Monthly Archives: March 2008


This weekend, mr b got the kids’ closets done. I was thrilled, thinking that it was the best weekend ever, since I could finally get the seven bajillion loads of laundry put away. That is, until about the 3rd load, at which time “the best weekend ever” involved having finished closets, plus some sort of laundry elves or gnomes or fairies who would actually do it for me. So, it didn’t all get done, but I am making steady progress.

In between making 12 billion trips up and down the stairs and calling my washing machine a bitch, I watched movies.

I took the kids to see Horton Hears a Who. It was pretty cute. I love Dr. Seuss, so I was hoping to love the movie. Not quite loved, but I liked it. It just seemed like there was something missing for me – that special quality you see in a Dinsey or Pixar movie that makes you want to see it again. Or maybe it was just that Dr. Seuss is more charming in book form. I don’t know. But at least it wasn’t the flaming ass that is the live action Seuss films, so I’ll still give a B. It was cute. And speaking of cute – after the movie was over, the girl told me that she thought Jojo Who was “handsome”:

Great – that kid looks like trouble. I’m sure her dad will be thrilled when she brings home some moody little emo punk. Oh, and also – between admission, lunch, drinks and popcorn, I spent approximately 17 thousand dollars

We also watched August Rush, which the boy has been wanting to see. Meh. I know I was supposed to find it heartwarming, but to be honest I thought that kid was creepy. Actually, for the first 30 minutes, I was sure he was mentally challenged. After I figured out that he was not, I found him creepy, what with the weird-ass “conducting” of buses and garbage and subway exhaust. And while I can buy musical genius and being able to immediately play instruments by ear, I was totally not buying the 45 seconds from “these are notes” to the Rain Man symphony writing. The preposterousness of the forged adoption papers thing was just too much. And the whole thing with his mother and the “I hear him” crap – bleh. Maybe it would have been a little more believable if they had shown a little of it, but of course then it would have been nine hours long and I already want at least 30 minutes of it back, so no. The only really good part was that it had some cool music and that Jonathan Rhys Meyers is sexy. Mmm.

By far, the best movie I watched this weekend was on cable – Can’t Stop the Music. Disco with a side of cheese, topped with gay sauce. Who wouldn’t love that?

And I’ve decided – I’m totally going to live out this movie. I plan on writing songs about the Days Inn in Asheville, Coke Zero and my dog’s ass and I will head out into the streets to throw together a “band”. But since a) the construction worker and cop are cliché, b) I just can’t abuse a soldier in that fashion, c) peta wouldn’t approve of the leather guy, d) Trace Adkins and Kix Brooks are already taken, so the cowboy is out, and e) you just don’t see too many full headdress-wearing Native Americans on Forbes Avenue these days, I’m thinking:

– UPS delivery man
– Priest
– Former dotcom bigwig now working as administrative assistant
– Homeless guy
– Podiatrist
– Fidel Castro (since he’s free and all)

What do you think? Is this not the perfect plan?

Because seriously. Who wouldn’t want to recreate the genius that gave us this:

And this:
And this:
And this:
And this:
Hey – what do you expect from a girl who wore velvet knickers and headbands

The Reason No One Asks Me for Fashion Tips…

For a while now, I have been planning on humiliating myself once I drag my old photos out of storage. And there are so many options: The plaid taffeta, the tuxedo, the neon bandanna, the backwards collar dress, the femullet. It’s really hard to narrow down, so I will most likely embarrass myself again and again once I have the chance. But digging through a drawer this morning, I found something to give you a little taste of what will (eventually) come. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sadly proud to present….

Junior High Christmas Dance, circa 1980
(click on the photo to see it in it’s full glory)

Thursday Thirteen


I’m jumping on the Thursday Thirteen train, since I can barely think of anything to say Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday…you get the picture. Anyway:

Thirteen Things I was thinking about my senior year of high school

1. Acid Rain. Remember that? I mean, I know it still exists and all, but back in the 70s and 80s, it was a hot topic. It was my teenaged generation’s global warming. And since I was all about the environment (you know, like, as long as I didn’t have to like stop driving my ‘vette [it was of the “che-“ variety], or eating Quarter Pounders in their Styrofoam containers, or stop burning a giant hole in the ozone layer with my daily half-can of Aqua-net) and wanted to save the Earth, my senior chemistry project was on acid rain. My partner and I got three plants and three goldfish and used distilled water, tap water and rain water for each. It was pretty cool, but I started feeling bad for acidfish and saved him. And “extrapolated” his condition for the last two weeks.

2. How awesome my rack looked. Except for in my swim team bathing suit. NOT flattering. Also not flattering? A diver being made to swim and almost drowning.

3. How unique (and not at all pretentious) I was by singing Papa Can You Hear Me in the spring concert, and Gesu Bambino in the Christmas concert. Entirely in Italian.

