Monday, Already?

Where the hell did the weekend go? I swear, this weekend was so busy that it flew by.

Friday night, I had the Burgh Moms (& dads) dinner, which was tons of fun, as always. Except for the part where we had to wait almost an hour to be seated for our seven o’clock reservation. Now I thought the whole purpose of a reservation system was to avoid waiting for a table. But I’m all wild and crazy like that. I finally went up to complain (probably embarrassing the other Burgh Moms in the process, but they know by now what to expect from me – I own my inner [OK, outer] bitch), and upon asking when in the name of holy blue fuck we’d begetting our table, since we had been waiting 40 minutes, the hostess with the leastest sighed and rolled her eyes at me and said, well, it was a large party request. To which I replied, “exactly. Thus the reservation. Jeez. But once we were finally seated, it was all good times. The food was very good and the beer was awesome. Appropriately, I had a beer called Beelzebub. The company was interesting and fun and funny, of course, and I love them. Even if they are all a part of some vast conspiracy and using a smaller font on their blogs every day. It’s the only explanation for my difficulty reading of late. Because I can not possibly need reading glasses, dammit!!

It wasn’t until 10:15 pm that I set out for the hour-long drive home. But not before I stopped for gas. And then got a call from mr b reminding me that I promised to stop at the store and get home some distilled water for his apnea machine. Needless to say, it was midnight before I got to bed. I didn’t even rink any of the growler I brought home, which should tell you how tired I was.

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Saturday, I had to get up at 5:30 to get ready to go to a makeup event at Macy’s. I had to pick up Hedge and Rapunzel in time to drive to the North Hills and check in before 8:00. It was a fun day, though. They gave us a Panera breakfast and lots of free makeup and perfume goodies. Who doesn’t love that? Then we had a delicious lunch at Aladdin’s before heading home so we could get ready to head back out to Hedge’s son Squidward’s birthday party.

It was a skating party and since, in my mind, I can still do all the things I did when I was 13, I got me some wheels. Did you ever notice how in your head you can do just about everything? I can totally – in my mind, of course – still do back handsprings on the beam, and two and a half reverse pike with a full twist from the 3 meter springboard. In real life, however, I would probably break 14 bones and drown. But by God, I was going to roller-skate!

I actually did pretty well, though. I am steady on my feet wheels, can go pretty fast, etc. I can’t skate backwards anymore, though. I don’t even remember how. But one thing I could do as a kid that I can’t do now is not give a shit if I plow into someone. So when I saw a kid in my peripheral vision careening out of control toward me, I tried to get out of the way so as not to fall on him and perhaps kill him. The good news is that I did not, in fact, smash a child. The bad news is that I was going really fast at the time and I stumbled. Remember physics class?

A body in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted on by an outside force

Well, consider me that body. The “outside force” would be the skating rink floor. But I didn’t just fall. I went down in a flying, rolling, skidding, America’s Funniest Home Videos extravaganza of a fall. It was spectacular! Seriously. I wish I had a video to post since I have no shame. But I’m sure you can imagine it. It looked pretty much like you would expect a fat, middle-aged lady* flying through the air and rolling 10 feet across a wood floor to look.

But I had fun, even if one part of knee hurts even when my clothes touch it, and another part of my knee has no feeling whatsoever. I’ll try just about anything. I don’t know if that makes me brave or stupid.

*Also – “lady?” HAHAHAHAHAHA

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And then Sunday, we had a birthday p[arty at a neighbor’s house and when walked home, carrying some birthday cake, the wind picked up and MY CAKE BLEW AWAY!

That sucked.

Wednesday Weirdness

1.) What is your significant others worst habit?

Hmmm…that’s actually kind of a hard one. Not because he doesn’t have any bad habits. And not because he has so many I can’t pick. It’s more that while there are a whole bunch of things I bitch about (and vice versa, I am sure), I am not sure how to define the “worst”. I guess I will have to go with the moodiness. I know it’s not a habit per se, but I think that to an extent, we can choose how to react and respond to things, and he too often lets the crabbiness and bad temper reign (and I’m not saying I’m Miss Sunshine or anything, either). And while clothes on the floor and snoring on the couch and not getting shit done may drive me crazy, I don’t think they are particularly damaging like the moods can be,

2.) What piece of clothing that isn't lingerie or an undergarment do you have that you feel especially sexy/handsome in?

To be honest, nothing. I feel fat and ugly all the time. When I was thinner, it was jeans and awesome shoes. Now, I mostly feel like hiding.

3.) If you could drink ONLY two beverages for the rest of your life, which would you pick?

Tea and beer. While I love Coke Zero, if it was all I had, I would never be refreshed in the summer (iced), nor warm in winter (hot). And I really enjoy my rum and wine, but I would either be too drunk or my head would explode. So beer it is.

4.) What is your worst habit?

My big fat mouth. Especially when I get all het up about something and tend to forget to think before I speak.

5.) Are you superstitious in any way?

Does being afraid of (non-contained) high places because I have obsessive worries that I will throw myself off the edge count as a superstition? No? Ok, then not really.

I will walk under ladders, step on cracks, never think twice about Friday the 13^th, and break every single chain letter/email/text you send me.

Well, I guess I do have one superstition, actually. The only thing I get superstitious about is the health of my family. Like, if I throw a coin in a fountain or wish on a star, I will be thinking “powerballpowerballpowerball,” but will then think that by wishing for that, I will then wind up rich, but something horrible will happen to my kids or me or my family. I also won’t lie about sicknesses and/or deaths in the family to get out of something.

6.) What kind of shopping do you hate doing most? (Grocery shopping, clothes shopping, shoe shopping, etc)

Without a doubt, grocery shopping. Even with a list, I forget things and have to traipse all over the store. And usually when I am grocery shopping, I am in a rush to get home. Then I have to wait in long lines. Then I have to pay a bajillion dollars. Then I have to load the car. Then I have to unload the car. Then – THE HORROR – I have to put all that shit away. Hate it!! And if the kids are with me? Bowels of hell.

7.) What was a “fad” you remember from your childhood?

Well, let’s see. I had pet rocks, mood rings, Mexican jumping beans, and sea monkeys. Bell bottoms (the first time. Baby oil & iodine. The Bump. The Bus Stop. Weird ass shampoos (Gee your hair smells terrific, that shampoo with beer in it). Friendship pins. Dyn-O-Mite! And so, so many more.

