

Gary: As far as it takes for the axles to heat up to the point that the bearings seize.

Me: So, like, a block?

Gary: Get out of my truck.

Me: Okay.

After we drove to the Dollar Store in Gary's truck, I gave instructions to the kids.

Me: No running, no climbing, don't open anything, don't touch anything, don't breathe. Okay, breathe, but quietly.


Kids: [running, screaming, jumping and breathing incredibly loud]

Me: [sigh]

I went in search of my pill box down the aisle with an assortment of toothbrushes, floss, generic what-have-you and found a small pill box between the pregnancy tests and drug tests.

I will say it again. I found a small one. I was looking for a big one to put candy in (I'll give you the link at the end. Please don't interrupt me with talk of what would happen if kids, pills and candy got thrown together in a room without an adult. I know what would happen).

Oh, and yeah. Who would trust a pregnancy/drug test that cost a buck each, not to mention, WHY are those two next to each other? Killing two birds with one stone? Yikes.


About that time, I heard two Hillbilly's enter the store.

Himbilly: HEY! Heugh! (that was a laugh, I'm guessing) I'm-a find me some chips.


Herbilly: ALRIGHT. I'M GONE BE OVER HERE. (cough, snort and other tweaker-esque bodily noises)

Me: [cringing as the 'Billies get closer]

Himbilly: [yelling because he thinks he's funny] No, they don't got no sex toys.

Herbilly: HA! [cough, wheeze, phlegm]

Me: [panic] They're druggies. They're going to want pill boxes. I'M IN THE PILL SECTION! [vomit, hives, HIVESHIVESHIVES]

Thankfully, they chose aisles other than the one I was dying in and I was able to run to the toy aisle, collect the kids (by the collars, much to their dismay and discomfort) and get the freak out of there.

I called Elle on the way home.

Me: They have drug tests and pregnancy tests at the Dollar Store.

Elle: Get ten. Of each. Bring them to work.

Me: I'm never eating there again.


Here's the link to the pill box. Just to prove that I wasn't trying to do anything weird with kids, candy and pills. But hey, if you ever suspect anything, now you know where to get a drug test.





Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Grilled Cheese Grill

This past weekend, Elle and I dragged Mumsie and the girl children to Portland. We decided to hit Target (no sales tax!) and then take everyone to lunch at the Grilled Cheese Grill.

We kept the lunch a secret in order to make the day special for the kids. After a lot of shrieking, chasing each other through Target, needing to use every public restroom with 2 miles and basically driving everyone insane, my mom really started to get mad at Elle and me and asked us to set an example for the children.

When we finally found a place to park (YOU try parking an SUV on a street made for a hand cart) we released the kraken kids and entered the lot.

This place is actually set up pretty neat. There's a covered area with picnic tables and they cook the food in one of those silver airstream trailers.


This is totally not my photo, since we went for lunch. I (stupidly) forgot my camera. Speaking of which, if anyone has seen my little blue Canon, please tell me. My mind is lost and it's not funny anymore. I miss that little guy.



This (also stolen) photo is of the bus. How cool is this?! We ate on the top deck and since our entourage took up the entire thing, we felt like royalty. Especially when Elle yelled out the window "I'm your Grilled Queen, Biatch!"


~*~*~*~ I swear to you, I'll be fun to hang out with again one day. Presently, I'm applying for financial aid to attend a real live college this fall (which will cause me to be surrounded with kids half my age), battling dehydration (apparently, it's dang hard to just drink a glass of water), trying to get all the kids acclimated to their new environment, dreaming about beach vacations, and a host of other crap that only affects me. Dear reader(s), I will one day spew forth humor. Until then, you'd better not freaking abandon me because unlike YOU, I did my stalker homework and I know where all of you live. I'm not above driving to your houses and reading poetry.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Crap From Elle's Mouth

In the spirit of having a lot going on, I thought I would dazzle y'all with my sister's Facebook Updates from the past few weeks instead of attempting to come up with something on my own and possibly spraining my brain:

