Monthly Archives: May 2008

Anonymous Can Go Suck It (aka the one where I say some very bad words and then move on to blather about nothing of consequence)

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Hey – I got another hate comment! This time, instead of racist garbage, it was this gem:

“Ey Gina, you look like a fat cow yourself, so what´s your fucking problem ugly bitch”

Isn’t that awesome?

You know, I’ll admit – at first I thought, “Ouch- that hurts.” but then I realized that Anonymous is a bitch ass fucking cunt and I felt better. I can’t help but wonder, though, what goes on in the mind of a person who leaves a comment like that on the blog of a person they (presumably) don’t even know, that they definitely don’t have to read. I think about how sad and pathetic an existence it must be to have to take pleasure from something like that. And I think about how I am, in fact, a fat cow, but that I can do something about it while unfortunately for Anonymous (and moreso, everyone around him/her), there is no cure for pathetic bitch ass fucking cunt.

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So, anyway.

Oh – and while we’re on the subject of assholes – two words: Sharon Stone. Seriously? I mean – do you really think that, given the number of innocent people – children – affected by the quake? Because I think I’d watch out for karma myself, if I were you.

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Also in the asshole files – did you hear about the Rachel Ray ad that got pulled? Apparently, in her latest commercial for Dunkin Donuts, she wore a scarf that Michelle Malkin and other crazy assholes thought looks like a kaffiyeh. So Dunkin Donuts won’t be airing the ad. Now, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Dunkin Donuts or Rachel Ray, so I don’t really care one way or another about the ad. But I do know that the reaction of some people over a scarf – a scarf – is way the hell overboard. It’s a scarf! And to decide that it represents all thing evil and anti-American and demand that it not be shown to the American public for fear we will all be killed in some sort of Dunkin Donuts Terrorist Uprising, is a little on the ultra-sensitive batshit crazy side. I mean, if you really want something to be offended by, here are a few no-brainers: George Bush, Racism, 46 million without health insurance, the boy who was voted out of his class by an asshole teacher, Iraq, the price of gas, the fact that women still only make about 77 cents to a mans dollar, the lack of affordable and acceptable care for the elderly, the earthquake victims, the still displaced Katrina victims, the 13 million American children going to bed hungry every night, the 300 million worldwide doing the same, the economy, the hundreds of thousands of people living in shelters or on the streets of one of the richest nations in the world, global warming, and once more for good measure – George Bush.

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Tomorrow is my first short Friday – yay! Actually, it will be even shorter, since I am taking off at 9:30 to go to the boy’s 5th grade awards ceremony. I wasn’t really planning on going, since – to be honest – I didn’t think he’d be getting anything. Because I am an awesome low expectations-having mom like that. So pony up that Super Supportive Mom of the Year Award right away, bitches! Actually, I really didn’t want to figure out how to swing work and getting there on time. But now that I have been offered the opportunity to work from home on summer Fridays, it’s a lot easier. As it turns out, he will actually get some awards – don’t get excited – most likely the generic, participation type and not the 5th Grade Genius kind. But I will be happy and proud anyway. Because I still display my Class Clown, Most Likely to Drive a College Professor Crazy and Most Talkative awards proudly.

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This weekend, my mom and aunt are having a yard sale. They do it every year and every year, my mom tries to get me to go and get rid of stuff, and every year, my laziness, pack-ratty-ness, and busy schedule prevent me from doing so. But this year, I have decided to gather up some stuff and go. I have some baby-type items, like a stroller and a toddler bed that are just taking up space and I have about a hundred billion books. My problem with books is that I don’t want to sell them cheap and people don’t want to pay more than $1. I mean – I love to read, so if I saw a $12 book for $5, I’d be all over that shit. But most folks aren’t like me (irrational and crazy). So, I’ll have to give in a little just to get my household out from under the mountain of books. The funny thing is that I have no problem giving them away. I’m just cheap if I try and sell them. I plan on taking my camera, because yard sales are a virtual weirdo carnival.

Besides, if I make a few bucks, it will help with a little vacation I have coming up. I am going to Virginia Beach for abut 5 days for my cousin’s graduation. And God help me – my mother is riding with me. And staying in the room with me. And I can definitely use some extra money for drinks.

Mornings Suck

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This is my second day of summer hours and – as I fully expected – it’s killing me. My company does this wonderful/horrible thing in the summer. They give us the option of keeping “summer hours” where we work longer hours Monday –Thursday and half days on Friday. The wonderful part? Friday. The horrible part? Monday-Thursday. Normally I work 8:00 – 4:30, but in the summer, I’m 7:30 – 5:00 M-TH and 7:30 – 11:30. This means I have to get out of the house earlier, as if getting out in time to be here by 8:00 isn’t difficult enough.