Random Shit Monday

There was a truck in front of me the other day that had stickers on it that made it look like there were bullets holes all over fake bullet holes all over the tailgate. I truly do not get this. I am just not sure why this guy wants to say to the world, "I am such a huge asshole that someone SHOT AT ME" I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he also had fucking hitch balls. For those of you asking what hitch balls are, here you go. Classy. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I’d be wiling to bet there was a mullet involved. I’ll bet the guy has to beat the ladies of with a stick, because he is clearly quite a catch.

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I saw that truck in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s while I was getting some morning caffeine. You know what I really hate? People who blow their horn in the McDonald’s drive-thru line. I understand that you are in a very important hurry, but do you not realize that we have no control over our speed here? The poor guy at the window is just waiting for his McMuffins and there you are, three cars behind him, blowing your goddamned horn. In MY ear. Stop it.

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We rented some movies from redbox this weekend, and I have to say, Dear Baby Jesus – thank you for redbox. I am serious – they are cheap, and best of all, I don’t have to deal with the idiot working at the video store. I know netflix is cool, too, but really, if it involves stamps and mailboxes, I will fuck it up. Redbox is much easier for me.

Anyway, we watched Bolt, What Just Happened, and The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. I didn’t expect to like Bolt, but I did. I think I was biased, since two of the main characters were voiced by Miley Cyrus and John Travolta, and I don’t like either one of them. So I was prepared not to like the movie. But it turned out it was pretty damned funny.

I think What Just Happened is one of those movies that is really for Hollywood. Because I think that anyone in the film industry probably found it uproariously funny, but for the rest of us, it was just one inside joke after another. I just didn’t really get it.

**warning, spoiler-y**The Boy in the Striped Pajamas was a weird one for me. I was prepared to love it, but it just kid of missed for me. I liked it most of the way through (for as much as you can like a movie about the holocaust). Other than the fact that the boy from the camp was not only way too robust, but actually had full-on chubby cheeks, it was engaging and somewhat interesting. But the end ruined it for me. I think I was supposed to be heartbroken by it, but I wasn’t. don’t get me wrong, it was sad. But the overall horror of the holocaust is so overwhelming that it is hard to feel sympathy over this one “accidental” death. I mean, I guess that was the whole point of the movie that the holocaust was horrible. But you don’t rally need to kill off an innocent German boy to prove it to me. I know already. Six million dead Jews and 5 million other dead ethnic and religious minorities, disabled people, homosexuals, and free-thinkers (or more) pretty much make it clear without this contrived story that I felt was intended to pull at my heartstrings. It simply didn’t. in fact, although the boy was likable and I felt bad, I still found myself thinking, “well, boo-fucking hoo”

I know that the movie was critically acclaimed, but I just can’t get on board with the rave reviews. I didn’t hate it, I don’t think it was a bad movie, but I just couldn’t help being disappointed in the end (and don’t think I expected a happy ending, because there are none in this subject matter). I broke my own rule and saw the movie without reading the book and that may have made it worse. Reading about the book, I think I would have appreciated the slight differences. The movie, though, left me feeling…I don’t know…weirdly uncaring. Maybe that makes me cold, I don’t know. But Schindler’s List made me cry. Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl made me cry. Inheritance made me cry. Forgotten Holocaust made me cry. The Holocaust made me cry. Survival in Auschwitz made me cry. Night made me cry. Every single book I have read on the subject made me cry. Visiting Dachau made me an emotional wreck. But this movie just made me feel manipulated and underestimated.


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OK, so now, since I hate to end things on such a heavy note, I will talk about dogs.

When I was cleaning on Friday, I found a few large-ish chunks of black pet hair. Now, having a black dog and cat means that I am always finding hair floating around, sometimes even big tufts and tumbleweeds of it. But these were bigger than normal an I was a little concerned that one of the pets was having some sort of problem. Until Sunday when I saw this:



I know it's not a great photo, so in case you can't tell, that is a large chunk of fur missing from the dog's back. one of several, in fact. Put that together with me being unable to find scissors Saturday and The Girl “helpfully” telling me exactly where they were, and I think we all know what happened here. I guess she has moved on from putting eyeshadow on him.

Also - Puppy! (not mine, just “borrowed” for a little while from Rapunzel)

My Weekend in Letters

Dear super-expensive car driver,

Thank you. No really, thank you for going through that stop sign and almost plowing down my family. It gave us a great opportunity to teach the kids a great life lesson – that rules are for the poor. After all – you stopped whole the folks in front you were obeying traffic laws (the mid-80s Buick and a late 90’s minivan), so you really can’t be expected to do more.

Love, Gina

Dear Neighbor,

When you do yard work right at the edge of the road – the wooded, rural road, near a blind curve – perhaps head to toe camo isn’t the best choice. Just a suggestion.

Love, Gina

Dear Cell Phone Guy,

This may come as a surprise to you, but nobody here gives a shit about you, your phone call, your investments, your car or your weekend. Take it outside.

Love, Gina

Dear Guy in front of me at the movies,

Do you really need 5 minutes to stand there and take off your coat, then put it back on then take it off again then fold it, then hang it over the back of the seat, then pick it up and arrange it on the seat, then pull up your pants then check your phone for calls then stretch your back before you get settled in your seat? Because you are one big dude and I can’t see. And they may only be previews, but if I can’t seem them, then I can’t get all excited and declare my intent to see every single on of them when they come out, even though I know I will see approximately none of them. Still. I want to see. Sit down.

Love, Gina

Dear people behind me in the movies,

Ok, first off, your toddler? Too young for this movie. The only thing he understands is that doggies say “ruff ruff” and that The Rock is tough. I know this because I heard him say it. TEN THOUSAND TIMES. And the fact that you refused to stop him from kicking my seat for two straight hours made me have to work really hard to not punch you in the face. It wore me out and made me unable to fully appreciate this:

Next time I can’t promise not to punch you.

Love, Gina

Dear Uncle Crappy,

I promise it was just a coincidence that I saw you in the library - I am not a crazy fangirl stalker. And I apologize for not remembering your “real” name and being forced to refer to you using the word “crappy” in a public place. My memory is not what it used to be. I blame college.

Love, Gina

Dear Melissa Rivers,

Shut the fuck up. When, on Celebrity Apprentice, you said that it was embarrassing for the men’s team because they lost to a bunch of girls, you became dead to me. Dead. Way to perpetuate sexism, dumbass. And while we’re talking – lay off the goddamned plastic surgery – it makes you look older rather than younger.