  • I am SO churning my own butter right this minute
  • I've watched my step-cat chase a light beam on the garage door for half an hour. I wonder how much longer before he knocks himself unconscious, or if we'll even be that lucky.
  • I'm going to kill that teapot.
  • So a semi just breezed past me in the carpool lane...
  • Today feels like a day for possibilities. It's possible nothing could happen. It's possible a lot could happen. It's possible that I'll be content. It's even possible that I could break out in uncontrollable laughter at any given moment. It's possible I've tipped over into the "crazy sector". I wonder if that means I'm in a good mood.. Bless you, life.
  • I came home to find 4 brand new pairsof Irish socks. And a note from my sister, reprimanding me for my hobo feet. Only 23 pairs left to purchase. (those of you who don't know me -at all- I only wear Irish socks. All year. They wear out. My sister is the greatest.
  • I love it when my coffee mug has poorly written words matching the song playing in my head upon waking. My sister is awesome.

Those last two I just included because she talks about how awesome I am. In case you didn't know. Except that you did, because I just told you.

Anyone ever eaten lunch in a bus? Tomorrow, I'll be back to tell you all about it. 

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Tsunami Sushi Disaster

Not long ago, Elle introduced me to sushi. I'd always avoided it since the idea of chugging raw fish down my gullet sort of grossed me out. I envisioned sushi to be some sort of slimy, wet rubber matter and was never too keen on marking that off my bucket list.

Finally, Elle convinced me and we hit a popular little sushi place, I tried it, and it was awesome. I even took my nine year old and she loved it.

Anyway, that's the back story. The REAL story is what happened when Elle, Rawr and I tried to make our own last night. We had planned a girls night over at Rawr's and invited Shennanigan (whom you've yet to meet, but she's another gal in our neighborhood pack. She gave us a gang name, but if I tell you it'll be too easy to figure out where I live and then you guys wouldn't get the full stalking experience. Remember my disappointment in the Seattle trek?).

Shennanigan was busy being a supportive wife and mother while Elle, Rawr and I stormed her house, kicked her husband out and pretty much staked our claim. We even evicted the nine kids. We planned to really have a wild time.

Wild Time: [wahyld-tahym]  a particular period considered as distinct as from other periods. We broke Rawr, had a feline mishap and consumed many beers.


Except that our kids were slightly confused on what "go to Emily's house" means because we'd shovel them next door and come back to Rawr's only to turn around and find three of them standing there looking at us. It was a revolving door of children. We eventually gave up and just let them split between houses.

My 5 and Rawr's 4 were upstairs torturing Rawr's cat. The kitty is like, eight years old and hairy, and my 5 kept tossing her into the baby crib. The next thing we knew Elle was saying "The cat pooped in the baby crib and it's all over the clothes."

Have you ever seen anyone's brain visibly explode? It is quite a sight. Rawr is the OCD Clean Gal of the neighborhood. She's usually armed with some kind of cleaning utensil (vacuum, bottle of bleach, etc). She's particular about how things are (like I used to be, before my brain wore out) and I knew the cat poop thing would freak her the eff out.

I sprinted upstairs before Rawr's brain matter got on my shirt and assessed the situation. Yep. There's poop. And yep, it's touching clothes.

We stripped the bed, Rawr scooped her mind back into her cranium and we returned to the kitchen. And then the misbehaving of the kids began.

During this entire time we were attempting to create sushi. Have you ever done this? It's awesome, and it's hard. I had to have Rawr roll mine for me.

Things were progressing into a nightmare when Elle decided that what we needed was beer. And to put the kids to bed.

Things sort of even out a bit after that because Shennanigan showed up with her brood and we actually started eating the sushi.

Fast forward through good food, fun times and that kind of stuff.

After a few beers and most everyone had left, Rawr and I were sitting on her couch talking about housekeeping (what? We're women. We like clean stuff and we like it done to certain specifications).

Rawr's house is always spotless she'd just been telling me that her microwave was totally gross. I told her there was no way her microwave could be that dirty. Rawr was Blue Moon Courageous and encouraged me to open her microwave. So I did.

Oh. My. GAWD.

Ever watch Dirty Jobs? Did you see the episode where the toilet exploded? Yeah, only in food.

