Too lazy and tired to do anything else meme

I’m back from vacation – OK I have been back since Monday night – and I have been so busy playing catch up at work and home and reading the 80 billion entries in my reader and also Oh My God I Am So Fucking Exhausted that I haven’t had a chance to update. So in the meantime, I’m stealing this from her so I am not neglecting this blog completetly.

1. You have 10 dollars and need to buy snacks at a gas station. What do you get?
Beef jerky and Coke Zero.

2. If you were reincarnated as a sea creature, what would you want to be?
A dolphin, I guess. They always seem to be having so much fun. Although, if my current energy level and body shape were taken into account, I’d probably be a manatee.

3. Who’s your favorite redhead?
Ariel. Shut up – I have a four year old daughter. And all the previously lovely Hollywood redheads seem to have gone all washed out blonde lately. And I hate David Caruso.

4. What do you order when you’re at IHOP?
We never had any around here, so I’ve only been to an IHOP once and it was years ago. And I was trashed. All I remember is that it was delicious.

5. Last book you read?
The Last battle by C.S. Lewis. I had only ever read The Lion, The With and The Wardrobe as a child and I decided that I needed to read them all. I’m glad I did – I’m a dork who loves kids’ lit.

6. Describe your mood.
Happy that it’s Friday and I’m done at 11:30. Wondering what I should do with my afternoon – read? Sleep? Or – since being in the house will make me feel the need to clean – go out somewhere? But where? Shopping? But I shouldn’t spend money. A movie? But then I’d feel guilty. But I shouldn’t – I deserve time without the kids. So I should go. But then I’d have to get a shower. Oh, what to do??

7. Describe the last time you were injured.
I’m old now and I get injured from sleeping. Also – I have huge bruise on my leg that doesn’t hurt and I have no idea where it came from. I am always bumping into stuff, though, and I drank a lot on vacation, so I am not too concerned.

8. Of all your friends, who would you want to be stuck in a well with?
I’d have to go with Hedge on this one for a couple of reasons. 1) We’d probably both enjoy the time away from our families, 2) She wouldn’t mind the close quarters with me, 3) we’d never run out of things to talk about, 4) She wouldn’t lose her sense of humor or snarkiness even in peril, 5) She'd forgive me if I peed on her (right, Hedge?), and 6) She’d probably have snacks.

9. Rock concert or symphony?
I’d like to say symphony and act all classy-like, but lets be honest – there’s not usually beer and nachos at the symphony. So rock concert.

10. What is the wallpaper of your cell phone?
I haven’t gotten around to putting something ridiculous and/or offensive on it yet, I think it’s a sunset or something. But I’m not checking, since it’s all the way over there and I’m lazy.

11. Favorite soda?
Coke Zero. And it's not soda- it's pop.

12. What type of shirt are you wearing?Multi-color tie-dye Grateful Dead t-shirt. Yay for working from home Fridays!

13. If you could only use one form of transportation?
The monorail. OK, I’m a Disney World addict. But still – a monorail to everywhere would be awesome. Or if I lived in a city with a great metro system, I’d go with that. But since I don’t, I guess I’m stuck with the handicapped goofwagon.

14. Most recent movie you have watched in theater?
Prince Caspian (see: dork).

15. Name an actor/actress/singer you have had the hots for.
Naveen Andrews. But in the interest of honesty – it’s not really Naveen that I am hot for – it’s Sayid

16. What’s your favorite kind of cake?
Yellow cake with milk chocolate icing.

17. What did you have for dinner last night?
Baked tilapia with panko breadcrumbs and couscous

18. Look to your left, what do you see?
A sad, empty pack of beef jerky.

19. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
No. I never wear shoes that tie. But when I did? Still no.

20. Favorite toy as a child?
I don’t know. I always liked games. And crafty stuff.

21. Do you buy your own groceries?
Well, yeah. I’m married to a man. Actually, he’ll go sometimes, but usually ust for quick trips, because – and this may come as a surprise to you – the grocery store is a pain in the ass. But only to him, of course – clearly, I love the crowds and the waiting and the “mom can I have this?”

22. Do you think people talk about you behind your back?
Of course – I’m a bitch.

23. Gummy Worms or Hershey Kisses?
Can I say both? Because gummy worms are awesome, but chocolate is. . .chocolate.

24. What’s your favorite fruit?
Blackberries

25. Do you have a picture of yourself doing a cartwheel?
12 years of gymnastics says I probably do.

26. Do you like running long distances?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. HAHA. HA. HaHahaha. heh.

27. What is your secret trash food pleasure?
Cheetos. It’s not really a secret, though.

28. What color are your bedsheets?
Currently blue

29. What’s your favorite flower?
Peonies.

30. Do you do ballet?
Remember the old SNL skit “ballet for the blind”? Yeah.

31. Do you listen to classical music?
Sometimes. Less know than I used to, since all my classical is on cassette, so until I burn some of the stuff on my computer, it’s not much of an option.

32. What is the first TV Theme song that pops in your head?
You big dummy:


33. Are you really worried about Global warming?
Absolutely.

34. What temperature is it outside right now?
Too damned chilly for summer.

35. Do people consider you smart?
Sometimes. It depends on how much of an asshole I’m acting like at the time.

36. On what occasions do you lie?
When it avoids hurting someone needlessly, I’ll lie. Also – the hotel pool may not have actually been closed for cleaning when the 6 and under crowd wanted to leave the beach and head there this week.

37. Are you signed on [to] AIM?
no

38. Have you ever tried gluing your fingers together?
I’ve never tried it, but I’ve done it. In fact, I should be more embarrassed to admit that few months back, I accidentally superglued my hand to my foot.