Love, Gina

Dear Ministers,

I hear a whole bunch of you are refusing to perform a ceremony at the playboy mansion. I understand that you probably consider the playboy mansion to be the veritable Cinderella’s Castle of pornography. But really, who gives a shit. I am sure you feel that by refusing that you are standing up for and protecting women from the big, bad pornography industry. And don’t get me wrong, I am sure that there are some young women that get taken advantage of. But in general, the women involved with playboy have chosen to be there. Many are educated, intelligent women who have used their assets to get ahead. Many go on to successful careers in other fields. By trying to “protect” them, it is implied that they need protection – that they can’t make decisions for themselves. While I am not a big fan of playboy, I can’t really sit here and lecture about the objectifying of women, blahblahblah, when I think that most beer ads are more offensive. At least at playboy they are honest – it’s all about sex. But when just about every product known to man is sold by oiling up some tits and ass and pretending it has something to do with beer or shoes or cars or Doritos, it’s hard to get worked up about a company that is only using tits and ass for the sake of tits and ass. Ease up, dudes.

Love, Gina

Dear Ass,

Go away. And take your fat friends thighs and belly with you. And please do so without any intervention from me, OK?

Love, Gina

Excuses, Excuses

Parent Bloggers is offering some great prizes (courtesy of Sylvania) for sharing your kids’ excuses for not going to bed. Check it out.


My kids are different in a lot of ways. I mean, he’s a boy, she’s a girl. He’s 12, she’s 5. He’s crazy, she’s crazier. But one thing they do have in common is that they will not let me sleep.

For years, the boy slept in our bed – he had a million reasons why he had to, and most of the time, we just gave in out of exhaustion. Finally, when he was about 6 he stopped and we were thrilled. And mainly, he went to bed pretty easily.

Then the girl came along. At first, she was good about bedtime, but as soon as she realized she had an opinion, she decided to share it with us. And that opinion was: I do not want to go to bed. And she has used every excuse in the book. It’s rubbed off a bit on her brother, too, because why should he in bed when she is up discussing why she is not in bed.

The boy doesn’t have a lot of excuses her can really get away with. He’s too old for monsters in the closet and the scary dark, so he tends to fall back on one of two types of excuses. First up - illness. He’s a big fan of walking out of his room just as I am settling in with my book, putting on his most pathetic face and telling me he has a headache. Or a stomachache. Or his leg hurts. Whatever, anything to get him a few more minutes of checking out whatever is on TV while we discuss it. The other delay tactic he likes to use is the stuff we really can’t argue with. He needs to wash his face. Or brush his teeth. Or put his homework in his backpack. These are things we obviously want him to do, so we can’t really stop him. But the problem, is that he should have done (and was asked to do) these things 45 minutes before. He’s a smart one though and waits until it’s bedtime to suddenly become very conscientious about his hygiene and schoolwork. Also – he will go all the way to the other side of the house to go to the bathroom, instead of using the one right outside his bedroom door. Because even the extra few minutes getting there is a huge delaying success as far as he is concerned.

The girl is also known to use these techniques, but being five, she likes to make her argument in a more dramatic fashion, including, but not limited to:

I need all my (six bajillion) animals in the bed to protect me.
There are scary noises outside.
There are scary noises inside.
I can’t fall asleep. (5 seconds after going to bed)
Something is in my closet.
You called me. (no, I didn’t)
Dade called me. (didn’t)
I’m hungry (she’s not)
I’m really, really hungry (she’s really, really not)
I didn’t even get to watch The Office! (The Office isn’t even on)
It’s on at Weenie’s house!! (It’s not!!)
What if I have a bad dream?
BEARS! I’M AFRAID OF BEARS!!

And my own personal favorite: What about the bats?? Yes- she refused to go to bed for approximately a month because of bats. I told her that there weren’t any bats in the house.
Her: Yes, but they are outside my room.
Me: Bats are good, they won’t bother you.
Her: They can see in my room.
Me: I’ll close the blinds and they won’t be able to see in.
Her: But if you close the blinds, then the bats can press their faces up to my windows and I won’t know!!

Lie to Me

Someone please tell me that you have raised a insane psycho clown...hellcat...Strong Willed Girl and she turned out alright. A nice girl who grew up and was sweet and kind and didn’t have a tantrum at her high school graduation (because she actually made it to the high school graduation instead of incarceration at juvie) and she went on to have a nice, normal life that didn’t involve too much screaming or scaring small animals or showing up on COPS.

Because this child is killing me.

Generally, she is a good kid. She does have a raging case touch of whineywhineritis, but that’s pretty normal. She goes to preschool and daycare and gets along with everyone. She comes home from visiting with friends or relatives and I get reports of how wonderful and helpful she was.

But like a lot of kids, she has her moments. And on Sunday she had ONE HELL OF one those moments. And by “moment”, I mean hours and hours of everyone within earshot being licked by the hot flames of Satan’s flaming pitchfork of misery and death.

These things don’t happen too often (though more often than I would prefer), but when they do, you better get yourself some earplugs (for the screaming), shin guards (for the kicking when you carry her - hanging in front of you - to her room), a flak jacket and helmet (to protect yourself from jamming a sharp item into your own body to just get away from it) and a big bottle of patience (I imagine Xanax would work).

This particular episode was extra special. It went on and on and on (and – God help me – ON). It started because I told her she had to clean her room. Her immediate reaction upon being told to clean her room is the helpless act (“I neeeed heeeeeeeeeeellllllllp!!”). And I understand that she is only five and does actually need a little guidance when it comes to cleaning. So I told her that I had a few things to doand I wanted her to get started and I would come in and help shortly. Or maybe I told her that I killed her dog. By feeding him all her toys. And then used the dead toy-filled dog to beat Santa to death. Or at least, that’s what her reaction would imply.

I managed to stay calm and not yell at her. I gave her specific instructions – pick up all her dirty clothes that she had been neglecting to put in the hamper and put them in and put her stuffed animal on her bed. Then let me know when she was done and I would come in and help her.

I KNOW!!!!! I am a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad mother! I can’t even imagine a worse mother, can you? She proceeded to scream and cry and stomp and roll around and throw things. It went on for hours. She screamed at the top of her lungs until her voice was hoarse. She made an even bigger mess with all her carrying on.

I ended up taking stuff away from her. I called my SIL and cancelled this week’s visit (it’s her favorite thing). All to no avail. When she finally started to calm down, she cried because her throat hurt. She needed “something cold” for it. I told her when she stopped crying I would get her a cold drink. But no – she wanted ice cream. Ummm…HELL NO! I told her that her throat was hurting because of the screaming. So she screamed some more. And so it started again. And on and on with the screaming, crying, kicking, stomping, yelling nonsense. And then her head split open and seventy-three of Satan’s most evil minions came out and set us on fire and chewed our faces off and then we all died. True Story.