My morning obstacles:

The boy. Because, you see, eleven year old boys are slow. Horribly, achingly, watch paint dry kind of slow. For those of you who have never had an eleven year old boy, let me present you with this mathematical equation to help you understand:

Eleven year old boy minutes ≠ real minutes

You see, eleven year old boy minutes are more like football minutes – they last much longer than actual minutes. How long does it take you to put on your socks and shoes? 3 minutes, tops? Well, in eleven year old boy minutes, that’s seventeen and a half minutes. There’s two minutes of sitting and doing nothing, two minutes of “looking for his shoes” (aka more doing nothing), there’s 30 seconds of “Put your socks and shoes on” “I am”. Then the next two minutes involve you leaving the room to get his sister’s stuff together and coming back in to discover that he has one sock on. Halfway.

Then there’s some more “Shoes and socks” “I am!. Then another two minutes of getting the other sock on. Next up comes “where are your shoes?” “I’m looking for them” “I thought you just looked for them” “that was my socks” “what do you mean – your socks were right next to you” “I’m sorry, mom” The tone on that last one implies that he is sorry not that he is so slow, but that he has an evil mother who makes him do terrible things like put his socks and shoes on. This takes another three and a half minutes.

The next five minutes involve leaving and entering the room several times, being dismayed about the lack of shoes being on feet, threats, acting put-upon, and finally, blessedly some shoes.

Add this to the fact that we have to go through this same routine with clothes, backpack, instruments, homework and karate gear, and you have Getting Ready With An Eleven Year Old Boy.

Next up – the girl. Now she’s a little easier, since she is usually sleeping when it’s time to go and I can pick her up and carry her out to the car. However, if she wakes up and notices that I have deigned to pack clothes for her (or shoes – oh God – especially the shoes) that do not live up to her standards for that day (which change daily, of course – what good is a predictable diva?), all hell will be breaking loose forthwith. A little fashion obsessed, stubborn, screamy princess bomb will be going off and you will be hit with the shrapnel. Watch out. This is where mind reading would come in handy.

Today, there was extra added fun, since my earlier days mean that mr b and I are getting ready at the same time. This would be fun on it’s own, but it’s super bonus fun because he watches me stress out over the morning routine (and I haven’t; even mentioned the disaster of a mess I found the boy’s room to be, after I washed and folded all of his clothes) and then tell me that I shouldn’t get stressed and upset, which is totally awesome of him, considering that he is not the one wrangling kids at the buttcrack of dawn, getting everyone ready and dropping them off at my parents’ house. And I especially love when I complain about running late and then he leaves, rather than perhaps take an extra five minutes and help me out. That’s my favorite. But I wouldn’t want him to miss his morning stop for coffee or cigarettes now would I?

The loser in all of this is me, because I always end up with either my hair or makeup in disarray or my clothes looking like an eleven year old boy dressed me. Today, for instance, I am wearing a dress that – when standing – looks OK. But since I have lost weight, it turns out that when I sit, the cleavage drops a good two inches. So I am spending the day looking like Boobula Von SagginHooters, Crown Princess of Titswana. Hot!

And since I already get up at StillLastNight O’Clock, the first person that tells me to just get up earlier gets punched in the face.

No Picnics – Yay!

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I love holiday weekends, but they always seem to fly by. This year, no one had any picnics or parties that we had to go to and that’s jus the way I like it. I’m so busy all the time that when a weekend or holiday rolls around, I really like to spend it relaxing and/or getting all the things done that I have been neglecting since I’m so busy. The last thing I feel like doing is driving all the way to some far-off relative’s house with two kids playing a rousing game of Who Is More Annoying in the back seat. And then you have to make something to bring – ugh. I don’t know why, but I can make food at home and it costs a normal amount of money. But anytime I make something to take to a party, it’s like the grocery store replaced all the potatoes and peppers with diamonds and crude oil. And then either 1) no one eats it and I feel bad, or b) everyone eats it and then they ask me to bring it for every future party ever, at which point I wish they had all hated it, so next time I can bring chips.

But not this year, baby. This year, I honored America’s veterans by doing my laundry. And laying in the hammock (and flipping surreptitious birds at the neighbors). We also went to see Prince Caspian Sunday night. It was pretty good. But the best thing in the movie? Pierfrancesco Favino. Mmmmmmm. . .

After the movie, we had planned on going to eat, but the movie was thirty-four thousand hours long, so we settled for Steak and Shake drive through. I may have cried actual tears over the smell of those tiny little fries, but I didn’t partake. I got a grilled chicken sandwich, since I have to get back on the Weight Watchers track (19 lbs so far). I don’t generally like the way sandwiched come in fast food places, so I ordered it with pickles and lettuce only. And when I got it, it had mayo and tomatoes and onions, too. I walked back to the drive through window and told them it was wrong (if it hadn’t been for the mayo, I would have just picked the stuff off, but mayo makes me puke). Anyway, I told the guy that I ordered pickles and lettuce, but that it had mayo and tomatoes and onions. And he looked at me in all seriousness and said, “But that’s how it comes.” I understand that. That’s why I specifically ordered it with lettuce and pickles ONLY, you jackass! (the jackass part was said silently, since I would prefer my chicken sandwich also without saliva). It only took two more rounds of “that’s how it comes/that’s why I special ordered it” before the mental giant understood. So that was fun.

Oh – and to my future wives – regarding my beach brawl story? I can’t belive I forgot the bets part – I was wearing a batgirl mask during the whole thing. Here’s the tale in it’s entirety, if you’re interested. And the aftermath.

The Future Mrs. Ginas

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I went to the Burgh mom meet last night and had more fun than I have had in a long time. It was so nice to get together with this group of smart, sweet, funny, crazy sexy women. And I tell you, as soon as polygamous, non-sexual lesbian marriage becomes available here in PA, I am so ready!

We met at a local restaurant/brewery (Dear Beer – Oh how I have missed you – Love, Gina). Here’s how each of our arrivals went:

Hostess (after she talked to her girlfriend for 3 minutes while ignoring customers): “Can I help you?”

Burgh mom: “Yes – I’m meeting a group of people, but I don’t know the name on the reservation.”

Hostess: “Hmmpphh…the person making the reservation should really tell you these things.”

Burgh Mom: (thinking) Bite me.

Happily, we all managed to find each other, despite having never met, not remembering names and only seeing sad little photos on each other’s profiles. Dinner was great and the company was even better. Our waiter, bless his heart [this is where those of you who have ever a) had a grandma, b) met a grandma, or c) are from the south know that something is coming, since you can say anything about a person as long as you preface it with “bless his heart”]. Anyway, our waiter – bless his heart – was an idiot. He spilled every drink he brought to the table. The first being a glass of wine that he actually dropped on the floor, soaking several people in the process. After that, he splashed every drink he set down, forgot things, disappeared for ages, screwed up checks, and actually fell down at one point. Sadly, the latter was done out of our photographic reaches. Because you know that would have totally been my new page header.

It was a great time and I can’t wait to do it again. Everyone was really nice and at least a couple of them didn’t even find me entirely trashy and repulsive. I think – for all I know, they went home and cried themselves to sleep over the horribleness that was me and my big mouth and my bad language and my completely batshit crazy confusions of Japanese and Spanish. Ladies, I swear, I’m not as redneck as that made me sound (“All a them dang foreigners is the same – pass the pork rinds, Bubba”). Really, I’m just stupid.

Here are the Burgh moms (also known as the future Mrs. Ginas):

Here are the Burgh moms with really creepy baby eyes:

Two of my future wives ordered carrot cake and were served scary, giant, freak show sized slabs of it. I didn’t get photos, because who wants a photo of themselves shoveling scary, giant, freak show sized slabs of cake in their face? But I did preserve it in this incredibly lifelike drawing:
The only bad side of the night was when I left and my gas tank was empty so I headed to the GetGo. But what the holy hell – they were closed! Because it makes perfect sense that the convenience store/gas station in the center of one of the most crowded, busiest areas in the city would be closed. On a Friday night. Genius! So I had to head to the next nearest station, which is located in a not-so-great area of town. But hey – I’m a big girl – it’s not a problem. But I pull up and discover that the mini-mart is completely empty and the gas station is now being run out of a trailer. A trailer on blocks.

Then I came home to discover that my previously unmentioned “ant situation” had reached Terror Alert: Orange

Also – the stupid cat spent the next 2 hours refusing to shut his stupid mousehole!

But all in all, it was a great night.

Free George Michael!

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So I watched American Idol last night and the biggest reaction I had all night was, “What the holy HELL happened to George Michael?”

Because the George Michael I know – the Former Future I Don’t Care If He’s Gay Mr. Gina looked like this:

And yet last night, someone obviously pretending to be George Michael because he did not look like that showed up on American Idol, hoping we’d all believe that it was the real George Michael. Well, I’ll tell you this, Mr. Pretend Former Future I Don’t Care If He’s Gay Mr. Gina – I am on to you. You’re not fooling me. I am hip to your jive! (and clearly, very, very old, because “hip to your jive?”). But even though I am very, very old, I am still not falling for your bad impersonation. You can sound like him all you want, but I know you have the real Former Future I Don’t Care If He’s Gay Mr. Gina locked in your basement. And to that I say, “Free George Michael!” In the meantime, I’ll be over at Bravo watching the new Future I Don’t Care If He’s a Prick Mr. Gina Bourdain:
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Also:
Dear Miss Carrie Underwood,
Seriously? That is what you’re wearing tonight? No, seriously? For real? Are you taking advice from Paula? Because she’s about one gin and oxycontin smoothie away from the nuthouse. So you should really get some help with that wardrobe. I’ll bet George Michael could help you.
Love, Gina
P.S. The real George Michael, not that fake one that was there last night.

