Monthly Archives: May 2009

Tragically Unhip


During the drunken old lady trampoline extravaganza:

The boy: Ouch I hurt my ankle!

Hedge: Ooo, I know – rice!

Gina: What?

Hedge: You know, RICE. RICE? For sprains?

Gina: I have no idea.

Hedge: Duh – RIIIIIIIIIICE – wrap, ice, compression, elevate.

Gina: Wrap?

Hedge: Yeah, wrap….oooohhh, yeah. What the hell is the R for, then?

Gina: Maybe it is rap.

Hedge: Wrap – W.

Gina: I know, but maybe it’s RAP, I mean – that might distract you from the pain.

Hedge: Oh, you mean rap like…uh…

Gina: Yeah…um…

Hedge: …………

Gina: …um…….

Hedge:….Yo Yo Yo…er

Gina: …yeah yeah…getcha

Hedge: boom chicka…

Gina: We are so white

Hedge: And old. Don’t forget old. You have any Tom Jones?

I’m Cheerful Today. WTF?


Today was the first day of summer hours, and I was actually happy this morning. WTF? I came skipping into work at 7:20am all cheerful and shit. I think we can all rest assured that that won’t last.

Who knows why the fuck I’m so happy. I mean – I’m coming into work earlier, leaving later, and I couldn’t sleep for shit last night. And some dude almost wrecked into me on the way in during his epic I Am A Dickhead traffic maneuver. And immediately afterward, I got stuck in a traffic jam caused by two assholes having an asshole contest. And I looked at myself in the mirrored elevator doors and discovered that my selection of pants gives me polterwang. I should be a way bigger bitch than usual. And yet I’m cheerful!! Talk to me at 10:30.

The good mood can probably be at least partially attributed to the fact that I had a nice, relaxing weekend. I am usually being pulled in so many directions, especially during holidays. And this time around, there were no picnics or parties that had to rush around to, and as much as I love a good party, I loved no party even more. I still visited and cooked out and did stuff, but it was all on my terms, and oh how I love it when it’s all on my terms!!

My cousin Lala came over on Friday with the cutest baby around, who was named after me (in my head). I loved having him at my house without the whole family around, so I don’t have to fight with everyone to get my hands on him. I mean – I had to fight my kids, but I am bigger than them and control their computer time and food supply, so whatever – I win! I got to nibble on tiny toes all I wanted, and Baby Gina (in my head) had a great time visiting and watching me drink a shitload of beer. Although I have to say, the kid wasn’t much help around the house. I mean, the least he could have done was pick up some dirty dishes or fetch me a beer, right? Raise your kid right, Lala!

Saturday…I can’t remember Saturday. There were stitches (mr b) and hockey and beer. That’s all I know. Oh, and I danced with the dog a little. He kind of hates it, but I think that’s only because he’s a shitty dancer and totally has four left feet. But I dance with him anyway because 1) he’s a dog and I don’t give a shit whether he likes it or not because if dogs are not for dancing, then what good are they??, and 2) because if there is anyone out there whose dancing makes mine look good, then by god, I will be dancing with them.

Speaking of beer-fetching, Hedge came over on Sunday night, and we were sitting on the porch drinking when The Girl came out and asked if she could get us a beer. Hedge, whose children are clearly not properly trained in beer-fetching, teared up and whispered, “Oh! She’s precious.” Of course, having a beer-fetching child has it’s downside, since laziness often helps slow down the drinking (because you’re over here and the beer’s over there), but when you have an eager beer-fetcher, it was only about 20 minutes in before we were yelling at passing cars like the crazy old lady that lives next to your grandma and has baby dolls hanging from nooses in her trees and wears her nightgown outside, backwards, and steals your ball when it goes in her yard.

And it was only 40 minutes before we decided that jumping on the trampoline in the pitch black darkness was a great idea. And it totally was. You know, in my head, I can still do all the same flips and tricks I would do when I was a (hot, skinny) 16 year old gymnast. And I totally would have been able to if it wasn’t dark, and the trampoline wasn’t wet, and the kids weren’t in the way. Plus I didn’t want to make Hedge feel bad in the face of my superior athleticism.

OK, fine, I’m old and fat and I’ve had a couple of kids and I was afraid I’d pee myself. I hope you’re happy now!! But other than that, I totally could have pulled it off.