Eventually, she Very Sorrowfully and Dramatically started picking up clothes and putting them in the hamper. She finished up with the things I asked her to and sniffled at me that she was done. I went in – as promised – and helped her finish up, but by this time, we were all drained and the day was pretty much ruined for everyone. My favorite part was when she hugged me and said, “I’m sorry I said you were a terrible mother,” which I hadn’t even heard her say anyway (which, whatever, I don’t get all het up about that shit anyway).

But when this happens, it tears us all up. I try very hard to be patient and not rise to the bait, but sometimes it’s really hard. And mr b has no patience for it whatsoever. His fuse is about one billionth of an inch long and so I find myself in the position of trying to deal with her psychosis, keep myself sane, and keep him fro making things worse.

And make things worse he can definitely do. Because he can’t stand it and just wants it to stop. So if I let him, he will step in and give her what she wants, which trains her to keep doing it. The thing is - if he would get up and help her clean the first time she asks, it wouldn’t bethat big if a deal – it would be a parent helping a child. But instead, he lets her go crazy first, and then when he can’t stand the screaming, he gives in, stomps in and says he will help. This is not acceptable. Not only does it teach her to lose her shit to get what she wants, but it then secures his spot (in his mind) in the martyr hall of fame, since he quit whatever “important” thing that he was doing to do what is (also in his mind) my job. He does this shit not because he feels bad for her but because he feels bad for him. (It’s a totally separate issue that we need to work out, because as long as it isn’t interrupting his game/book/guitar he doesn’t give a shit, but when it does, he lumps me in with the kids. I can yell at them for something they TOTALLY need to be yelled at and he will say something like, “I am sick of all the yelling in this house!!” Nice, huh?)

Anyway – back to the issue at hand. I don’t make idle threats – I follow through. And unlike someone who shall remain nameless, I don’t make threats that are obviously not follow-through-able (like not going on vacation, etc).

Even when we show a united front, though, we have yet to find anything that works on her. Ignoring her does nothing –she just keeps on going, like a tiny energizer bunny of misery. Taking things away from her just enrages her – she’ll panic and plead, but then she will simply try to tell you that she will do what you are asking after you give back whatever you took away.

Nothing seems to phase her.

There are times when I find myself worrying that there is something wrong with her and should I call a psychiatrist or and exorcist? And yet she’s very bright, articulate, otherwise well-behaved, and has no obvious triggers or health problems. Other than being STUBBORN AS ALL HOLY FUCK.

So someone please – PLEASE tell me about your evil crazy little strong-willed daughter who turned out to be a lovely young woman. Lie to me if you have to.

See - when she looks like this:

I forget about this shit:

And I Walked to School, Uphill, Both Ways...

You know, nothing makes you feel quite as old as helping your kids with schoolwork. This weekend, I was trying to help the boy prepare for his social studies test and I discovered that I have become my grandfather.

The test was on the geography of Eastern Europe, so I set him up with one of those online map quizzes where it asks you to identify countries by clicking on them. He did pretty well, getting most of them right, but occasionally, he would falter and look at me for help and let me tell you: I am a Big Fat Geography Failure.

Now, I have never been particularly great at geography, but I did OK. But this time, I can’t even be blamed for my failure. It’s because I’m old. Not that I can’t remember the stuff from when I studied it back in the 70s and 80s (it’s my short-term memory that sucks). No – it’s the fact that when I studied this stuff way back when, the map was completely different!!

We had East and West Germany. There was no Croatia or Serbia or Bosnia and Herzegovina. We had Yugoslavia. Czech Republic and Slovakia? Nope – Czechoslovakia. And there was one big country called Russia or USSR, depending on who was doing the talking.

I am old! Old enough that the maps are way different from “my day”. I’m not totally sure, but there’s a chance that there may have only been one or two continents back when I was in school. And they were all inhabited by dodos and mastodons.

Sigh.

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Some of my favorite photos from the past week:

A sweet girl’s birthday:


Waiting patiently at the window for her big girls night with a friend:

There was an insane person in front of me in line with a feather purse (crappy illicit cell-phone photo):


To show you how redneck my town is, here is the ladies room at the local bowling alley (I wish I were kidding):


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And today’s embarrassing photo from my youth (first in a series of however many it takes until I get tired of it):

Angel costume, candy apple, toilet: priceless
Also - doesn't my girl look like me?

Friday 5: On This Date

1. On March 6, 1869, Dmitri Mendeleev presented the first Periodic Table of the Elements to the Russian Chemical Society. What memories do you have of your high-school chemistry course?

I loved Chemistry in high school. I was good at it too, but being…well…me, there were mishaps. Because I am an “experimenter.” As in, if this much of this chemical makes that reaction, I can’t wait to see what THIS MUCH does! At one point there were flames shooting from the sink drain. The most vivid memories I have from chem class are:

-The time there was a lice outbreak in school and I wrapped my head in paper towels before putting on the shared goggles. I was afraid there were lice lingering in the strap.

-The time, during our big long-term independent projects (mine was on acid rain - how old am I?), a janitor inadvertently waxed the classroom floor and I slipped as I was carrying two beakers of acid. They spilled all over me and burned my arms and the teacher (who happened to be a sub that day) grabbed an aloe plant that was part of my friend’s project and sliced it open and rubbed it all over my arms before sending me to the nurse. My friend just stood there moth agape, wondering what the fuck he was going to do about his ruined project.

If this had been about college chemistry, you would have read about the time I almost burned down the science building and the time I stripped down in front of the entire class under the emergency shower.

2. On March 6, 1899, the Bayer company registered aspirin as a trademark. When did you last take medication for pain?

Are we taking over-the-counter? Because that happens almost every day. Prescription would be a couple of years ago for a root canal. Most prescription painkillers make me very sick, so I avoid them unless absolutely necessary.

3. On March 6, 1853, Giuseppe Verdi’s opera La Traviata premiered in Venice. How do you feel about opera?

It’s quite moving to see an opera live, but I am not one to listen to it otherwise. But when I do hear it, I enjoy it. I have been to the opera a few times, and would go again if someone gave me tickets or invited me along, but I wouldn’t necessarily seek them out.

4. On March 6, 1947, American film director Rob Reiner (Meathead!) was born. Which of these Reiner-directed films have you seen, and what do you think them?

* The Bucket List (2007) didn’t see it

* Rumor Has It… (2005) didn’t see it

* Alex & Emma (2003) didn’t see it

* The Story of Us (1999) didn’t see it

* Ghosts of Mississippi (1996) liked it

* The American President (1995) it was ok

* North (1994) it was ok

* A Few Good Men (1992) eh

* Misery (1990) loved it

* When Harry Met Sally… (1989) loved it

* The Princess Bride (1987) loved it

* Stand by Me (1986) loved it

* The Sure Thing (1985) I only remember that I saw this in my small town theater with my friend Tee

* This Is Spinal Tap (1984) loved it

5. On March 6, 1972, American basketball-player Shaquille O’Neal was born. How do you feel about basketball?

Basketball is a fun sport to watch, but I can’t get into it on TV. Mainly because we don’t have a pro team here and it’s hard to give a shit. I will follow Pitt’s games but rarely ever watch them on TV. I loved SpaceJam, though – does that count?