4. I can drink in Europe. Legally!! When do we leave?

5. What toiletries can I replace with booze and go unnoticed on the band Disney trip.

6. I am not in the band. I’m a majorette. Big difference. And my uniform is so gay.

7. Sex!!

8. Steve Perry is a genius.

9. Getting the best prom gown, ever. Because if I have to sing that crap, Ice Castles, I’m damned well going to look good. Of course, if my jackass boyfriend would listen to me and realize that white tuxes are what jackasses wear, I’d look even better.

10. Tom Selleck is a FOX. See – I haven’t changed that much.

11. I wonder what Old Grandad tastes like mixed with kool-aid. Hedge?

12. I’m so glad I can eat anything I want and not get fat.

13. College is gonna be a breeze!

How To…


How to feel old:

Watch American Idol on “Songs from the Year You Were Born” Night. Nothing makes you feel like an old geezer quite like being reminded that some of these people (All but one of whom are chronological adults. And several of whom are married) were just being born while you were out drinking and smoking and having sex. Well, expect for that one guy. You may have only been ten when he was born. You know, if you were telling your age (which everybody knows anyway).

How to be a diva. Or perhaps, Mrs. Howell:

How to be the next Mickey Hart*:

*OK, clearly, I don’t know many drummers and I narrowed it down from Phil Collins (who makes me want to stab myself), Rick Allen (who only has one arm and who wants to wish that on their kid?) and Tommy Lee (and speaking of things one doesn’t want to wish on their kid: Pam Anderson, Hepatitis and crabs)

How to crack you mother up (and simultaneously make her feel guilty for her vocabulary):

“Bean – why is the dog barking? Can you look and see if someone is coming”

“OK, Mom. Stop barking! There’s no one coming, you jackass

How to put your foot in your mouth while watching a commercial for Moment of Truth:

“Asking a question like ‘have you ever regretted marring your spouse is unfair.”


“Because it’s a rock/hard place question. No one wants to admit it, but everyone has thought that at some point in their marriage”

I haven’t”

Jeez – next you’ll be telling me that not everyone has plotted their spouse’s death. And set up their BFF as an alibi (Hi, Hedge!)

(For the record, I think he’s lying. I know I’m a bitch.)

How to be the world’s worst photographer:
Take Easter photo with “Cops” on in the background…

Because nothing says, “Jesus Lives” quite like a televised drunk driving arrest.

How to look insane:

Chocolate Bunnies Everywhere Fear for Their Lives


Today is my first day back in the office after a busy and somewhat stressful weekend. I can always gauge how stressful my weekend was by the feeling I get when I walk through the office door. Most Mondays are the “ewwww, work” variety – that means it was a pretty normal weekend – some fun, some relaxing, with a touch of sibling annoyance and husband pain mixed in. but after weekend like this one, I walk through the office door and my blood pressure actually goes down. Because even though I have to work and even though I have to deal with a pain in the ass coworker and even though I have my fat ass crammed into pantyhose, by God, I will not hear, “He’s touching my stuff!”, “I just wanna see it!”, “Stop it!”, “You’re mean!”, “I’m telling!”, “Go AWAY!”, or “STOP TOUCHING ME!!!!!!” SO, yay, work!

Plus, when I got in this morning, I saw a package on the front counter for me and who doesn’t like a surprise mystery package, assuming it’s not filed with dog shit and snakes? And it was most certainly not filled with dog shit and snakes, but with two cool cds and some delicious-smelling chocolate soap. YAY!! But I have to say:

Dear Stacy,
You rock. Especially the part where you put the note in telling me not to eat the soap. Because I read it at the last minute and was very near shoving it all into my big, gaping piehole. Love and kisses,


Friday I worked from home and we had an extra child in the house – our nephew, Dil (great nephew actually, but I didn’t say that since it makes me sound as old as dirt, when in actuality, though I am as old as dirt, it’s mr b who is three days older than turpentine and can say he has a great nephew. Also – did anyone get the turpentine reference? If so, I will love you forever)

Anyway, having an extra child in the house can be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it keeps the kids busy having someone else to play with. A curse because – hello – it’s an extra kid in the house. The girl was thrilled to have him there, since they are close in age and she adores him. The boy, I figured would ignore the presence of another rugrat and play wii or something. But no, even though he won’t play with his sister and probably wouldn’t play with Dil if were actually his brother, he thought it was great fun playing with him on Friday, much to the dismay of the girl, who wanted Dil to herself. I suspect this added to the boy’s enjoyment. At one point, they were playing light sabers and she was pissed off at being left out and she kept telling them “it’s time for another game now”. When that didn’t work, she came over tot where I was working asked me for a pencil. I gave it to her and went on working. Then she asked for some paper. Again, I gave it to her and went back to working. Then she asked if I could write something for her. I was distracted since I was working, but I took the paper and pencil and asked her what she needed me to write. The answer? “This game is over. Mom said.”


Saturday and Easter were pretty uneventful, but busy. There was shopping and cooking and ironing and cleaning and visiting and chocolate and wine. And I made this salad, which you should go home and make right now because it is fantastic.