I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes. Dear readers, I have failed you because I wasn't brave enough to snap a photo. I should have braved Rawr's wrath and done it anyway. There were food stalactites growing from the roof of the microwave, and like forty seven layers of other stuff.

The reason I was laughing is because Rawr is such a particular housekeeper and I was relieved to know she is now human.

And about to be shut down by the FDA.




Thursday, February 2, 2012

Singing in the Rain

Have y'all heard this song?
It's Lady Antebellum singing Need You Now. Let's all listen and get our groove on. 




I expect that every one of you is bobbing your head to the tune, maybe even singing along since it was seriously overplayed for a while there. Quite possibly it was terribly catchy and popular for a reason, since this particular YouTube link has over nine million hits.

The lyrics are pretty country-typical with 


I wonder if I ever cross your mind
For me it happens all the time


It's a quarter after one
I'm all alone and I need you now


Said I wouldn't call but 
I've lost all control and I need you now


And so on... Sweet, right? They're separated for some reason but obviously still in love. I picture one of them wandering the streets of Paris looking lost and sad, the other sitting in the window seat of a New York City apartment, both staring at the same starry sky (kind of like Feival in An American Tail but less furry and more romantic).

And then.

Another shot of whiskey
Can't stop looking at the door


Oh. He's drinking. My vision changes to an Orange County Beach and some guy with a three day bead sitting on a stool in a dark stinky bar.


I wonder if I ever cross your mind
For me it happens all the time


It's a quarter after one 
and I'm a little drunk 
and I need you now

Oh. They're horny. Well... it happens. And now I'm picturing the chick sprawled in a vintage circa 1972 floral print couch and the guy sitting in his car with a half-drunk box of Costco wine on the seat next to him. Suddenly, this is less romantic and more pathetic.

The song goes on and whatever. I lose interest (although I heard this song about nine hundred times before I clued in to what was going on).

Now, keep all of that in your head.

Remember back to when Elle and I went to the Porn Store to meet our parents?

One small detail I left out was that my niece, my five year old niece, requested a song.

Niece 5: Mom? Um, can we hear I'm a Little Drunk and I Need you Now? Because I really just like that song.

I believe what you are hearing is a high-pitched scream that is exploding from my entire body.

I didn't judge my sister too harshly (though Elle would claim that I brought it up constantly over the next week and questioned every parenting move she made and basically called her a terrible person and that I threatened to install a nanny-cam but she's a compulsive liar).

I pretty much had no response when she brought up my 5's favorite song from when she was two.


CPS Note: I never once let her see the video. She just listened to the song. Have you ever seen a baby boogie to this? It's hilarious! If my hard drive hadn't crashed I'd post the video to prove it. Looks like you're going to have to take my word for it.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Bite It, Elle

 Does this, or does this not, look like spiderwebs?






Oh... wow that is a TERRIBLE photo. I forgot that steam + lens = crap picture.

I decided to make Elle's stuffed bell peppers tonight. She's made them a few times and I always manage to pack away mine, the leftovers, and three or four more later on. Then, usually I wake up in the middle of the night, drive to the store for ingredients and drive home high on onion fumes, hold Elle at nail file point and force her to make more so I can eat every single one of them in my own secret shame while the rest of the house sleeps.

Oh, stop judging me. I know that you, yes YOU right there, eat chocolate chips and animal cracker sandwiches in the dead of night and YOU over there, you can't say no to chocolate Teddy Grahms by the boxload. And you? YOU DISGUST ME, YOU. You know who you are. Three words. Garlic. Stuffed. Olives.



Okay, so lookit. Doesn't that look like rice, ground turkey, onions and SPIDER WEBS? I'm supposed to eat that? Maybe if I just dig around a little, a giant black widow will jump out at my face and eat my EYES.




I swirled it around a bit and became somewhat entranced by the sticky, webby gunk until I because grossly  enchanted. I mean, of course I was still going to eat this. I'd just wear sunglasses or something.

Then, I had an idea. Dude, I could totally make Elle pay for grossing me out. I'd make her a Spider Pepper. Check it out.



And I totally left that for her like that. Unfortunately, I have a 9 year old who also doubles as a Human Hoover, so she swung by and cleaned it up for me.