Random WTFs

I am still working form home because of the flood and earlier this morning, I noticed a weird humming sound. I went all over the house looking for the source, thing that something electronic was malfunctioning. When I couldn’t find it, I noticed that the sound was stronger near my front windows and I went outside. Sure enough, it seems that the sound is coming from across the street, or in the woods further on. And it is DRIVING ME CRAZY. It’s very faint, but just enough that I can’t drown it out with TV or radio (unless I want them blaring, which I very much do not). I think the annoyance magnified by the fact that I have a cold and my ears are clogged and I may possibly be a tiny bit irritable. But still, if that sound doesn’t stop soon, I am either going to stab someone or possibly jump through time (yes, I do watch lost, why do you ask?)

************************************************

Speaking of humming, the boy came home yesterday and told me he had to write a paragraph that I had to sign. The subject? Why you shouldn’t hum in school. Oooooookay. This particular teacher is NOT my favorite and she has annoyed me a few times, but this one is just weird. It’s just the latest in a long line of things that piss me off about this school. Regardless, it wasn’t a huge deal so I kept my mouth shut.

************************************************

I just got a text message from an unknown number that just said, “Yes.” I am wondering if the Thera-Flu has led me to groggily propose to a stranger via text message. If so, I will be sure to invite you all to the wedding. Bring presents.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me Friday

Have you seen the story about the host of a British children’s show who was born with only part of one arm? Apparently, a group of parents are having a shit fit because they say this woman has no business being on the show. Their reason? She scares kids.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??

Now, I’ll admit, the first sight of someone with such a disability can be jarring. Our mind tells us that there should be two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs,etc, and when one of those is missing, it’s a bit of a shock. But it is at this point that normal people think, Oh, she’s missing an arm, then they go back to reading their book, or walking the dog or cleaning the toilet or whatever. Unfortunately, it is also at this point that the fucking crazies come out.

Some of these parents comments have been brutal, but even the mild ones are disturbing to me. They refuse to allow their kids to watch the show. They worry about their kids getting nightmares. You know what gives me nightmares? Fucking Lazytown. I would rather watch the Miss Missing Limb Universe Pageant every single day than watch 10 minutes of that show. That is scary – not a sweet, smart, attractive woman who happens to have a disability.

I seriously hope that the BBC sticks to it’s guns about this woman, because the day we start giving in to the Different = Scary theory is a sad, sad day indeed. Whatever happened to teaching our kids about kindness and acceptance? Whatever happened to teaching them that people are different? Do we need to lock away our physically handicapped people for fear of scaring someone? I guess that mean we need to lock up the mentally challenged as well. And the fat people. And those with bad teeth. Bad dye job? I’m scared! Lock her up!

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??

Make no mistake, this isn’t about scared kids, this is about scared adults. I saw one comment that asked, “How do you explain a missing arm to a child?” Ummm, how about this: “She was born looking different from you and me. And even though she looks different than we do she is a person just like us and there is nothing to be scared of. It like how you have light skin and your friend Thomas has brown skin. You look different, but it doesn’t matter.” There’s one option and there are only about a million more – pick one.

If you can’t handle explaining something as simple as a disability to your children, how in the blue fuck are you ever going to be able to deal with penises and vaginas and matters involving them? These parents scare me more than a whole army of one-armed women ever could.

Old Boxes of Crap Are Dangerous

In an effort to embarrass myself even more than I do on a regular basis, I have been on a quest to find old photos of myself. This new obsession driving me insane, because I have found a few, but the rest seem to be missing. I have a big plastic storage box of older photos here, but most of them are post-mr b. There are a few from my senior trip to Europe, and a few random odds and ends, but there seems to be a whole section of my life missing – namely jr high. And jr high, my friends, is a giant, bubbling spring or embarrassment. I'm talking knickers, headbands, (you’ve already seen photographic evidence of that one), neon, painters hats, ugly, ugly blouses, taffeta, tuxedos, and…

No, I can’t say it.

But I’m an oversharer and so I have to: femullet.

Why, oh why can’t I find this stuff? It’s not like there weren’t a lot of photos – I’m an only child with a shutterbug dad – there were thousands and I can’t find them. I’ve spent a little time looking at my parents’ house, but I may have to head back down there this weekend. I need those photos.

Tonight, though, I did find a few other treasures. Letters from an old boyfriend who left me brokenhearted (Who I coincidentally came across shortly afterward in someone’s friend list on facebook. I am now officially the creepy ex who friends you on FB. Pity me). Funny notes and letters from Hedge, referring to boyfriends I can’t even remember. A journal I wrote in on the Europe trip. Apparently all I did in Europe was drink and meet/kiss Italian boys. No really. London? Abbio. Innsbruck? Paolo. On the train to Paris? Alonzo. Paris? Fabio. Munich? Sandro (sigh). Venice? Davide (Captain of rugby team? Check. Serenaded me from outside my hotel window? Check. Proposed to me? Check. Siiiiighhhhh).

I also came across the strangest piece of mail I have ever gotten. It was a letter from an ex-boyfriend’s father. One Valentine’s Day – completely out of the blue - I got a card from a longtime on/off boyfriend’s dad. Inside was a 3 page letter which first made small talk, then moved on to the real meat – asking me to get in touch with his son again and try to be friends again. On one hand, it wasn’t all that weird, since I knew him forever and I was really close to the family. But on the other, I was kind of creeped out about it. Strangely, all these years later, reading it with the eyes of a mother, I sort of understood. While he didn’t come out and say it, I got the impression that he and his son were drifting apart – that his son was changing – maybe making some bad decisions, or at least ones that dad didn’t agree with. And he reached out to the only person he could think of who could maybe make a difference. Back then, I read creepy dad, now I read desperate dad. It made me kind of sad, because I never did get in touch with his son. He had a new girlfriend, I had moved on, it was just too weird. Maybe if he had been more direct, I would have done it. I really did care about this boy – he was one of those that leave a little piece with you forever. But I didn’t, because at 17 I just didn’t get it. Now, I do.

Anyway, I will keep looking for those horrible photos (and you will thank me if I find them). Otherwise, I will be stuck embarrassing myself with volumes of angsty, bad poetry that involves heartbreak, betrayal, and giving myself to someone. And really, no one wants that.