Then yesterday, I had to work from home again, since school and daycare were closed. And as with Friday, there was lots of “He’s touching my stuff!”, “I just wanna see it!”, “Stop it!”, “You’re mean!”, “I’m telling!”, “Go AWAY!”, or “STOP TOUCHING ME!!!!!!” So, by the time the girl started screaming bloody murder, I pretty much was all boy who cried wolf-ed out and I responded with a frustrated, “What?!? What is it now?” And then I saw her clutching her face and staggering around the room. Turns out she had sprayed perfume in her face and eyes. I grabbed her and threw her I the tub and started spraying and rinsing her eyes as best as I could, with he fighting and kicking and screaming. And you know how hard it is to open your eyes when they are burning, so I’m not sure how effective it was. I also tried to wash the perfume off her face since she reeked. I had her in the tub, rinsing her eyes for about 15 minutes, then got her out and called the doctor. They said she would probably be fine, but to call poison control. They also thought she would be fine, but damn did she give me scare. Herself too. The poor thing was in pain and crying and she couldn’t open her eyes for a good while. And her face got red and blotchy from the perfume, with her left eye, especially swelled up and looked like a red plum. Good times.

I intend to heal myself psychologically by gnawing the head off a chocolate bunny and celebrating my few hours of quiet and data management.

Not Your Sweetie


Mr b and the kids and I recently went out to Eat n Park for dinner and the waitress kept calling me sweetie and honey and babe. This is something that has always pissed me off. I’m not a particularly formal person, but I don’t care for terms f endearment from someone not sear to me. I find it patronizing and insulting. But I generally keep my mouth shut, because I don’t want to come off as a pompous bitch. Instead, I usually come off as a juvenile, since I tend to answer questions like “how’s your salad, Honey?” with a big smile and a cheery, “It’s great, Sweetcheeks!” or, “Awesome, Lovemuffin” (I’m saving up Sugartits for when I really need it). Anyway, this usually does the trick.

On this particular night, though, I was planning my “Can I get some ketchup, Schmoopy?”, but never got a chance, since the next time she came by, she spoke with mr b – “Do you need more iced tea, Sir?”

Cue needle on record sound…

Excuse me, but Sir? Sir??

I’m Sweetie, Honey and Babe and he is Sir?

You know, if she had been an elderly man, I may be a little less bothered by it. I almost expect it – the concept of “the little woman”, but I have been finding that women are often just as, if not more, sexist than men. I’m tired of giving the check pointedly handed to him. I’m tired of salespeople speaking more to him than me. I’m tired of arguing with customer service people to no avail while he can get results in minutes. I can order my own tires, thank you very much. I can pick out the paint colors all by myself. Don’t tell me about how my husband “has a wife and kids to take care of”, because it’s I who does most of the taking care. Don’t try to sell me credit card insurance so we’re covered if “my husband should lose his job”. I don’t need a pink hammer or (god help me) a pink Steelers jersey. If I’m going to be driving it, tell me about the gas mileage in that model of car, and not the makeup mirrors. No – I don’t want a white zinfandel, I’ll have a Guiness, please. Hard as it may be to believe, I make more money, I have more education and I deserve the same respect, regardless of what parts I have. And if you aren’t married to me, and you’re not my grandma, then goddamit, I am not your Sweetie, Honey or Babe.

I’m not sure why I still find myself amazed at some of the comments I hear from people who are not voting for Hillary Clinton. Don’t get me wrong – many people have legitimate, intelligent opinions on the candidates’ policies and ideas. But I’m talking about the other ones. The ones who – no matter how vehemently deny it – will not be voting for Hillary simply because she has a vagina. The “I don’t think the country is ready for a female president (translation: I don’t want a woman in office) or the “She’s not nurturing enough” (translation: she’s hard and manly, and should be more feminine, like a real woman who should be at home and not in office), or the “She couldn’t even control her husband, how can she run a country (translation: I don’t even know how to translate this one, but it sure has a whiff of honor killing, doesn’t it? I mean – it surely is her fault he cheated, right? So let’s keep her out of office for being so ugly and sucky) and the “we can’t have a woman president because Middle Eastern countries wouldn’t deal with it well (translation: I am a fucking idiot. I mean, good-ole boy petroleum lobby much? Because first off – way to endorse a way of life that not only oppresses women, but completely dismisses them and often enslaves and harms them in ways both physically and psychologically. And as for them not liking it? Fuck them. They can either deal with it or not, but the last time I checked, citizens of the middle eat do not get to vote in our elections. Besides, maybe having a leader that they “won’t deal with” will give us the push we need to get the hell out from under the suffocating control of all things oil. If having a woman in office will leads to some serious thinking and action regarding alternative energy, count me the fuck in.)

And this ? Is this how low we are sinking? Are we so afraid of having a woman in a position of power that we are willing to ignore her viewpoints and ideas and instead focus on humiliating her over her husband’s inability to keep his dick in his pant while he balanced the budget, raised employment rates, reduced poverty and signed the Family and Medical Leave Act?

Look – I’m not saying that you should vote for Hillary because she is a woman – that’s as bad as saying you won’t vote for her because she is a woman. I’m not even saying you should vote for Hillary at all. What I’m saying is that you should vote for a candidate and not their gentials. We’re too good for that.