I have photos, but I won’t be sharing them since we look approximately exactly like you would expect two drunk middle aged ladies jumping on a trampoline to look. And I might need Hedge for an alibi sometime in the future and I can’t afford to piss her off. If I get drunk enough this week, maybe I’ll share my mid-front flip action shot. I know your lives won’t be the same without it.

Monday, the boy had to get up for Scouts and Band participation in the Memorial Day services. For the past…oh…6000 years, I have been the one getting up at the crack of dawn to do this but this time was mr b’s turn. By which I mean, I still got up to make sure everyone was up and getting ready, fretted over the fact that mr b had no clue of when to be there, got the girl up and ready, and headed out in time to make it to the main service (they go to each local memorial) and then listen to mr b sigh all martyr-like about having one more service while I whole-heartedly didn’t give a shit.

I continued to not give a shit, and went home to lie around, drink beer and eat everything I wanted, since today is D-Day and I need to lose 70 pounds by June 10th. I’m sure I can do it. I mean, I am already 5 ½ hours into my day and I drank half my water and ate a disgusting yogurt, so I expect I should be down about 16 pounds already. I’m nothing if not optimistic.

Also on Monday, I couldn’t find the remote, and since I forget the days of when you walked to the TV and changed channels I watched a whole bunch of shows like Monsterquest, which are basically modern day In Search Of* where they look for the yeti and the chupacabra and mothman and the kraken and shit. And they should just call that show We Can’t Find It, because here’s how the show goes: they talk about some creature, then they show some drawings of the creature from 1870, then they have reenactments or people seeing the creature, then they talk to scientists who are like, HAHAHAHAHA and then they send some dudes into the wilderness with cameras, and they walk around all, “it could totally be right around that bend,” and then they interview some 1) crazy people, 2) tribal elders, or 3) some guy that wrote a book and wears an aluminum foil hat, and then they set up a trap with a night camera and they wake up in the morning to find a cat or a raccoon in it, and then ****SPOILER ALERT**** They cant find it.

* anyone else old enough to remember In Search Of?

Handicap Parking


On Sunday, I had to go to Walmart to get something, and it was (as usual on a nice weekend day) crowded. I parked out in Goofy 6, and got walking. As I got up near the very front spots, I watched as a car came flying around the bed and into a handicapped spot. The driver, a teenaged girl, dug around in the glove compartment, pulled out a handicapped tag, and hung it from her mirror. Then she and her friend jumped out of the car, and skipped and ran into the store. It took everything in my power not to hunt them down and punch them in the face. Years ago, I probably would have spoken up and said something to them, but since then, I have learned that there are often unseen handicaps – heart problems, etc. So now I try to give people the benefit of the doubt and seethe silently.

But deep down, I know these girls weren’t handicapped. They were using grandma’s tag so they didn’t have to walk more than 20 feet into the store, and it made me sick. Since it was crowded, even the handicapped spots were at a premium (and since Walmart has a high ratio of them, a clear sign of the of the rampant abuse of handicapped tags), and these girls took one, perhaps forcing someone else who really is handicapped to park out by me in Goofy 6.

This has always bothered me – I have never, and would never, park in a handicapped spot. Years ago when I saw it happen, I got indignant over the principle, the scoffing at the rules, the sense of entitlement. But now it goes deeper. Now, all I can think about is the person that may be hurt by this type of behavior. Because I have been there.

After mr b’s accident (he fell off a 2 story roof and completely shattered his feet), he was in a wheelchair (and then walker, crutches, cane) for quite some time. In the beginning, even after he came home from the nursing home, he couldn’t put any pressure or movement at all on his feet – he couldn’t even ride in a car, since it could bounce his feet around. If he needed to go somewhere, we had to borrow a wheelchair-fitted van from a friend. While this friend was always happy to help us out, he was a relatively new friend, and we didn’t want to take advantage, so we kept it to a minimum, only asking him when there was a doctor’s appointment. Our house was small, and his wheelchair couldn’t fit through doorways, so he was confined to a hospital bed in the breakfast room or the couch. He couldn’t get into the bathroom, so he had to take sponge baths. It was a terrible time for him both physically and emotionally.

So by the time he could finally ride in a car, he was so very ready to get out of the house. You don’t appreciate freedom until you don’t have it. So, I’d get him down the ramp that we built, and he’s struggle into the car, trying not to bump his feet. Then, I’d have to lift the wheelchair into the trunk. And being that it was just temporary, the insurance would only provide us with the giant, heavy kind of chair, so it was a feat to maneuver it into the trunk. Thank god I wasn’t pregnant at the time. Add in getting a 7 year old and an infant corralled at the same time, and I was exhausted.

I had a constant backache from all the lifting, and I was emotionally exhausted, but I tried not to show it, since mr b was already in so much physical and emotional pain himself, the last thing he needed was more guilt. He already suffered such a blow to his dignity, watching helplessly as his wife helped him wash and cleaned his portable toilet and hefted his wheelchair. I certainly didn’t want to add to it. But there were plenty of time when I needed an extra minute or two to wipe away tears before I closed the trunk. It was a hard time for all of us.

But one of the hardest things to deal with during that time was the eye-opening discovery that handicap access was poorly lacking. I can’t tell you how many places we went that didn’t have handicapped access, handicapped restrooms, or handicapped parking. There were restaurants that claimed to have access, so we’d head up the ramp only to discover a three inch threshold to get in the door. So I’d have to head back top the car with a hungry 7 year old, a cranky baby, and a humiliated husband. It was awful.

Little things that you never think twice about became huge obstacle for us. Door thresholds, as I mentioned. Narrow doorways or passages. High curbs. Crowded restaurants. Suddenly our eyes were opened to the plight of the handicapped and it was shocking.

I can remember seeing a show on dateline or 690 minutes some years ago about handicapped access laws and they showed both sides of it. And I recall feeling bad for the business owners who had to shoulder the expense of adding access to their businesses. But after experiencing the other side of it, no more. It’s not just about fairness – that the handicapped should have access to the same things that everyone else is. It’s also about the humiliation and disappointment that goes along with being denied access.

We went on my annual work trip when he was still confined to the chair and that was the most eye-opening experience we had. It was at a resort located in a very rich, expensive little town. And not one – not a single solitary ONE of the shops and/or restaurants were accessible. There was one that claimed it was, and it did have a ramp, but the sidewalks weren’t accessible, and you couldn’t actually get to the ramp. It was awful. I was upset, he was depressed. Awful.

The worst thing we experienced during the trip was when I was in my meeting and he wheeled out to the check-in area and asked if there was a ramp for him to go out on the patio. They said they had a temporary ramp and had an employee put it out for him. He went out, and was wheeling around, checking things out, and then it started to drizzle. He turned around to head back in and discovered that they had taken the ramp back. So he was stuck outside in the rain. They left him stranded outside and it rained. I just so happened to be walking down the hall and I noticed him out there, in his chair, waving frantically to get someone’s attention. Of course no one was around and I couldn’t get the ramp, so I had to push his chair along a gravel path (not easy – the chair just sunk), and hoist him up onto the walkway that led inside. Luckily a housekeeper saw me and helped, but the damage was done. We were both exhausted, upset, and angry. And once again, he was humiliated.

So needless to say, my feelings about people who park in handicapped spots have changed. I now think less about the law-scoffing and more about the effect on the person who needs that spot and now can’t have it. And it makes me mad. And I currently have someone close to me who does this. This person is a health nut. She eats healthy and goes to the gym approximately 7 days a week. She works out for hours at a time. And yet, when it comes to walking an extra few feet at the fucking mall, she becomes a complete asshole and uses a handicapped tag. It makes me sick. You’d think that after seeing what my family went thorough, it would sink in a little, but no. Either her stupidity, or her complete ego-centrism, or her completely overblown sense of entitlement are stronger than her empathy or basic human kindness, I guess. Even mr b – who is still entitled to a tag – doesn’t use his, because he knows there is always someone worse. He knows the feeling of frustration and humiliation. But she doesn’t and it makes me sick.




I have an addiction. An addiction which currently has me in the throes of withdrawal. No, it’s not drugs, or alcohol, or sex (hahaha), or food (OK, it might be food, a little bit). No – for me, it’s Disney World. I am absolutely, positively addicted to Disney World. Not Disney in general (though I like the movies and characters, etc as much as the next guy), but Walt Disney World.

Very few people understand my problem, only some other crazies I’ve met on the internet, my kids, and her (who – now that I think about it – is actually a crazy I met on the internet). Other than them, most people just think WDW is “just a theme park” (those words give me the vapors). Many people dread the thought of going, dread the lines, dread the cost. Most people have strong opinions about taking their kids at a certain age – old enough to “remember it” or young enough to enjoy it, but not me. First, while I love taking my kids – Disney is for me. I would easily go without kids if the opportunity arose. I’d go alone and love it.

I grew up with an aunt living in Florida, so we got to go pretty regularly. After she moved back to PA, it was a few years before I got to go again when I had an opportunity to go with my school band. And then it was even more years until I got to go when we were on our honeymoon. Mr b was one of those “I don’t really like theme parks” kind of guys (vapors!), but he humored me and we spent a couple of honeymoon days there.

He loved it much, much more than he ever expected and we swore we would come back on our 5th anniversary. But when it rolled around, we simply couldn’t afford it. Same thing on our 6th – 11th. Finally, in October 2006, we got to go again. It was the kids’ first trip and I cried like a baby at their excitement. At my excitement. That was when I decided that we should go every other year.

We went back in October 2008 and before the trip was even over, I was thinking about “next time”.

Getting mr b on board is hard – he enjoys it, but he is not addicted like I am (or the kids are). I love to go in October – the weather is beautiful, and the crowds are low. Plus the Food and Wine Festival, which is awesome – we eat and drink our way around the world and love it. And the Halloween party! We wear costumes and go trick or treating in the park. It’s awesome (to crazy people like me).

In the past few months, I have seen several friends take trips there and it makes me crazy with envy. I am the one that people come to and ask questions, since I am the resident “expert” on all things WDW – I can help them plan, tell them where to stay, where to eat, how to use fastpass and baby swap. I can tell them who will find them the best bargains, and about all the cheap or free deals. I can assure them that it is not as expensive as they think it is. I know the best internet resources. I can discuss bring your own stroller vs rent. I can tell them the best dinner shows and character meals and restaurants. I know how to deal with crowds and where to cool off. Know height restrictions and parade times and fireworks times. I know all about transportation, and the best way to get from point A to point B. I would totally move there if I could. I am clearly insane

Lately, I keep reading on other people’s blogs about them being a part of a group of blogger moms who got picked to go to Walt Disney Word for free and I am absolutely green with envy. I wish it were me. But of course, I don’t have the readership that these women do. And I am not exactly a “mommy blogger.” And admittedly, I say very un-Disney-like words on a daily basis.

To me, WDW isn’t just a theme park. It’s not just a vacation destination. To me, it’s so much more. To me, it’s the happiest place on Earth. I tend to judge people on their reaction to WDW. I have a terribly biased opinion that if you can’t be happy there, you are a miserable bastard (though I truly do know that everyone is different and has different likes and dislikes and don’t really judge – I’m not that crazy). Mr b likes it, but not obsessively and he has a tendency to want to relax more. I, on the other hand, am all GOGOGO when I am there. I love it in a complete stalker-ish way. I cry as soon as we land in Orlando. I cry getting on the magical express bus. I cry going through the gates, and checking into the hotel and walking into the park, and seeing the castle. And then I cry when we leave. Because I love it so much, I want to enjoy as much as I can in the time I have. I want to roll myself in it, and sprinkle it in my food, and take a bath in it, and wear it on my head, and have it tattooed all over my skin. I know it makes no sense to most people, but to me, WDW feels like home

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago, but never posted, and in the meantime, I somehow got mr b to agree to our next trip. It’s not until October 2010, and we can’t even book it for five more months, but it’s a light at the end of the tunnel! The next 17 months (oh my god, that’s so long) will be spent watching the vacation video and looking at photos and browsing the website and posting on and obsessing like a crazy person. Yay me!


Riding up front with the monorail driver:

Star Wars:

Halloween 2008:

The Littlest Jedi:

A Coke as big as his head:

See – Disney makes them get along:

Hidden Mickey:

Cinderella’s Carousel:


The traditional sombrero family photo:

Halloween 2006:

Halloween 2006 (it was late and my costume was quite wilted. And you can’t see my Daisy hat)



Mr b’s back has been bothering him lately, so he decided to stay home on Monday and go to the doctor. Of course in mr b’s fantasy world, you can decide to stay home in the morning, call the doctor’s office and they will say, “Of course come right in, we’re waiting for you. Should we send a car?” In real life, of course, when you call your doctor expecting to get in immediately (and you aren’t, say, bleeding from your eyeballs), you generally get, HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Since we’re living in the real world and not his super awesome fantasy one, he got the latter. So he decided he would see a chiropractor. He looked at different listings and settled on one nearby. And as luck would have it, they had an opening that morning and he could come in.

He told me somewhat sheepishly that he was going. It seems that I am “the family skeptic.” And, well…I am. Don’t get me wrong, I am not anti-chiropractors. I really do believe that they can do a lot of good. But I also have a strong belief in medicine. And by that, I don’t mean drugs, but medicine and medical science as a whole. Whether it’s doctors or tests or x-rays or therapy or drugs, I would turn to each of them before turning to a chiropractor. I have a fear of seeing a chiropractor without seeing a doctor first and him or her making things worse. I find myself thinking things like – what if there is a tiny fracture (or something) and they turn it into a big fracture (or something)? Huh, HUH? But mr b and his big plan of rightnowrightnowrightnow doesn’t have tome to get it checked out before skipping happily to get an adjustment. And whatever – it’s not my back.

A little while later, I get a call. It’s mr b and he is at the chiropractor;s office. They want my social security number. MY. Social Security Number. Ummm…Fuck no? Are tyou kidding? Forst off, he is the patient, not me, so they don’t need a damned thing of mine. Second, there is no reason for them to even have his SSN. He’s paying cash up front for his portion, and they have the insurance card. And, actually, the insurance company recently changed ID numbers in order to remove SSNs. So, again, FUCK NO! I told him to tell them to kiss my fat ass, and that they were obviously quacks and up to no good.

So anyway, he has the appointment and comes home and says he feels a little better. But he was a little put off by Dr. Quack because he was absolutely not interested in mr b’s history (and falling 2 stories might be important, you think?), but instead started in on how he could cure mr b of all that ails him. He could fix his cholesterol and his blood pressure and his hangnails and his toothache and his hysterectomy scar (OK, he actually just said the first two, but I imagine that if he had a chance, he would have gone for the others too). But, since he felt a little better, he was going to give the guy a try. He did some kind of test on him and wanted him to come back that evening for the results. He did, got the results and they made his next appointment.

When he came home, he said they wanted me to come to it. What? Why in the blue fuck would I need to come to his chiropractor? He really didn’t have an answer to that – just some vague shit about information and understanding and blah blah I smell a rat blah blah.

I forgot all about it until Wednesday evening when he asked me if I was going. After I got done laughing, I told him that no, I would not be going to what I was now convinced was some sort of scam quackery. I had a million other things I didn’t want to do that were about 47 times more appealing than that, thanks.

He came through the door that evening with a look on his face that said I was right.

Apparently, that that evening’s “appointment,” they made him (and a couple of other suckers patients) sit through a “presentation.” And by “presentation, I mean “blaringly loud youtube video on how doctors and pharmacists and medicine are KILLING US ALL!!”

Well, alrighty, then.

Now, clearly, mr be is much more stupid naive patient than I am because I would have been out of there about 10 seconds into that AV nightmare. They pulled that shit on me at an optical place once and I told them to either give me what I came (and paid) for or kiss my ass and call my attorney. And don’t even get me started on the timeshare wankers (although at least you get a free gift at the end of that shit). But anyway, he is “more patient” so he stayed and suffered through it.

At then end of it, they passed around a bowl and told everyone to put their prescription drugs in it, because they wouldn’t need them anymore. I think they left out the part about how they especially wanted the narcotics because they are CLEARLY crushing and snorting them in the back room. The sad part? One elderly woman actually complied! She was probably dead by sundown.

After telling me all of this, he pulled out his “treatment plan.” It didn’t say a whole lot about what was wrong with him, or what they would be doing, but it was super clear that he would have to go back 75 times. And the cost would be approximately seven hundred thousand billion dollars. It also had a nice description of their financing plan complete with breakdowns of payments and interest. Oh, I get it now.

I don’t think mr b will be going back.

The best part was that I talked to my aunt later that evening and told her that mr b had seen a chiropractor, but we think he is a quack. And she said, “Is it Dr. Quack over in the plaza? Because my friend E went to him last year and all he did was tell her he could cure everything that ailed her in 75 visits for seven hundred thousand billion dollars.”

OK, I know mr b won’t be going back.

You Guys Are AWESOME!


I have the best friends in the world, even though I have never even met some of you. Within minutes of letting my Twitter and Plurk pals, I had an entire group of amazing people rally around me and take steps to stop the blog thief. And it worked. It really made my shitty morning turn into a pretty good day. I hope I never have to do the same for you guys (because I hope it never happens to you), but I will in a minute, if needed.

Anyway, I figured I get something else up here, so I wouldn’t have all that ugly right on the main page…

For Mother’s Day, we kept up our yearly tradition of heading to Seven Springs for brunch, then visiting a small animal park afterward. On the way there, we got off the exit and were waiting to make a left turn onto the road to take us there. And then some idiot in a Range Rover pulls up beside us on the right lane and proceeds to try and make a left turn ahead of us. I may have possibly used the words douchebag and asshole in front of my kids. On Mother’s Day. Mother. Of. The. Year.

So then we get to the resort and settle in to wait for a table. Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. We weren’t in the main room, but we liked it that way, since it meant no one would be walking past and bumping us on their way to the buffet. The big thing on this buffet is the crab legs. I mean – there’s a lot of other good stuff, too, but I can eat potatoes and chicken and salad at home. I want the crab. We got our food and sat back down and our waitress stopped by to ask if we needed anything and I asked her if we could get some shell crackers for the crab. She said no. “Excuse me?” “Sorry, we don’t have any?” “You don’t have ANY?” “No – they took them to the conference center.” “Seriously? There are NO crackers in this entire place?” “Sorry.” “You’re telling me that today – during the Mother’s Day brunch that people come to from far and wide specifically for the crab legs, that you have no shell crackers??” “ Yeah, sorry.”

WTF? Mr b said he saw other people with them, so he ended up asking another waitress to get us some and she said sure. Unfortunately, our waitress heard him and piped up that they didn’t have any. But a couple of minutes later she came out with a pair, going on and on about how she found a pair and washed them for me. Hopefully not in the toilet.

In the midst of this drama, the host tried to seat a large party at a nearby table and we heard the guy raising his voice about how he didn’t want that table, he wanted a table in the main room. He wanted a window seat, dammit! They explained to him that 1) that the round window tables couldn’t accommodate his large party, and 2) if he wanted a table in the other room, he would have to wait a short while. But no, he wanted a table in the other room, not this table, and he wanted a window seat and he wanted it NOW. And he expected them to make people leave so he could have it. The answer of course was still no. I turned around at this point and what do you know, it was old Range Rover douchebag asshole. HA!

We went to the animal park next and saw some groovy critters, including this guy, who I look forward to seeing every year:

We also saw lots of goats, but NOT ONE of them fainted when I chased them. Goat FAIL.


Monday, I was driving home from work and I came to a stop sign. The women across from me waved me on, and then immediately gunned it right for me. At first, I thought maybe she was one of those insurance scammers who crate accidents, but then I figured it she were, she would have been more successful in the hitting me department, so now I think she was just an asshole. About two blocks later, I saw a guy wearing a baby

in a front carrier. Awww, right? Yeah, not so much. He was standing on a ladder. On a hill. On tiptoe. While reaching to trim the very top of his hedges with huge electric trimmers. It’s nice that there’s always someone out there who makes me feel like a parenting success.


Finally, the girl had her preschool graduation yesterday. She wanted curls which I knew wouldn’t last so I made sure to take a bunch of photos before they fell out. And I know I am biased, but she looked beautiful.

Afterward, we celebrated with a girly girl day. We went to tea, then came home and made perfume and flowery crafts. Then we lay in the hammock and relaxed. It was a good day.

See how fast the curls fell?

Are you Fucking Kidding Me????


I had this post all ready to go, filled with Are You Fucking Kidding Me moments, but just as I was about to publish, I discovered the biggest Are You Fucking Kissing Me moment of all: Someone stole my Fainting Goat post!!!



1. the unauthorized use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of them as one’s own original work.

2. something used and represented in this manner.


At Least I’m Not Talking About Shitting My Pants


OK, so I have a new Life’s Plan. I want to be a carny. Not one of those toothless, freaky carnies with their shyster games and dangerous rides. I want to be the kind that goes around to festivals and stuff with bouncy houses and petting zoos. I’m not doing it for the kids, though. Nope – I am planning on an adult attraction. With goats. Fainting Goats.

It has recently come to my attention that not enough people know about the fainting goats. I mentioned it to a couple people on Saturday and they had no idea what I was talking about. I was shocked! everyone should know about fainting goats, and I decided that there is clearly a huge empty hole in this country in the awesome animal knowledge area. So, I tested my theory and spent the weekend saying “fainting goat” to random people and no one knew what I was talking about.

I’m gonna be rich.

For those of you who don’t know about the fainting goats, they are goats that faint when you scare them. You chase them and throw your arms out and then they stiffen up and fall over, feet in the air. And then you laugh and laugh. Then a couple seconds later they get up and you do it again. Dude. Awesome!! Here’s the plan (but lets keep it to ourselves because I don’t want anyone stealing my idea): while the kids are bouncing in the houses and petting the stupid non-fainting goats, the adults will be chasing my super awesome goats.

And I don’t want to hear anything about cruelty to goats, either. The goats love it. Just like people like to be scared. We watch horror movies and go to haunted houses and that stuff is scary, right? Well, this is the goat version of toasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories around the campfire. But goats don’t know fuck all about toasting marshmallows and they can’t build campfires. Except maybe those evil goats – the minions of Satan ones. They might be able to start fires, I don’t know. But even if they can, a) fire-starting minion goats are not the kinds of goats I want in Gina’s Goat World, because I could totally not afford the insurance on that, and b) fire-starting minion goats have no time for fainting games, what with being so busy with al the soul-devouring and hand-basket distribution (dear goats, just leave mine by the door).

So since the non-minion goats can’t start fires, this is their version of scary stories. Someone chases them, they faint, then they get up and look at their goat friends all, “Duuuuuuude, good one!”

So I’m gonna get me a herd of fainting goats. Hey – what is a group of goats called? Herd? Pack? I don’t know and I’m too lazy to look it up, so I’m going to go with Nipple. A Nipple of Goats.

Anyway, once I get my Nipple of Non-Minion, Fainting Goats, I’m going to get really skinny. Because hello – if you have fainting goats in the back yard, I dare you not to chase them all day long. So I’ll chase them all day and night and then I’ll get really skinny because chasing goats for hours on end is WAY mre exercise than I have gotten in years, so it will just be a matter of time before I’ll be a skinny, malnourished-looking carny and not a big fat carny, and then I’ll be putting my big plan into action.

I’ll have a goat-chasing attraction that shows up at all the classiest redneck affairs. Someone suggested I set up next to the greased pigs, but I don’t know about that – I don’t want to get greasy swine flu on my lovely non-minion, fainting goats. Besides people who chase greased pigs are a whole different breed of people than non-minion fainting goat chasers – did I not just say “classiest redneck affairs?” Duh. Anyway, people will come from far and wide to chase my goats (ooo – that would make a good euphemism: “chase my goats, bitches!”), and I will hire my new BFFs who have now embraced the non-minion fainting goat craze wholeheartedly (you know who you are) and we will serve beer and sandwiches (greased pig sandwiches, obviously), and make tons of money and live happily ever after the end.

The Five Stages of What?


We have a (relatively) new baby in the family, and as any mother knows, a new baby inevitably leads to everyone telling their birth stories. Recently, I was telling some women about the baby and we got to talking about labor and how we knew it was time. Some people’s water broke, some had contractions, some cleaned their houses like madwomen, some felt sick.

The day before the boy was born, I lost my mind and went into psycho-nesting mode. But I didn’t recognize this as labor. No – I thought it was totally normal to scrub my walls with Comet, and oh – the horror! I was going to bring a baby home into this filth and how will he ever grow up to be happy if I don’t rearrange furniture and alphabetize my entire food pantry. So, yeah – crazy. Like I said, it all made sense to me at the time and I only had a brief, fleeting thought of labor, which I immediately quashed because of the baby-devouring filth.

No – for me, the signal that I was in labor was the Near Pants-Shitting Incident of 1996. When the first shit signs announced themselves to me, I recalled a particular childbirth class when one of the other expectant moms expressed worry about pooping in the delivery room. The instructor reassured her that 1) she won’t even care when she’s in labor, 2) the doctors and nurses have seen it all, and 3) our bodies often purge themselves right before labor, so it isn’t an issue. Then, I suddenly realized that Holy Shit! Purging! BABY!!!! (I was three weeks early, so I am not sure why I didn’t think “food poisoning” instead of “purging”, but whatever, I was right.)

I know, I know, you are all “Ew, Gross!” right now, but hello – everybody poops. And I’d venture to guess that most of us have had a time when the need to poop came at a very inconvenient time. And I can attest to the fact that stuck on the Bloomfield Bridge during rush hour was indeed a Very Inconvenient Time. And I realized something that day. You have probably heard of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ Stages of Grief, right? Well, that day, I learned that they are pretty much identical to the Stages of Shitting Your Pants. I’ll show you – below I have replaced death/dying with Shitting Your Pants:

Stage 1: Denial

* Denial is usually only a temporary defense for the individual. This feeling is generally replaced with heightened awareness of situations and individuals that will be left behind after death shitting their pants.

Example – “I feel fine.”; “This can’t be happening, not to me.”

My Example: “Wait, what? Now? No way. It’s just a little gas, that’s all. No problem. I don’t have to go that bad. I can make it home no problem. This traffic is going to let up any minute now.”

Stage 2: Anger

* Once in the second stage, the individual recognizes that denial cannot continue. Because of anger, the person is very difficult to care for due to misplaced feelings of rage and envy. Any individual that symbolizes life or energy is subject to projected resentment and jealousy.

Example – “Why me? It’s not fair!”; “How can this happen to me?”; “Who is to blame?”

My Example: “Dammit! This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this fucking traffic won’t get put of the way! What is WRONG with people? I hate all you fuckers!! Hey – you – Mr Bus Driver – news flash – you do NOT own the road. Get the fuck out of the way! Oh my GOD these people all suck! Yeah – I’m talking to you. I am going to shit my pants and it is ALL YOUR FAULT there, Suzie Subaru!”

Stage 3: Bargaining

* The third stage involves the hope that the individual can somehow postpone or delay death shitting their pants. Usually, the negotiation for an extended life fecal continence is made with a higher power in exchange for a reformed lifestyle. Psychologically, the person is saying, “I understand I will die shit my pants, but if I could just have more time…”

Example – “Just let me live to see my children graduate.”; “I’ll do anything for a few more years.”; “I will give my life savings if…”

My Example: “Oh please, PLEASE let me make it home. It’s just a few blocks. I will change – I’ll be a better person. I’ll stop saying MOTHERFUCKER!?! Please???”

Stage 4: Depression

* During the fourth stage, the dying in danger of shitting person begins to understand the certainty of death shitting their pants. Because of this, the individual may become silent, refuse visitors and spend much of the time crying and grieving. This process allows the dying in danger of shitting person to disconnect themselves from things of love and affection. It is not recommended to attempt to cheer an individual up that is in this stage. It is an important time for grieving that must be processed.

Example – “I’m so sad, why bother with anything?”; “I’m going to die . . . What’s the point?”; “I miss my loved one, why go on?”

My Example: “ I can’t believe this. I don’t deserve this. I have been through so much and this sucks. I am nauseous and I have heartburn and I have to pee all the time and *sniff* I can’t even sleep and *sob* I’m big and fat and ugly and I don’t want to SHIT MY PANTS!”

Stage 5: Acceptance

* This final stage comes with peace and understanding of the death shit that is approaching. Generally, the person in the fifth stage will want to be left alone. Additionally, feelings and physical pain may be non-existent. This stage has also been described as the end of the dying rectal struggle.

Example – “It’s going to be okay.”; “I can’t fight it, I may as well prepare for it.”

My Example: “It’s fine, really. I’ll just shit my pants and then deal with it. I’m wearing an old ugly baggy maternity dress that I never want to see again anyway. I’ll just deal with it. I mean, I am nine months pregnant for Pete’s sake! If I have to shit my pants, then so be it! Who is going to say anything about it? I’ll tell you who – NO ONE. Because shit happens and I am clearly going into labor any minute and anyone who says anything is an asshole anyway (like that bus driver), so FINE! Come on, shit! I’m ready for you!”

And just so you know, that last stage somehow gave my colon a the little extra oomph that it needed and I made it home in the nick of time*, leaving the car running, the car door and front door open, and scaring the bejeesus out of mr b and the dog in the process. And then I went into labor.

*and for those of you who are feeling bad because you didn’t make it home on time and were looking for some commiseration? Remind to tell you about the time I pooped in a bag. You’ll feel better then.

Dirty Who? I Have No Idea What You’re Talking About.


OK, I really have nothing to say, but I have to get that last post off the front page. Because if it weren’t enough itself, my aunt emailed me for an explanation of what Dirty Sanchez means. Awesome. She’s lucky her cell mailbox is full because I almost called and left a message saying I was Sanchez (I wouldn’t leave it on her home phone because she has a husband and children and I do have some limits).


I hooked up with two of my cousins on Twitter, forgetting that I have this blog on my profile and sometimes link to posts. I don’t know if they noticed or not, in case they are, I need to say:

1. If you (and you know who you are), please let me know.
2. This is a big old secret blog (as secret as anything on the internet can be), so please don’t share it with anyone.
3. If I ever say anything about how completely batshit insane my family is, I am totally not talking about you guys. No, really. Much.


My baby girl is growing up. First, she got her ears pierced. Next, she learned to ride her bike without training wheels. And next week, she “graduates” from pre-school. Sigh.


Anyway, this was a whole lot of nothing, but at least we can move on and pretend I never said anything about Dirty You Know Who.