Baby!

My office flooded over the weekend and is now totally disgusting. I had to go in yesterday to check out the damage. Luckily, most of my personal stuff was OK, and my computer still seems to be working. I was surprised, because there were splash marks on it and my monitor, but so far, so good. My space heater was destroyed, along with some sweaters I had in the office and there are tons of wet papers all over. But all in all, not too bad. The worst thing is that the ceiling tiles got soaked and fell down, which made a huge mess. And the office stinks to high heaven like nasty, wet ceiling tiles. I don't know if they have fiberglass or (god forbid) asbestos in them, but after breathing the air in there for about 30 minutes, my throat was scratchy and irritated and I had a headache. Awesome.

However, yesterday also brought some happy things. First off - the ladies that provide childcare for me each got a new puppy. And puppies are always a good thing. Plus, my cousin had her baby and we got to see him. The girl was thrilled to get to hold him:



And finally, my aunt bought the girl some art supplies at the dollar store:



FAIL!

Trashy

Dear Mayor Luke Ravenstahl,

You are so awesome! I mean, like, you have the best ideas and stuff! I totally think you are super cool and like young and hip and stuff. And like, I totally want to be just like you when I grow up. Because like, everyone knows that private jets are the way to go. I mean, who wants to sit in steerage where the, like, regular dirty people sit. Besides, you are like totally on top of things, making sure you always have the money to pay for it, right? So it's not like it's anyone's business.

Seriously, Lukey, you are SO COOL. And that time you snuck into the private golf thingy to meet Tiger Woods? OMG, I totally tried to do that at a Jack Wagner concert in 1984!!! Of course, I'm not the mayor, so they kicked me out, but still - we're like totally the same! We should SO be BFFs now!

I think we'd be like, awesome BFFs, too, because I totally blew off Memorial Day, too! I can SO understand being hungover and not wanting to deal with a bunch of old farts. I mean, like, God! And hello? Stanley Cup Finals or boring ceremony? Please.

And - oh my God, I love Toby Keith, too! And like, I totally don't get why people were so uptight about you borrowing a little old car to take to the concert. I would totally have done the same thing. And really - Pittsburgh is your homeland, right? And like, you totally had to be there because you're the mayor and you had to welcome Mr. Keith and make him feel secure, right? So, DUH - Homeland Security

And like, since when it is wrong to help out your friends? I mean, like, just because someone gave you campaign money doesn't mean you should stop doing little favors for them, right? God! What's the benefit of being mayor if not hookers and blow parties? And I can't wait to be just like you and have rich friends who will fly me places that I can lie about. So cool!

And dude! I totally understand how boooooooring meetings are. Ugh! That is like totally the downside of being mayor, so I'm like so glad that you sometimes blow them off to do other, fun stuff. I don't get what the big deal is. I would totally rather play golf (or maybe get a mani-pedi) than go to some dumb meeting about domestic violence. Like, duh - only the poor, ugly girls get beat, anyway, right? Like, hello? That's what you get to do when you are the boss!

And like, it's such a waste to spend money on thinks like...I don't know...hungry kids or like homeless people or battered women or whatever. That's what shelters are for, right? Duh! Anyway, since your latest idea like So! Totally! Rules! I decided to show the world that I am just like you! See:



But guess what? It totally didn't cost anyone $252,500. Isn't that great?

Love,
Totally Your Biggest Fan. Squee!

The Bad Word

Given the way I swear like a sailor, it might surprise you to find that there is one “bad word” that I really hate. A word that I feel should be expunged from the English language completely. A word that when directed at me, makes me want to punch the speaker in the face seventy-thousand times. That word?

Nag.

I can damnshitassholedickheadmotherfucker with the best of them, but that one word makes steam come out my ears and sends me into fits of rage.

It’s a word that may have started off somewhat innocuously, but over the years, has turned into a word absolutely dripping in misogyny. Men have been trained for generations to use this word to immediately invalidate any concern or request that a woman has, and I for one am damned sick of it.

Because if it has been weeks, or months, or years since the storm door has been broken, the trim has gone unfinished or - God Help Me – the smoke alarms have not been working properly, it is very much not nagging. It is negligence. And yet, as soon as you hear a woman’s voice talking (Or asking. Or begging) about a project or job that needs to be done, that very special man thing kicks in and the VERY BAD WORD comes out and then the women, though completely correct and justified in her request or observation is now nothing more than irrational, nagging harpy, and mr. poor pitiful me can go back to his hockey game or guitar playing or magazine reading.

It’s time to stop accepting this word. The next person who uses it in my presence is in BIG TROUBLE.

Breasts!

I’m pissed off at yet another example of discrimination against a nursing mom.

Dear America, What The Fuck???




This is a teeny, tiny fraction of ads that are out there. Ads that we see every day. That our children see. Ads for products that rarely have anything to do with breasts. And yet there they are, everywhere. Oiled and pushed up and smooshed together and fairy-dusted and tanned and thrust into your face. And it’s all OK, apparently.

But let someone see a tiny sliver of a breast being used for the very thing they were created for, and hoo-boy! Instead of admiring looks and rich ad execs slapping each other on the back for their “genius”, we have insults and accusations and removals from property and threats of criminal charges. CRIMINAL CHARGES, people!

For this:




I am sick to death of people sexualizing and criminalizing it and turning something beautiful and natural into something dirty or gross.

People are having a fit because Salma Hayek nursed a baby that is not her own on a recent UNICEF trip to Africa. I don’t get the big damned deal. She was feeding a starving infant (STARVING INFANT) with the very substance that is best for him. I would have done it myself without a second thought.

Many, many years ago, my Nana (great-grandma) did the very same thing. A neighbor’s milk had dried up and her baby was not thriving. Just a couple short decades after slavery ended, my Nana took a tiny, hungry, African baby in her arms and did the one thing she could do. And my Nana was a beautiful woman. It wasn’t gross and it wasn’t sexual.

And yet, even all the way across the world, breasts are so sexualized that babies are starving over it. Because the men in Sierra Leone are forcing their wives to quit breastfeeding their babies because of social mores that say it’s wrong to have sex with a nursing women. Nothing keeps a woman down like declaring her unclean and rendering her helpless to save her own children’s lives.

Now, I realize that Sierra Leone is a far cry from the United States, both in distance and in culture. Here, no one says we’re not allowed to breastfeed our children. No, here, we just have to hide to do it so as not to offend anyone.