39. How do you feel about your family?
I love them, I’m grateful for all they do for me, I’m glad to be so close to them. And they drive me crazy.

40. Do you have an iPod?
No

41. What time do you go to bed?
On work days – 11:00 to 11:30 (yes, I do get up at 5:00 am, why do you ask?). On weekends - anything goes – after all, I can afford to stay up later since I get all wild and crazy and sleep in -sometimes until 7:30 - I’m just a badass party animal.

42. What CD is currently in your CD player?
I’m not sure – it’s either Live at the Cow Palace – Grateful Dead, Horse of a Different Color – Big & Rich, or Live at the Checkerboard Lounge – Buddy Guy

43. What movie do you know every line to?
The Jerk, Dances with Wolves, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, SpaceJam, and the Spongebob Squarepants Movie.

44. What is your favorite salad dressing?
Balsamic Vinaigrette

45. What do you want for Christmas this year?
I don’t know- even as a child, I hated that question. I have always hated asking for stuff. I’m always happy with what people give me. I need more perfume (Hypnotic Poison), but I doubt I can make it to my birthday, much less Christmas. Unless anyone wants to surprise me with a paid trip to Disney World, I’m at a loss for this one.

46. What family member/friend lives the farthest from you? Where?
Not counting bloggy friends or distant relatives, I have family in Virginia and North Carolina.

47. Do you like hugs?
I used to be a much more huggy person. I don’t know what happened to me. I think since I got fat, I am less comfortable with it. But I don’t feel that way with mr b or the kids.

48. Last time you had butterflies in your stomach?
When we were driving home from VA Beach and I thought I saw the vehicle in an Amber Alert. I was wrong, but luckily, they found the child later that day.

49. What’s the way people most often mispronounce any part of your name?
There isn't one – Gina’s pretty easy. And both my maiden and married last names are easy. But sometimes people will call me Regina, which makes me cringe. No offense to any Reginas out there, but it’s not my name. I already lost the beautiful, flowing Italian sound when I gave up my maiden name. I can’t give up Gina.

50. Last person you hugged?
My kids – group hug.

Future Star

You know what is great? Vacation. You know what sucks balls? Getting ready for vacation. I swear – I need a week before the vacation to get ready and a week after to recover. But if I had to choose the two, I think I’d pick the week before. Because in addition to the regular household chores and giant mountains several loads of laundry, I have to gather all the vacation-related items, organize clothes, buy sunscreen and other beachy sundries, clean the car, get and oil change and tire rotation, and get everything packed. All while struggling to finish up the urgent work projects that invariably pop up the week before I go on vacation. Good tires.

You can always tell vacation is coming by my wardrobe. I don’t’ want to wear anything that I will be taking with me (since I have a hard enough time getting things washed once, much less twice), so I end up heading out to work and the grocery store and family picnics wearing the dregs of my wardrobe. And since I am in that happy, in-between stage of weight loss, that means things that are either a) too big and must held up with an ugly man-belt, b) too big and allowing my enormous, sagging bosoms to be viewed by all when I am sitting at my desk (today’s look), or c) not quite too small, but just small enough to make me feel like everyone who sees me is pointing and laughing and then going home and blogging about this woman in the ugly, outdated skirt that was too small for her fat ass. Again – good times.

But come Wednesday morning at about 5:00 am, it will all be worth it. I’m heading out with the kids and my mom to Virginia beach until Monday. We’re going down to celebrate my baby!! cousin’s graduation. The whole family is going (minus mr b who has to work and my dad, who is not insane) and Aunt Twin (who is a travel agent) got us a great deal on beachfront rooms. I’m sure there will be moments of wanting to shoot myself –after all I am going with my mother – but all in all I expect some actual good times.


On Friday, I once again earned my Mother of the Year award by letting my kids get sunburned. In my defense, I put sunscreen on them 346 times, so it wasn’t all my fault. But the kids had fun swimming and I had fun cheating on my diet with six pounds a couple cheese fries


Then Saturday I went to an old high school friend’s 40th birthday party. She’s much older than me. Much Much MUCH older. Ok, that was a lie. She’s only three moths older, but I am playing it for all it’s worth. We had a great time – it was nice to have the old gang together again. We are all still friends, but not as close as we once were. And there are friends that each of us have that others don’t like, etc. but Friday it was just the five od us that were really close in school and it was great. We drank (too much) and ate (too much) and made fun of the karaoke singers in the bar. I love karaoke. Not singing it, so much. But making fun of the ones who are. I love bad singers. My favrotire are the ones where you go, WTF is he singing? My least favorite are the good ones. You know, the ones that the first time they sing, you think, wow, she’s got a good voice. But the 8th time they sing, you think, Jesus H, would you give a tone deaf loser a chance already? You’re not goods enough for a record deal, so move the fuck on.

Sunday we had a family party for a great niece’s graduation. In keeping with the theme, there was too much eating going on,. And also karaoke. Because with family, we try to outbad each other and that’s always fun. This time, I actually got up and sang. Sadly for you all, there are no known photos of me dancing around like I was on stage. Even sadder - no audio. But the biggest surprise of the evening was the girl. My tiny baby got up in front of all those people – several times – and belted it. She has always lived to sing – she sang as soon as she started talking. And I noticed right away that she is pretty good. She’s always on pitch and she her timing is perfect. But the reaction of the people there was priceless – between “Holy shit is she cute” and “Holy shit, that little girl can sing” The DJ approached afterwards and said I would be remiss if I didn’t enroll her in some musical training because he thought she could actually go far. It was a little freaky since I am not the stage mommy type. I mean, I always thought she was good, but I’m a bit biased. He assured me that he hears people singing (badly) every day and that she really is good. Wow.