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Last night they showed a couple of girls in the audience wearing “Team David” shirts. You tell me: Playing Both Sides or Not The Brightest Bulbs In The Chandelier?

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As for the American Idol results, I think the right guy won. Little David has a lovely voice, but I can’t imagine actually buying anything he records. Or leaving the radio on when they play something he records. Or listening to a radio station that would actually play something he recorded. But to each his own. Mr. Archuleta, meet Mr. Aiken.

Giant Head David, however, I could actually listen to. But he creeps me out a little. He reminds me of someone I used to date. A guy who was a on and off boyfriend for years – on because I had deep feelings for him and had a great time with him. Off because the sexual attraction wasn’t all there and always felt a little creepy and just wrong. That’s how David Cook affects me – one minute I think, he’s kind of sexy, and the next, I throw up a little in my mouth and feel dirty and ashamed. But then I get over it because – let’s be honest – I went to college and I’m used to that by now.

Screw Titles…

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In this age of mommyblogging, I sometimes find myself feeling guilty that I don’t talk about my kids more. Especially when I find myself with nothing to say. But somehow, it’s just not my thing. Sure, I love them to death and I think they are cute and smart and amazing. But when it comes time to sit down and talk about them here, I find myself leaning not towards the cute and smart and amazing, but the cranky and whiny and loud. Because smart, stubborn four year old girls? Cranky, whiny and loud.

But they’re also very cute when they want to be, so maybe I should mention it now and then. Ever since the girl could talk, she’s been singing. She sings every song she knows and many she doesn’t. but the best songs are the ones she writes herself. We’ve had The Grass Song (“It’s a song about grass, it’s the grass song. . .”), The I Love Mom Song (“I love Mom, she’s the best, I love her, I love her hair. . .”), The Poop Song (“Poop, poop, poop, poop, Rocky poops, Angus poops, everybody poops, poop, poop, poop. . .”), and may more soon to be classics. But lately her songs have been changing to All Love Songs All the Time.

She now sings heart wrenching love ballads that have lots of “Baby” and “Oh Baby” and “I love you, Baby” in them. Since mr b and I are more likely to call each other “Scrotum” than “Baby”, I’m not sure where all the “Baby” is coming from. But she loves nothing more than to sit with her guitar and sing about “her baby.” Her most recent songwriting effort was called “I Want it Back”. It went, “I want my life back, Oh Baby, I want it back, I want everything back since you broke my heart. . .”

I’ve mentioned before that she is a little boy crazy. And she loves the older men. Like 8 year old Roman. And 11 year old Luke (to whom she recently wrote a love letter), and Troy. And Sayid (I can’t blame her on that one). I guess she gets the older men thing (along with a lot of other things) from me. Which is how I know that my mother’s “I Hope You Have Kids Just Like You” curse worked. Oh baby. We’re alike in a lot of ways – looks ebing right on top. . .

My girl (and boy – I didn’t forget about him – I’ll talk about “11 year old boy minutes” another day):

Me (in my best photo ever):

Also – a conversation:

The Girl: Mom – when is Disney?

Gina: In October.

The Girl: I can’t wait.

Gina: Me either. What are you looking forward to?

The Girl: Belle! And Ariel!

Gina: What about rides? You’ll be big enough to ride some cool stuff this year, like Soarin’

The Girl: I don’t wan to ride that.

Gina: Why not?

The Girl: I don’t like Whorin’.

Gina: Soarin’. And how do you jnow you dont like it if you haven’t done it? It’s not scary.

The Girl: No – you can ride Whorin’. I’ll wait.

Gina: But I want you to ride with me.

The Girl: No. Whorin’ in your favorite, so you can do it. I’m not doing it. You can.

Gina: Aww, come on!
The Girl: Nope – You love Whorin’.

Gina: Well, I used to, anyway. . .

Rain + Camping = Mess

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Dear Mother Nature,
I’m all set with the rain, thanks.
Love, Gina

So very sick of rain. The boy had a campout this weekend and I am studiously avoiding the pile of dirty, muddy, wet clothes he brought home with him. The campout was in conjunction with a civil war reenactment & encampment. The kids spent weeks building replica guns, since they were getting a chance to be a part of the reenactment battle. Sadly, it wasn’t to be, as the Confederate Army did not show up. Damned dirty rebs.


Note in the photo above the very authentic Kool-Aid mustache, circa 1863