I don’t happen to have any breastfeeding photos, but if I did, you could be damned sure I’d post one. But I am so damned sick and tired of this shit that instead, I give you my big, baby-feeding-created, besaggified rack. Go ahead, America, GET OFFENDED:

I Can Count to Six

1 thing I am jealous of:

Friends who are going to Disney World soon. Disney World is my crack. And I nnneeeeeeeeeeed some soon. Sadly, I won’t be getting it. I was hoping for the every other year plan, which started with October 06 and 08. but we have been thinking that even thought October is the bestest time to go (great weather, lower crowds, Halloween party, Food and Wine Festival), it’s getting really hard to take the boy out of school for it. So we will now be going in the hellish, horrible summer, which is more crowed, hotter, and more expensive. And also harder to get mr b convinced it’s time. If I had it my way, if we have to go in summer, we’d go for two weeks instead of one (OK, if I had it my way, we’d go for two months)

2 things I am waiting for:

News that my brand new baby cousin is on the way. My cousin Lala is approximately 37 months pregnant right now and every time the phone rings, I think it’s time. It’s been almost five years since there’s been a new baby in the family and I can not wait to get my hands on the little pumpkin who, despite my constant harassment polite requests, they are not naming Gina. I don’t get it. I think he’d like the name.

Lunchtime

3 things I am looking for:

A suitable replacement for my favorite and long since discontinued eye cream. I am death to products – makeup, hair products, food items – you name it. If I love something, it is almost guaranteed to be discontinued. And if not discontinued, then changed enough that it is not the same thing and may as well be discontinued (I’m looking at you sugared maple lipstick). And I can’t even begin to express my love for the former Mary Kay Triple Action Eye Enhancer. This was the best stuff, ever. I don’t know why they discontinued it, given that I am constantly talking to people who also loved it and lament its disappearance. There are a few tubes online, but considering that it had been years since they took it off the market, I’m not sure how safe, or at least, fresh it would be. But I might be willing to take a chance, since it was awesome. It brightened and sort of lifted the eyelids and made shadows and liners go on smoothly and stay on well. I have tried about a million new brands but never found anything as good. I have no idea what was in the stuff, but between the deep love I had for it and the fact that it is no longer on the market despite sales, I am guessing mercury, BPA, plutonium, and crack.

Dragon’s Song. Years ago, some clients gave mr b a small book that a friend of theirs had had published. It was an epic poem about Pittsburgh called Dragon’s Song. It talked about growing up in the city and how the mills looked like giant dragons. I loved it. And now I can’t find it. Since it was self-published, I can’t find it anywhere –even the Carnegie, and it’s pissing me off. I found an email for the author, but haven’t gotten a reply. On the off chance that any of you have it, let me know – I really want a copy.

Love in all the wrong places (OK, not really, but I needed one more thing here for this to work).

4 things making me happy:

Spending the day at the Carnegie Library with the girl on Saturday. Sure, we have a small library in my hometown, but it doesn’t thrill me the way the Carnegie does. I’m like a kid in a candy store in there. We spent hours reading in the children's section, reading and picking out books to take home with us (of those we took, best title: Skippyjon Jones, best book: The Library Lion, most giggles: The End). Then I did a mad dash & grab in the newer fiction (it really almost doesn’t matter what I grab – I’m happy to read it). I was in such a good mood, I even got a few books for mr b and the boy. Mr b got a couple books on blues music, and I reserved a dvd of Buddy Guy for him. The boy got a huge illustrated encyclopedia of Star Wars vehicles. Which I knew held love. Of course all the book-induced endorphins made me black out the part where he would spent he next three weeks excitedly telling me about each and every vehicle. At length. But still: books! Best part of the day? When I asked the children's librarian where the Cornelia Funke books were located (I need Inkspell now), and she asked me what grade/reading level I was looking for and I had to say, “Um..it’s for me.” Awesome.

The girl now sharing my love for bubble drinks (though not that milky sweet nastiness). Oh, black tapioca pearls, how I love you.

This study is ending today and I can go back to my normal working schedule.

The little wedgie move she does after finishing her “floor routine”:

5 things pissing me off:

Speaking of Cornelia Funke, I was all excited way back when I saw the trailer for Inkheart. And then I ran out and read the book, as I like to do. And when I read it, I discovered that almost nothing in the trailers is actually from the book. No Toto, no flying monkeys, no unicorns. What the fuck?

This bullshit. I can’t even put into words how I feel, other than What. The. Fuck?

The fact that , like every other year, we have been hearing the annual “Oh No, We’re running out of salt for the roads” song of whining, and yet on a 60 degree day, I was behind a truck spreading salt. What the fuck?

As much as I love Spice Island, I really hate those stupid takeout containers they use. The plastic lids get hot, then they pile them on top of each other, and then I end up with shattered plastic in my now inedible Kway Teow. I’m seriously craving it, but won’t bother again until I can eat in. What the fuck, Spice Island?

The fact that I just found out that Kindergarten registration is coming up. When did my baby get so old??? She’s a teeny, tiny baby! And her impending kindergarten is making me yearn for more babies. What the fuck?

6 things the dog has crapped on:

A preface: We got the dog when he was a few months old. We had recently lost our beloved Golden Retriever, and mr b came across an elderly woman who recently lost a dog and replaced him with a brand new, cute as a button black lab. Well, she soon realized that a new puppy was too much for her (and her remaining old dog) to take, so she gave him up for adoption. I wasn’t thrilled when mr b and the boy came home with him (surprise - we got a dog!), but I fell for him quickly. He is a sweet, friendly, loving dog, who is also a fantastic watch dog. And he points at squirrels and chickens. But he’s guilty. He’s guilty for everything he ever did, ever. He sounds like Cujo when someone is approaching, but a quivering, snarling, white hot ball of canine terror, he is not (Family Dog, anyone?) All you have to do is look at him with The Look and the ears go down, the eyelids start fluttering, the tail tucks under and Ferocious Watchdog becomes Sissy Wussy Dog. And what does Dog do when he’s nervous and guilty? He shits. He shits Big.

Twister: The boy had a friend over one weekend. When the friend’s dad came to pick him up, he brought along the friends’ sister and they hung out and played for a while and the adults visited. Pretty soon, the kids start playing Twister. The dog is nervous about games and shits on Twister.

Christmas: It’s Christmas morning. There is much squealing and yelling and wrapping paper being strewn about. Dog is nervous about the excitement and shits on Christmas. The living room is now a minefield as we pick through piles of paper while trying to locate/avoid the pile of shit.