All in all, it was a fun weekend. And now, I give you the American Idol 2020:

Also - I've had this suit for years, and recently when I saw the one for her, something came over me and I had to buy it. When did I become one of those mothers???

Working from Home: Not all it's cracked up to be...

Working from home is awesome!

I think I’ll le the kids stay home today, since they are still sleeping.

This is great.

Boy, it’s getting hot already.

I’ll bet the office is comfortable.

Hey – they boy is up.

And the girl – hi Sweety.

Damn, it’s humid.

Whining? Already?

But hey – I didn’t have to drive in to the city.

Please stop fighting.

And whining.

Oh GOD, why didn’t I take them to daycare?

It’s hot.

I don’t care – just eat it.

No – no Coke at 8:00 am.

How much longer before I can stop?

Because I’m working. Working!

No, you can not do that.

I’m trying to work!

OMG, stop crying!!

I am so stupid. I am SOOOOO stupid for thinking this was a good idea.

He’s not allowed to have coke either.

Please stop!

Working!

Asshole coworker. I’m glad I’m home.

No, I’m not.

It is so HOT!

Close your mouth!

If he doesn’t close his fucking mouth when he chews I am going to make him eat meals with the goddamn dog.

If you don’t close your mouth when you chew, I am going to make you eat with the dog.

Oh great – a spill!

What? You need this manuscript done when???

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Oh – you’re serious.

Fuck.

Close your mouth!

It’s hot.

No, you can not go on my computer while I am out of the office – it will have to wait until Monday.

Why did I think working from home was great?

Seriously? Another spill?

Please move over – it’s too hot to have you right on top of me.

Besides – working?!?!

Don’t be reading over my shoulder, either.

Working!

I know it’s hot!

Stop it!

I have a conference call, so you need to be quiet.

It’s like a meeting on the phone. It’s very important that you are quiet.

OMG – that’s it – both of you go in your rooms and play. Turn off that TV.

I KNOW

I don’t care what she said.

Go!

It’s hot.

Is this day over yet??

I Somebody May Have Cried.

Now, I’m not saying that it did happen, but after the game last night, there may have been someone who cried real tears. So between my the hypothetical person’s sadness and the fact that I am insanely busy at work, trying to get things done before vacation, I am posting a lazy crybaby very busy person’s type entry today. The flickr meme.



The questions:

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite food right now?

3. What high school did you go to?

4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your celebrity crush?

6. What is your favorite drink?

7. What is your dream vacation?

8. What is your favorite dessert?

9. What do you want to be when you grow up?

10. What do you love most in life?

11. What is one word that describes you?

12. What is your flickr name?



The answers:




About the answers:

1. There are lots of hot babes named Gina, apparently, and I probably should have used one of those and pretended it was me. Or Gina Lollobrigida. Or a sign that said Gina. Or the groovy Burning Man fire twirler named Gina. Or the badass fighter named Gina. Or the tranny. Or the other tranny. Or the porn star. Or the cool bird. Or the freaky, legless, wheelchair doll. And I almost went with “Gina’s Pies are Square”. But in honor of my love of the bizarre and also recently being called a cow, I went with the scary blood cow.

2. Since my real answer to what is my favorite food (“Food”), was a little too broad, I went with what I am hungry for right now. And who doesn’t strap a bucket o- hummus to their bike?

3. I’m not telling. But I went with a photo of our “sister town” in Belgium.
I have two.

4. There are several (hundred), but I went with the most recently watched.

5. I had to go with the non-alcoholic favorite, since I don’t have six hours.

6. I know. I love the mountains. And the beach. And big cities. And islands. And exotic foreign destinations. But nothing makes me quite as happy as a man and a mouse.

7. Only eleven billion Weight Watchers points! I’m hungry.

8. I was gonna go with “rich”, but happy is better.

9. Duh. . .

10. In the interest of being honest. . .

11. I know – this pic tells you nothing. But there aren’t a lot of results on my flickr name. . .

My Poor Cuticles

In case you were wondering what a Stanley Cup Final triple overtime game does to one’s cuticles, let me show you:

In addition, I’m exhausted, since staying up until 1:00 might not be the best idea when you get up at 5:00. But MY GOD, it was so exciting!! And yay us! And a big fat woo-hoo to Fleury, who is clearly some sort of superhero. UltraGoalieMan! And to Malone, for being such a badass, playing with his mashed up face. And to Talbot for saving the fucking night, even if it did result in me re-injuring my neck. And to Crosby for being so damned cute. I mean awesome. And especially Sykora, for pulling a Babe Ruth and calling that shit! Woo-Hoo!!


Oh – my neck. Yeah, see, I’m old now. And when you’re old, you have things like terribly painful fucked up necks that are caused by things that you don’t even remember you did. Not like lifting a truck or anything. More like. . .oh. . .bending over. Or looking to the right. Or thinking about looking to the right. Getting old rocks!


I’m sad to report that I have very little to say about the yard sale. Because it sucked. In perfect Murphy’s Law fashion, we had a tornado watch that day. And nothing says “come to my yard sale” like a fucking tornado!

We had a few people, but not enough to justify all the work we did to get it set up. Luckily, my aunt has a big porch, so we were able to keep everything dry (except me, since I felt bad and was shuttling people to their cars with my umbrella). Right at 7:00, we got some “commandos”. These are the crazy old ladies that scour yard sales to stock up on the shit that they will turn around and sell at their own yard sales and flea markets. They’re mean and cheap and bitchy and they can all bite me. One of them got pissy with me because she thought my books were too expensive at a dollar. Maybe they were, but I can’t see taking less than a dollar for good hardback and those nice large soft cover books that are all new releases and bestsellers from the past six months. I give a ton of books away, so it’s not the money, but it bugged me. She actually yelled at me:



Crazy yelling lady: “You can get books at the flea market for 25 cents.”

Gina (in a very sweet voice): “Really? Well, what are you doing here, then? You should head right on over to that flea market and get you some books! Buh-bye!”




See why I am not cut out for yard sales?

After the rained ended, I did get a couple avid readers like myself who bought a stack of books and didn’t flinch at the price. But that was about it. My mom and Aunt sold some clothes - they are both big time clotheshorses who wear and discard beautiful designer things. If only I wore the same size (fucking fours), I would have done some shopping of my own. And by “shopping”, I mean “taking whatever I wanted and not paying anyone anything”. My mom is the worst – she had tons of things with tags still on them. Like freakishly expensive things – one was an absolutely gorgeous tiny little dressy sleeveless shirt from some boutique with a price of $132. Now, she didn’t pay that much for it, but even on sale I’m sure it was pricey. And at the current price of $2, it’s a serious bargain. One girl bought a bunch of stuff and gave us her email for next time. Smart girl.

Another lady bought some clothes too, but kept trying to cheat my mom. She would have 13 items and then grab another and say, OK, that makes 12. Um, no. And then my mom would recount them to show her that there were more and then she’d try again. And my mom thinks she stole some stuff, too. Awesome.

Aside from those few brave souls (and that one Cheaty McKlepto), the day was a bust. I read a book all day and my mom and aunt started drinking wine at 9:30. In their defense, it felt like noon since we had gotten up so early – plus hello? Tornado watch. If that’s not a free pass to drink at 9:30, I don’t know what is.

We ended up packing everything into Aunt Twin’s garage and planning to do it again at the end of the month. I intend to take the time to gather more shit and have a big ole dollar extravaganza just to get rid of it. And anything that doesn’t sell is going straight to Goodwill on the way home.

Oh – and we found out later that we would have had more customers, but they got poached. There was a garage sale that was right after you turned off the main road into the plan and folks were going there and leaving. We ended up going out after the rain to put out some more signs (all but the one at the main road were cardboard and the rain pretty much killed them) and wee ended up walking over to the garage sale to commiserate. The guy there told us that people kept dropping by and asking about the items we had listed in the ad. And I guess he was mad that they weren’t interested in his crap and he sent them away instead of pointing them in our direction. Way to benefit from out newspaper ad, Craigslist ad and giant painted wooden sign, Fred Sanford.

And sadly, I didn’t get any photos of any of the Crazy, either, because I didn’t want to take myyyy precccciiiioooouuuuussssss my camera out in the torrential downpour. Boo!

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)

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

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!

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

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!

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:

=============================

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.

=============================

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?

=============================

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...

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

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

Bleh

Bleh – that about sums up how I’m feeling. Bleh blah blech.

I was home sick for the past few days which always gets me down – more for the use of precious vacation days than the actual sickness. Then, this morning, I watched as my paycheck was direct-deposited, then immediately shuttled out to every bill imaginable, leaving me with nary a cent. I have a reimbursement check coming which was supposed to be deposited on Monday, but a mistake was made (they say mine, I say theirs) and the damned thing got mailed instead of deposited. So now I’m fucked until the check comes, gets deposited, and clears. So bleh.

Also pissing me off today:

The asshole with the following assortment of delightful stickers on his asshole-mobile: “Give war a chance”, “You want my guns? Come get em”, “Peace brought to you through superior firepower”, “F the UN”, and my own personal favorite: “Kill 'em all - Let God sort it out”

My neighbors. I am surrounded by assholes. We have the stuck-up assholes on one side you literally don’t speak to us. They walk around doing yard work and manage to always have their backs turned to us, so they don’t have to acknowledge our existence. And they have been known to completely ignore a sweet toddler saying hi. Also – they once told us we were not allowed to be friends with their dog.

Then we have the dickheads on the other side who let their dickhead dog run free and shit all over our yard and tear up our garbage like a dickhead. And she steals things off our porch and then they act all put out when our stuff ends up in their yard and they have to bring it back. once, they found a doll that they assumed was oours (it wasn't) and she brought it up and stuck it head first in a bucket of water that was on our proch. If that had been my baby's doll, I would have cut a bitch. They suck. He’s a dick and she’s a closet drunk. And one day when they cut through my yard to talk to the assholes, I’m going to shoot them. OK, not really. But I might throw rocks. Or poo. Their dog leaves enough of it. The first thing I will do when I win the powerball is get a big-ass fence around my entire property all the way down into the woods so drunky can’t walk through my yard.

Then there are the people across the street. They are actually nice people – the only ones out of all my neighbors that were kind me when mr b was in the hospital/nursing home/wheelchair. However, they currently have a dog that would love to kill and eat you. And it gets loose all the time. It’s obviously tied up, because it will be running around with a collar and rope still attached. But clearly, whoever is doing the tying is either a) a double hand-amputee, b) Johnny Tremain, c) retarded, or d) subconsciously trying to rid themselves of the beast (understandable). My last encounter with Lord Voldemort involved him chasing me around my tree while I distracted him from my terrified children, protecting myself with the only thing nearby – a garbage can lid – and screaming like a banshee. In the past, I have also warded him off with Mr. Clean, bleach, and a 10-foot tree trimmer. Normally, I’d be stirring up all kinds of shit. But folks? These are the good neighbors.

The Standoff – see, mr b and I are having a standoff in our house right now. Four weeks and four days ago, he made chili to take into the office for the weekly staff meeting (they take turns). Why do I know exactly how long it has been., you ask? That would be because the chili that overflowed onto my nice stove is still on my nice stove. I asked him to clean it up and he said he would. And I didn’t push it because I know it’s a pain (I did the same thing the week before). But then a few days went by. And then a week. I mentioned it to him again. He’ll do it. Another week. Pleaded. He’ll do it. After three weeks, I told him that under no circumstances was I ever going to be cleaning that chili off the stove. Ever!

At this point, his defense was along the lines of “I’m doing the best I can” (no – he’s not – at least when it comes to that chili) and “You know, I have so much work to do in this house” (yes – he does. There’s trim and painting and beams and staining and a million other things. But none of them have even the slightest thing to do with the fact that hot chili all over the stove and didn’t clean it. For three weeks). So now, here we are at almost five weeks and still my stove looks like a frat house stove. I have cleaned the kitchen many times in the interim, scouring everything but the stovetop. I refuse.

Does anyone remember the Everybody Loves Raymond episode with the suitcase*? Please tell me you do. Because this is my life right now. Except not funny. Part of me would love to just clean it and be done, already. But I can not. I am not the maid and I refuse to behave like I am. If he doesn’t care about it, then I will pretend like I don’t either. Like my kids, he has become accustomed to me giving in and doing it myself and I have news, kids – those days are over. And he sure as hell needs to realize that saying you will do something does not count as actually doing it.

*Oh – and speaking of suitcases, we have three in our bedroom that are taking up space, but haven’t been unpacked (his stuff). They’ve been there for months. And he keeps saying “We need to put those suitcases away.” Riiiiight. . .we. I’m getting the cheese.



I could go on and on about the pissed-off-ed-ness, but I realized that I haven’t shared my one tiny bit of good news: I am down 18 pounds! Woo-hoo. Only 53.4 more to go! Woo. . . . bleh.

If I See Your Grandparents There, I'll Be Sure to Say Hello.

Conversation in my house, while watching Neil Diamond story on CBS Sunday morning:


Gina: “You know, Neil Diamond is coming to Pittsburgh.”

Mr b: “Hmm”

Gina: “I wouldn’t mind seeing him.”

Mr b: “Hmm”

Gina: “I’m serious.”

Mr b: “Really?”

Gina: “Yeah. I mean – it’s Neil Diamond”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Come on! You know it would be fun.”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “You’d know the words to all the songs.”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Except for the new stuff, but I could buy the cd.”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Dude! It’s Neil Freaking Diamond!”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Baby loves me, yes, yes she does. Ah, the girl's outta sight, yeah. . .”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Hey! She got the way to move me, Cherry. She got the way to groove me, Cherry, baby”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Well, I'm New York City born and raised. . .”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Kentucky woman, she shines with her own kind of light…”

Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”

Gina: “Hands, touching hands. . .”

Mr b: “Seriously. Last week you were talking about Dead shows and now Neil Diamond?”

Gina” “. . .reaching out, touching me. . .”

Mr b: “Do you know hoe old you are. . .”

Gina: “. . .touching YOUUUUUUUUUU. . .”

Mr b: “If you are talking about going to a Neil Diamond concert?”

Gina: “Sweet Caroline. . .”

Mr b: “You’re serious.”

Gina: “BUH, BUH, BUUUUH!!”

Mr b: “Oh my God”

Big Fat Copycat Post

Because I am not feeling at all original or creative today, this post was inspired by her post. I would have left it as a comment, but I am WAY long winded and it wouldn't fit.


Things I hate that everyone loves

Sex and the City – I have never, ever watched an entire episode. I have occasionally seen a few minutes, at which point, I stabbed myself in the eyeballs and threw up my spleen. I hate every single one of these women, hate the characters, hate the clothes, hate, hate, HATE! The commercial that I keep seeing for the movie may end up being used as part of my defense after I have seen it for the thirty-seven thousandth time and had to stab someone.

CSI – Miami, Las Vegas, New York – whatever. I hate them all. You can take it with a grain of salt, given my reality TV affliction, but I hate CSI with a passion. In what bizarro alternate universe do lab techs interrogate witnesses? And get week-long tests results in 10 minutes? And work in fancy, dark-ass rooms? (Turn on some damned lights, will ya?) Not only is this show ridiculous and stupid, it’s killing our justice system. If I want a show about forensics, I’ll stick with Dexter. I don't know how realistic it is, but Dex is sexaaay!

Flavored “Martinis” – Because they are not martinis! Don’t get me wrong – I don’t like real martinis, either – I hate gin. And green olives. And I might taste a fake-tini and thinks it’s pretty good. It’s not the drinks themselves – it’s the mixing of vodka with something else and putting “tini” on the end. It makes me want to stab someone (I do a lot of wanting to stab someone, don’t I?)

Crocs clogs – That shit is ugly. And I like clogs. Just not those horrible Crocs ones. They are cute on kids - little kids. But after the grade school years, they make you look like you have flippers. And brain damage. I feel I must disclose here that I do own a cute pair of Crocs sandals.

Dancing with the Stars – I know tons of young(ish) people watch it, but I can’t help but feel that this is the Lawrence Welk of the 21st century. Grandmas watch this show (not my grandma, though. She likes westerns and hot wings and bars). I’ve tried to give a shit, but I just can’t. I will go dancing (badly – I even screw up the two-step, but it’s fun), but I can’t watch dancing (unless it’s the old folks at a wedding – I love them). Nor do I give a rat’s ass about these “stars”. Maybe, just maybe if it were George Clooney, Gorin Visnjic, Henry Simmons, Tom Selleck, Kix Brooks and Dion-the-waiter-last-week-from-the-Capital-Grill I would watch. If they danced naked. Yeah, I’d definitely watch it then.

Spiders – Ok, I know that they aren’t necessarily loved by most people, but if I have to hear, “But they take care of other bugs” one more time in response to my hatefulness, I will scream (and - let's be honest - probably want to stab someone). I don’t care if they eat other bugs. I don’t care if they write and perform their own folk music. I don’t care if they clean my house. I. Hate. Them. The only way I will (begrudgingly) give them even the slightest break is if they suddenly gain magical ass-shrinking powers which I can harness and use for my own gain. But for now? HATE. When I look at even the tiniest spider, I see Aragog . And then I throw up. And then I cry. And then I completely lose my mind. And if no one else is home to kill it – hoo-boy. Because there are two options – 1) kill it myself and possibly suffer a nervous breakdown, and 2) move out, because if I don’t kill it and it disappears somewhere, I will not be able to live in my house again, ever. I used to sic Pussty on them, because he was the world’s greatest spider-mouser, but since he has gone on to greener pastures, I am shit out of luck. The current dog and cat get a big fat F-minus at Spider. So if I want to keep the house, I am forced to grab the vacuum attachment, suck the vile beast up, spray hairspray, Tilex and spider-killer spray directly into the hose, take the vacuum outside, douse it in gasoline, and light it on fire. Then throw up. While I cry.



Things I love that everyone hates

Reality TV – Ok, there are some people who really hate it. And then there are a whole bunch of people that pretend to hate it. And then there is me. I shamelessly revel in my trashy TV love. All the drama (“but I love him”) and hypocrisy (“wahhh – she’s playing for herself”) and hilarity (“the 10th person voted off: Ozzy”) (HAHAHAHA). There is nothing more entertaining to me than a bunch of attention whoring dumbasses having an Attention Whore Dumbass Tournament. Also – Reality TV had Anderson Cooper, and hello? Anderson Cooper. Smart? Check. Smokin’ ass? Check. (Anderson – call me!) (Yes – I know he’s gay, but I don’t care)

Hippie men – I’m sorry, but while you see dirty, stinky, no good hippies, I see potential sex partners (you know, if I were single and gave a shit about finding sex partners) While I appreciate a good Clooney or Pitt, this also gets me going:

Moccasins – I know!!! How on Earth can I hate Crocs when I wear these:

It’s a mystery – it really is. But I love them with all my old dirty hippy heart. I’m shamelessly in love with their soft-sole goodness.

Dreadlocks – As long as they are clean and well-kept, I find them sexy. To wit:

See? Sexy!!

Moustaches – I don’t know why, but I am a sucker for some facial hair (and I don’t want to think about it too deeply because I might think about how my dad has facial hair, and LA LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU LA LA LA LA! What do you think I am – some kind of sicko? Besides, my dad is the anti-hippie, so it evens out).

Anyway. . .Beards? Woo-hoo!

Goatees? Oh Yeah!

Playoff Beards? Oooo baby!

But moustaches like this?

And this?

And this?


Come to Mama. . .

A DUI is a DUI

I am as irritated as Lindsay Lohan over the USA Today ad for ignition interlocks. If you aren’t familiar with the story, USA today ran an ad for ignition interlocks and used Lindsay Lohan’s mug shot. Ignition interlocks are the devices that are installed in cars after the driver gets a DUI that requires them to periodically blow into a breathalyzer which control the ignition. In the past, these were used only for repeat offenders, but now some states are trying to make them a requirement for all DUI offenders.

USA Today’s reads, "Ignition interlocks - A good idea for," and shows the Lohan mug shot. The next line reads, "But a bad idea for us," and shows photos of a happy bride and groom toasting, some folks drinking beer and martinis, and a group of friends clinking glasses at a meal.

Lindsay Lohan is mad because they used her mug shot. I am mad because I hate the whole concept of degrees of severity of DUIs being portrayed by this ad. I don’t know that the ignition interlocks help or work or do any good. I don’t claim to. What I do know is that drunk driving is drunk driving. I hate that this ad makes it look like it’s OK to drink and drive if you were at a wedding, or out with friends or having dinner. That it’s only wrong if you are a whacked out, crazy-ass drunk. Sorry – but neither is acceptable. The BACs are in place for a reason. To protect people. Innocent people. Children.

Make no mistake – I like to drink. I go to parties and on vacation and I tie one on. But the one thing I will not do is drive. In fact, I don’t even like being on the roads late night on the weekends, simply because of the other people out there who may not feel the same way about it. I do my best to make good decisions to keep my kids safe, but I can’t control everyone else’s bad decisions. The laws are there to try and do so.

And as for the people who came up with this ad - you can be damned sure that if a drunk driver killed someone in their family, you wouldn’t hear them say, “Oh, it’s OK – they were at a wedding.”

It's My Country, Too and There Are a Lot More Like Me

Sometimes I am envious of the “popular” bloggers – I wonder what it would be like to have lots of readers, to get lots of comments, to be admired by people you respect. But there is one good side to not being popular, and that is the lack of hate mail. I truly don’t know how people deal with it – being called names, being accused of horrible things, etc. That I don’t envy at all.

I’ve been blogging for four years now and I have received a few snotty comments here and there, but nothing particularly hateful. Well, today, that changed and I received my very first hateful comment. It was in response to this entry. An entry about NOT hating each other, ironically. I didn’t publish the comment, because I felt like it would be a big, ugly smear on what was truly meant from the heart. But I’ll tell you here what it said: “Fuck you nigger! Get the fuck out of my country!” Isn’t that precious? The commenter chose to remain anonymous, though I’m not surprised – most trolls usually do.

In the post, I was trying to express the sheer, sickening, ugliness of racism and I think he just did that in 10 words. So thanks, anonymous.

I also had a whole slew of things to say to anonymous about his character and intelligence – I was all set to express my moral outrage at such a comment. But again, I think those words tell you everything you need to know about him (or her).

Call me what you want - I really don’t care. It’s not the word. It’s the use of the word, if that makes sense. The word is just that – a word. Six letters that mean absolutely nothing if we don’t let them. It didn’t hurt me or scare or intimidate me or humiliate me in any way. But the fact that there are people out there who think it’s appropriate to use those six letters in an attempt to hurt or scare or intimidate or humiliate their fellow man. That is what bothers me. The fact that there are people out there like this, people whose words and actions and prejudices and hateful, horrible lives may actually have the effect that they want? That hurts. That there are people like this who may have an influence on our children? That is scary. That there are people like this who may be responsible for our laws or our safety or our employment or our way of life? That is intimidating. That the whole world in watching the actions of the people of this country and sadly, it’s these types of actions that get notice and reflect on us all? That is humiliating.

But still, anonymous? You fail. You fail at your pathetic attempt to wound. There may be others like you, but there are a lot more like me, and we’re better than that. We’re better than you.

Dork

I had thought this weekend was going to be nice and relaxing, but I was so very wrong. The boy’s chorus was singing the national anthem at the baseball game and the school, in their usual fashion of last minute bullshittery, sent home a paper on Thursday saying that the kids must wear khaki pants or shorts and red shirts (the school provided the shorts). This apparently, was the ballpark’s rule and not the school’s. And I understand wanting them to match. But what I don’t understand is why they decided to send the damned thing home on such short notice. They sent home the info on the concert and the order form for the tickets over a month ago, so I’m not sure why they didn’t include this information then.

Oh – and also? In the snippily worded memo, it stated that “students WILL wear khaki pants or shorts – NO DEMIN!!”

Yes folks, I am entrusting my son’s education to people who a) can’t spell a five-letter word, and b) clearly have never heard of spell-check. Ladies and Gentlemen – your tax dollars at work.

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I got up Saturday and was preparing to go out shopping and then go clean the car. But at the last minute, I remembered that it was collection/packing day for Scouting for Food. I jumped in the car with the boy’s uniform, picked him up from Rapunzel’s house and rushed to the church where we were doing the packing. There, I spent the next 3 and a half hours picking up, sorting, packing, boxing, carrying and loading approximately 352 billion cans of food. Which: Yay for fighting hunger! And also: Boo for my back!

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After the packing, I ran home to get the girl and we went out to run our errands. We ended up getting the boy’s shorts (and getting some for Hedge’s son – Hedge – being another victim of the bullshittery – was busy and couldn’t get out shopping), plus some odds and ends. We went to a sports outlet store and got some Pirates shirts for a couple bucks each. A lot of the stuff is from previous years, but for the prices, who cares. And since the Pirates suck balls, it’s hard to spend a ton of money. Mine shirt was actually an All-Star game shirt and not a Pirates shirt, but it did the trick for a buck.

The reason I didn’t get a regular Pirates shirt was that the only ones they had for women were those pansy-ass pink ones, which I HATE. I don’t mind pink in general – I have pink shirts and pink shoes and pink candles. But I hate the pink sports jerseys. I hate them and all the other stupid “girl-centric” pink bullshit sports merchandise that they keep trying to get me to like. Because NO. I will not like it. I will continue to hate it. The day the Pirates/Steelers/Penguins start wearing pink is the day I will buy a pink jersey - not a moment before. I hate the idea that in order to appeal to women, you need to make everything all pink and girly. I don’t know about the other cities, but here in the ‘Burgh, we women love our sports - we love the black and gold. We paint our faces and wear our jerseys and drink our beer and get just as rowdy as the men. We will buy the same shirts as the men. Please don’t insult us by thinking that you need to make it pink. I mean, just pass me a wine cooler, hang some tampons from my ears and shoot me, why don’t you?

So, uh…down with the pink sports gear!

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Also on Saturday:
Cleaning out the car – SUCKED
Washing the car – SUCKED
Eating a chocolate covered frozen banana for lunch and having it fit into my weight watchers plan – AWESOME! And a little porn-y.

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Sunday was the game and mr b and the girl stayed home, since she was sick. Mr b didn’t mind, though, since the Pens game was on. It was nice for me, too, because Hedge came with me and we had a nice day together, which we rarely ever get. We drank beer and ate and laughed and acted like jackasses. I used up my entire days; points, plus all my weekly points, too. And I didn’t even care, because I wanted beer and wings and pizza and ice cream. Well, actually I got frozen yogurt, because I always make wise food choices. Hahahahahahaha! I’m just hoping that since I did stay within my weekly points that I haven’t screwed myself this week. Because that would suck. But those wings were good.

I was truly more interested in the Pens game than the Pirates, but I drew the line at being the jagoff who wears a different sport’s jersey to the game. I was, however, the douchebag who sits through the baseball game with one earbud in, listening to the Pens game and shouting, “Yay!” when Jordan Staal’s goal came at an inappropriate time in PNC Park. But I don’t care, because Pens rocked!! (and rocked it again last night – woooo!)

Oh and also – Jagr? Shut the fuck up.

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Lastly, because I am a huge dork – the biggest dork that ever dork – a dork to the nth power (Who uses the phrase “nth power”? I’ll tell you who – a dork), and also to get maximum Embarrass Your Kid points, I took the Pirates up on their “get your text on the scoreboard” invitation (I was going to make it something about us being dirty whores, but I figured they'd censor it. Bastards):


Also – Dorks:

The chorus:

Letters

Dear jogger,
Contrary to what you clearly believe, briefly interrupting your run in order to comply with basic safety laws will not, in fact, result in your immediate death. Not doing so, however, just might
Love Gina

Dear pedestrians,
While I realize that auto traffic must yield to pedestrians, I feel the need t point out that this law refers to pedestrians already in the crosswalk. This does not mean that it’s a particularly wise idea to fail to look both ways and step into the street, assuming that this law will protect you from speeding traffic like some sort of super shield. Because if you step directly out in front of me and I kill you – sure – I’ll feel bad. Really bad. But you’ll be dead nonetheless. If you see that jogger – let her know.
Love Gina

Dear flag-shirt-wearing jackass driver,
If you put as much though into things like traffic laws and stop signs as you clearly did to the application of those 16 “W” stickers, perhaps you’ll increase your life expectancy. Because if you continue to drive like that, you’ll either die in a fiery crash or some bitch with PMS and a liberal streak will beat you to death.
Love, Gina

Dear parker,
It’s a pull-in space! And you’re driving a Chevette. Are you seriously having that much of a problem?
Love Gina

Dear Boy,
You are waaaaay too young to be turning into your father. Please pick your underwear up off the bathroom floor. If you take up snoring, you’re outta here.
Love Mom

Dear Girl,
If you are going to get out of bed and wander the house in the wee hours of the morning, you really need to let someone know. Because I had a heart attack, died, came back to life and spontaneously combusted this morning when I found you missing from your bed. I’m too old for that.
Love, Mom

Dear mr b,
Just because you don’t hear it, smell it or see it, does not mean that it does not exist. Recall, if you will, that you are deaf, blind and have a seriously fucked up sense of smell. And the next time you resort to the age-old, good old boy, misogynistic, bullshit explanation that “[I;m] crazy”, I will be forced to kill you.
Love, Gina
PS. Smoking is ugly.

Dear Bass Thumper,
The volume and tone of the bass is clearly inversely proportional to intelligence. Since my skeletal system is vibrating, you must be a serious mental midget. If you weren’t so obviously disturbed, I might beat your woofers with a club. You know, if I had money for lawyers and damages. And a club.
Love, Gina

Dear Spider,
Get out!
I hate you,
Gina

Dear Dog,
You have very few jobs in this house. And while, admittedly, you are doing a fine job of “Barking Your Fool Head Off”, you are failing miserably at “Spiders.” Shape up.
Love, Gina

Dear Cat,
See Dog. Also – spring weather is not a license to jackassery. The “Let Me In…Psych!” game is getting old. I’ll let it slide if you get cracking on those spiders!
Love, Mom

Dear Polling place worker,
Seriously? You are seriously that stupid?? Ok, then.
Love, Gina

Dear Litterer,
You are an asshole. But on Earth Day? Super Mega Giant Asshole of Assholery.
Love, Gina

Woooooo! And also - Ewwww

Now, I know it’s my first week and I always do well on my first week, so I should take it with a grain of salt, but still. . .6.8 pounds, baby!!!!!! Wooooo! Go, Me! The only problem is I want some pie to celebrate. . .



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Also in Wooooo! news:







I have officially changed the dog’s name from "Rocky" to “Barko Ruutu”



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And finally, a scene from my house:





What is THAT?





Is that a. . .????




Oh my God, it is.

No. it can’t be.

Oh. My. God. It IS!!!!



I’m gonna kill that cat when I catch him.

Stupid cat!

Asshole.

I can not believe that he actually…



Oh, wait.

It’s just Toto.



Now repeat this, oh, thirty-seven thousand times a week and you have my life. And if the girl didn’t love The Wizard of Oz as much as she does, Toto would be a goner.


PS. Please ignore the disgusting carpet. It is very old and being replaced with something lovely and non-disgusting.

Spring

The weather is finally coming around and yesterday the kids asked me if we could go biking this weekend. Sigh.

Don't get me wrong - I like to go biking, I do. But here's how it usually goes:

Me: Yay, fun! We're biking!

Boy: It's hot.

Me: It’s beautiful!

Boy: Mom, I’m tired.

Me: You’re fine! Let’s have fun!

Girl: I want a snack.

Me: Just wait until we stop and take a break.

Boy: This is hard!

Me: But it's fun!

Girl: Snack?

Boy: I'm tired.

Girl: A bug!

Me: It’s no big deal – he won’t bother you.

Girl: It’s a bee!

Boy: Bee!

Girl: BEE!!!

Me: (under breath) #$&&*@ bee. (out loud) He’s gone now.

Girl: Is it breaktime yet?

Me: Fine, here’s a snack.

Boy: Do we have chips?

Girl: Yeah – chips!

Me: No chips. We’ll get chips later.

Boy: I don’t like these.

Me: C’mon, lets bike.

Boy: It’s hot

Girl: I’m not hot.

Boy: That's because you’re riding in that wagon thing. Youre not working.

Me: Shut it. I’m the one doing all the work, so deal. (thinking) Oh My God, this cart is so freaking heavy. I'm dying. But it’s fun, by God.

Girl: I like these, mom.

Boy: Hey! She's eating my snack!

Me: You said you didn’t like it!

Boy: Well maybe I do.

Me: Oh please.

Boy: Can we go back now?

Girl: Can we go back now?

Me: We are never going biking again


Now, repeat this every weekend and you have biking with my family.

But this season is different because the girl can ride her own bike. And I know that she will pedal 10 feet and then be too tired to go any further, adding to my misery.

So I want one of these:

It’s a Caboose Trailer Bike by Morgan Cycle, and it will let her pedal, but we’ll be able to keep on going if she gets tired (because I actually DO like biking).

5 Minutes for Mom is giving one away – go check it out.