Taxes. A few years back, we (by which I mean mr b) waited until the very last second to do out taxes. While we were dealing with the stress of taxes, I someone spilled beer into the keyboard and it died. So now we had added the added stress of running out to get a new keyboard to finish the taxes. We had papers everywhere, keyboards on the floor, and a general crazy mess. And apparently taxes make the dog nervous. Because he shit on them. And then he sent his post-poo celebration time barfing. Yes, he followed up the shit with a nice big pile of yack on my living room carpet. This is the life.

The driver’s seat. Mr b was picking up the boy from daycare and decided to take the dog along to surprise him. He stops at the ATM machine and gets back in the van. While he is out, Dog, nervous about being alone in the van, ignores the 3000 square feet of floor space in the giant van, and instead somehow balances himself and shits on the driver’s seat. Mr b does not notice as he gets in, and sits on the driver’s seat. Then he smells it. Then cranes his neck, looking all around the van trying to find the source of the smell. Then he realizes he can’t see it anywhere and it becomes clear. Then he contemplates dog murder.

The passenger seat. When I was 9 months pregnant, I was driving Dog to the groomer. This is already a trauma, since Dog is not a Car Dog. He is flailing about, falling down, hitting the dashboard and being a general pain in the ass. In the middle of a call to the office, I got the “who farted?” look. Apparently, Dog is nervous about automobile travel and shits on the passenger seat. Dog is suddenly in the backseat, crying softly. Being in my ninth month of a barfarific pregnancy (seriously, I lost 25+ lbs from the barfing), I contemplate barfing. I decided barfing is a fine idea and do so. While cleaning my car of dog shit and barf, I call mr b and tell him of my dog-murder plans.

On my cousins’ feet. I was 7 months pregnant (and in high-gagging mode). My two cousins came over to visit me one night. They pet and love Dog. When he walks away, all present get the “who farted?” look. Dog, nervous about the stock market, shits on said cousins’ feet. Cousins contemplate murder. I contemplate barfing.

I think this is why Lala refuses to name her baby (boy) Gina.

Crapentine's Day

I'm still swamped with a study running at work, so I am going to re-post my Crap-entine's Day post from last year. I'm not a big fan of the Valentiney stuff, can you tell?

Valentine’s Day has never been my thing. At least after I outgrew the school parties and homemade boxes and heart-shaped lollipops and chocolate covered marshmallow hearts (OK, I never actually outgrew the chocolate covered marshmallow hearts).

In high school, I always hated when V-day rolled around. If I had a boyfriend there was the worrying about what to get him, when in actuality I thought it was stupid but I didn’t want to be the loser who got something and didn’t give something in return. And really, I hated cheap candy and stupid plush hearts and teddy bears. If I didn’t have a boyfriend, it actually wasn’t so bad. My friends and I would send each other flowers or lollipops (red for I love you, pink for I like you and white for just friends – we always went with red) and we’d make fun of everyone else’s stupid plush hearts and teddy bears. Hedge and I will be doing this this week, in fact. Twenty-mrtngh years later.

And mr b and I never went all out for V-day either. In the beginning, we were too broke and now we just don’t give a crap. We’ll get a card and maybe a little chocolate treat, maybe a little thrown-together bouquet of flowers, but beyond that? Eh. I'll get the kids a little something (though this year, we are going candy-free - think trinkets and girly things for the girl and more of The Office on dvd for the boy).

I’ve talked about it before, but I am so sick to death of Hallmark and jewelry stores telling me how important it is. I really, really don’t give a shit if he went to Jared. So in case you were wondering, here’s a list of thing to NOT get me on Valentine’s Day, though the constant radio ads will tell you otherwise.

(Not that you were getting me anything for Valentine's Day anyway, but in case you have a SO who is like me, this might be helpful)

Vermont Teddy Bears
No. Seriously, no. I don’t care about a stuffed animal. I don’t care if it has a little outfit on and looks like me or is sitting at a computer or wearing a tie-dye or whatever. I simply do not need or want a fucking teddy bear. I’m 40. It’s just one more thing for me to dust and take up space in my too-small house. And besides, unless the little fucker is going to get up and clean the house for me, then 80 frajillion dollars is too damned much to spend on a stupid space-taking, dust-collecting stuffed toy. Now that I think of it, get me a maid service instead.

Lingerie
Ahhh, yes. The gift that says, “I’d like to get laid”. There is a local lingerie store that has radio ads every Valentine’s Day, with some stupid bitch telling the “gentlemen” how their “ladies” would love “something sensual” but are afraid to say so. Ummm, not really. Please - If I want lingerie, I am not afraid to say so. But I won't say so. You know why? Because if I want it, I’ll go buy it. If I want lingerie, I want something that will a) not embed itself in my ass, b) hold the hooters in place, c) actually be comfortable, and d) be made from fibers found in nature so as not to create a raging yeast infection. If you give me sexy lingerie, I will open it and my first thought will be, “Motherfucker, this is for YOU, not me. Next time get me a table saw, why don’t you??” And don’t be surprised if you get a 20-something pool boy from me next year.

Chocolates Body Paint
See “lingerie.” The only thing I will be doing with this is heating it up and pouring it over ice cream. Sorry.

Gold-Dipped Roses
I do not, I repeat NOT, need another crappy tchochke in my house. Please. Also, see “too much money” and “dust-collector”

Flowers in General
Don’t get me wrong - I love flowers. And roses are OK, though not my favorite. But on V-Day, those things are marked up like 15,000 percent. And they are FAR crappier then, too. Fuck that shit. It’s complete insanity to expect people to pay that much fucking money for flowers that will be dead shortly anyway. If you want to get me flowers, go to the local supermarket that sells them by the stem, pick out a bunch of different style, different color, mix and match blooms and I’ll love it all the more.

Heart-Boxed Chocolate
I love chocolate. Love it. But I don’t need the heart shaped box. You pay way more because of it and generally, I hate everything in there. I hate the creams and the nougats and the nuts. So get me some Dove hearts, some truffles, some Hershey’s kisses, or hell, some Raisinettes. I’ll love them.

Diamond Heart Jewelry
I am really not a big jewelry person in general, but I really, really hate the heart stuff. I don’t like heart shaped stones, I don’t like the cheesy heart rings and necklaces that come in a box with chocolates or a bear. Seriously, I just don’t care for it. And I really don’t need more jewelry. I already have more than I can wear (one ring on each hand and maybe a necklace or bracelet - and I’m too damned lazy to change every day). And don't even get me started on the blood diamonds. If you insist on getting me jewelry, go string some beads for me or buy me something artistic and handcrafted. Or something antique. Otherwise, save your money.

Champagne
OK, champagne is fine, as long as you get several bottles and don’t expect it to lead to sex.


And now the dog would like you to know that he does not subscribe to my jaded views of Valentine's Day and the he is, in fact, a lover: