February 11, 2011

I’m irritated!

I’m feeling a little like Peter Griffin these days, seeing as pretty much everything chaps my hide. It’s because I am cold. So ever freaking cold. There is no remedy for my cold.

My new cozy socks — worthless.

My snuggie — worthless.

Kicking the heat up a good ten degrees — worthless, except for making my husband’s eyes bulge out of his skull when he spots it. So kind of worth the comedy of that, but mostly worthless.

Snuggling up to my husband — worthless. It doesn’t matter that his farts are warm, they are still farts.

You know it’s way too damn cold when the forecast predicts a high of 27, and you can’t wait for that welcome warmth. Jim said that my complaining about the cold is no different than the people who complain about the heat in July, the people who make me insane. And you know what? He is totally wrong. It’s not the same. It’s just not.

Since I’ve been stuck inside shivering and downing coffee and leaving a Marney-size permanent imprint on the sofa, I have begun to get more and more irritated by the things that keep me company. Meaning, the people who visit me on my television set and the tiny electronic friends (fiends?) who live inside my laptop.

Here are the things that — due to this irritable cold — really chap my hide:

*Toilet paper commercials — There’s a new commercial on these days. It’s a bunch of women talking about how their toilet paper isn’t just supposed to get you clean, it has to KEEP you clean. And one of the women, raising up both her hands, declares, “It has to keep my hands clean!” Seriously, if you cannot wipe your own butt without getting actual dookie all over your hands, you are a moron. If you cannot wipe your ass without getting it on your fingers, you need lessons, not new toilet paper.

*Feminine hygiene commercials – Here’s another one. It’s three women. One of them turns away, ashamed, while the other two continue on with their conversation. Then the voiceover says something along the lines of “I had to learn the hard way about feminine odor.” WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN? Is she saying that here she was, having a little get-together with the girls, and suddenly they were like, “Hey Sandy, hate to tell you this, but you have a little crotch-rot going on” so Sandy turned away embarrassed. So she bought some special soap and now she’s no longer a social pariah? Because at the end of the commercial, the three women are enjoying each other’s company again. Dude…. GROSS GROSS GROSS. There’s a word for those women — skank. And they don’t have friends who politely tell them to wash their cooch. They have men who leave without paying. That’s how they know.

*SAG awards — These were on last week. And I was strangely compelled to watch. And was I ever mad, because the hardest working woman in show business was not honored even one little time. Her:

She is EVERYWHERE. Need those removable hooks for your holiday decorations? She’s got them. Need investment advice? SO DOES SHE. Carpets? Draperies? She’s your gal. Potting soil that feeds your plants for you? She’ll recommend it. For God’s sake, she’s the wife of the Whopper in the Burger King ads. Once she told me how awesome KY lubricants are for your love life. And she’s the official lady spokesperson for the Shakeweight.

Someone explain to me why this woman does not have a SAG award!

Her name is Erica Shaffer, by the way. And according to her resume, in addition to her acting chops, she can salsa dance and do a cockney accent and lists herself as an “expert” in teleprompter. So seriously, SAG, show this lady some love. She deserves a little statue too.

*Mark Zuckerberg — Two things dude: 1-Quit making “updates” and “changes” to Facebook. Stop it. Stop it now. 2-You are a multi-gizzilionaire. Do something about your hair. Head pubes are not now nor will they ever be in style. Fix it. So stop fixing Facebook, start fixing your hair. Got it?

*Media Matters & MSNBC – Look, I’m a good lefty liberal. I find Sarah Palin intolerable and GleN Beck moronic and Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity are shameful to the great Irish people. But ENOUGH already. Media Matters used to just be a media watchdog website, and they held everyone’s feet to the fire. They regularly tore down people like Chris Matthews and ABC News and EVERYONE who uttered something that could have been proven to be wrong or exaggerated. But now it’s just a crusade on why we should all hate Fox News. MSNBC regularly hosts Media Matters editors as their guests. It’s no different from Fox. It’s really not. It’s just the other side, and it’s just as unfair and unbalanced. When you stop reporting the news and start reporting on the other people who report the news, you’re not really a journalist anymore.

*Buffering — Jim thinks this belongs in the Tournament of Bad. He is right. I do not have the patience to wait for you to buffer. Just show me the damn videos.

*Paid programming — Please just play Law & Order. It’s too hard to wake up and dig the remote out from under my husband’s butt to flip the channel. And by that time I am fully awake and then I WANT a steam mop or an indestructible frying pan or those same hair extensions that all the stars are wearing. There’s 20 years of Law & Order episodes out there, and I really didn’t pay much attention during the years when they thought to make one of the detectives a woman or when the guy from Crime Story took over for poor dead Jerry Orbach. Play those episodes instead.

Bah.

This morning, Hank said to me, “Mom, you are cranky.” And is he ever right. I am cranky. And cold. Too damn cold.

Please come spring. Because right now, old man winter really chaps my hide.

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January 27, 2011

A dream come true

At last. At last at last at last!

It took me several weeks to actually get out there and purchase the light bulb, but I finally made my very first, truly awesome Easy Bake Oven masterpiece. Jim bought me an Easy Bake Oven for my birthday this year. Age 37, and I finally got that one item I whined and cried about not having for most of my youth.

I opened packets. I mixed with water. I used the push tool to carefully insert (hee hee) the cake and pull it out (hee hee) of the oven. I iced.

Follow my journey:

Pre-heating with a single lightbulb. Look at it glow!

Fresh out of the oven!

Here's what it looked like frosted.

Here's what it looked like when I dropped it on the floor.

Here's what it looked like when I picked it up, put it on a plate and fed it to my child.

And the verdict is…..

Delicious!!

Yay me!!!

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January 22, 2011

Philadelphia freedom

I love you.

Yes I do!

Yes, it was difficult. But I got on a plane. And after sitting through a few moments where tears of complete and utter fear enveloped me like, well, an envelope, I made it through the obnoxiously long flight (one hour and 45 minutes!!) and settled safely on the ground in Pennsylvania, where the land is somehow so bizarrely curvy that  just flying over it made me motion sick. But, Nancy had only a few days left on her babymoon, and what better way to spend them than with the girls who knew you back when stretch marks were something you laughed at other, older women for having: Me and Kayla!

Upon arrival, Kayla, Nancy and I engaged in one of the cornerstones of democracy that one can only truly appreciate while in the birthplace of American Americanism: Historical re-enactment!

Here we are acting out the famous “let’s smile in front of this 2,000 pound bell that we paid a jizillion dollars for and it cracked upon the first clapping of the clapper” scene from the days just past the Revolutionary War. The scene is slightly less famous than the Washington crossing the Delaware snapshot, but one of great significance anyway. This is important because it is the first time in recorded U.S. history that the government took tax dollars, basically set them on fire, then didn’t do anything about it, only to somehow make it sound like that’s how it was supposed to be in the first place.

Did you know that in the angry letter written to the guys who cast the bell about how their lackluster craftsmanship made the thing crack the very first time is was rung, the word “Pennsylvania” was misspelled? The founding fathers couldn’t spell Pennsylvania correctly! Seems the second “n” in Billy Penn’s name got away from them. Suck on that GleN Beck. Kayla and Nancy were not as interested in reading the copies of the historical documents on display near the big cracked bell. Somehow, I am the geek in this scenario.

I’d also like to point out that maybe when commissioning a huge bell to mark our freedom from the tyranny and unfair taxation of England, maybe the founding fathers could have found someone OTHER than a bell maker in LONDON. Seriously, people.

Back to modern-day Philly.

After the big cracked bell, we moved on to another famous piece of history. One made famous by Philly’s most notable southpaw,  Mr. Rocky Balboa.

That’s Kayla in the yellow coat. That fatty next to her is me. Nancy parked her diesel Jetta in the taxi lane to get this picture, which I find absolutely hilarious. While there were several people at the top taking similar photos, we were the only ones who ran up ALL of the stairs humming “bum-bum-bu-bu-bum-bu-bu-bum-bum-bum…. gonna fly now!!!” Kayla took a short break from the song to tell the homeless guy halfway up that we couldn’t give him any change because we were in the middle of something important.

Here’s the obligatory cell phone self-portrait from the top:

Two things : Yes, Kayla is giving the thumbs up. And I need to get me one of those fancy phones. I think we are past the days when it is acceptable for cell phone photos to be grainy.

Finally, there was one more important re-enactment to participate in while visiting the home of cheesesteaks and downtown streets that no one thought to expand when bigger buildings went up. The historical birth of Ms. Lilah Jane in the ridiculously pretty orange bathroom:

That’s right, I told Nancy to take a picture with her child in the bathroom where she delivered her… and she complied. Now that’s mothering!

And that, my friends, is how you visit Philadelphia!

Thanks Kayla and Nancy, it was fun!

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January 11, 2011

It burns, Mom… it burns.

Hank had what I can only assume was a life-changing and defining moment this morning. One which he will discuss with future psychiatrists as he shudders and curls himself into the fetal position. One which will make his buddies laugh and his brother cringe.

Hank walked into my room unexpectedly today, as I exited from the shower.

Full. Frontal. Mom.

From his reaction, you would have thought he’d had a front row seat to the dropping of the atomic bomb. It went something like this:

 

Poor thing. The image of Mom’s double-D’s now seared into his brain for life.

Sorry kid.

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January 5, 2011

A well thought out birthday

For the moment, it appears, that at this one point in time at least, my husband….

*deep breath*

ACTUALLY listened to what I said.

Totally. And. Completely.

As proof, I offer photographic evidence of the awesome gift I received for my birthday:

That’s right. I finally got my easy bake oven. Suck it Mom, my husband LOVES me, nee-ner nee-ner nee-ner.

I also got the Michael Jackson dance game for Wii, prompting my husband to note that I received gifts probably more suited for my 7th birthday than my 37th birthday. But it is all so AWESOME.

I did manage to get off this shot before I ripped open my birthday bounty:

I was not trying to take a picture of the boys. I took this photo to preserve one act that has two distinct reasons behind it: the roll of wrapping paper sitting next to my presents.

See, Jim left that there for two reasons: 1) he bought it yesterday, because he doesn’t know where I keep the wrapping paper, and 2) he left it there on the table for me because he doesn’t know where I keep the wrapping paper.

Awesome birthday! See you next year, January 4!

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January 4, 2011

It was a beautiful morning…

… and then Marney ruined it.

I think that’s how the story of my birth starts.

In case anyone was unaware, IT IS MY BIRTHDAY! I enjoy my birthday a great bit. I get a lot of glee out of announcing everywhere I go that it is, in fact, MY DAY. ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME!!!!!

When we were younger, my sister Carrie used to grouse about the endless teasing she received on her birthday. See, Carrie’s birthday is November 14. Which is precisely nine months after Valentine’s Day. And even though we all know it doesn’t really work exactly like that, it was still a source of a good laugh for her friends — that her Mom and Dad were doing a little mattress dancing for Valentine’s and SURPRISE, here comes Carrie.

I, however, never got what the complaining was all about. After all, on Valentine’s Day in 1963, my parents were still newlyweds. If anyone has a reason to “celebrate” Valentine’s, I think it would be a newly married couple barely into their 20′s.

I, however, am another story. It seems that while Carrie was the product of a night of love and romance, I was the product of Mom and Pops just doing it one April day. Hell, they already had four kids, and Amy was still a baby! There was no moonlight and roses. It was “hurry up, I have stuff to do.” Honestly.

*shiver*

Well, despite that image being infused into all our brains, it is STILL my birthday. HOORAY!

The story of my birth goes something like this:

Mom was drunk again.

Mom wakes up and is somehow surprised that she is in labor. Apparently the four previous deliveries and the fact that I was roughly a week late escaped her. So naturally — in full on Nancy style — she’s like, oh, I’ve got time. And she jumps in the shower. Fast forward 10 minutes and apparently she was all “TOM HELP ME!!!!!!!!”

Seems the baby wasn’t interested in whether Mom’s pits were clean or not.

So into the car they go. Now, I’ve heard different versions of this — the car died (it’s freaking January), they borrowed a neighbor’s car, the car was fine — I don’t know. Even though I was there, I do not remember these details. What I do know is that despite the fact that there was a perfectly good hospital just a few miles away, Mom and Dad decided that this baby MUST be born at St. Anne’s in Chicago. Even though by this time they were a good 25 miles out of the city in our new Wheaton home.

So into the city they go. I like to think about the lovely conversation they had on the way in. Something tells me Mom did a lot of talking and Dad did a lot of staring straight ahead and keeping his mouth shut. He’s a smart man, he knows when to talk and when to be so still you are practically a corpse.

Again, the versions of the story get hazy. In one version, Dad lovingly drops Mom off at the front door. In another, he tries to park, and Mom almost makes it certain that this will absolutely be his last child… THEN he drops her off at the front door.

However it happened, Mom apparently runs into the hospital grabbing at her hootie like a 3-year-old who waited too long to hit the head. The nurse pulls up a wheelchair, and Moms says, “uh……. no” and does the pointy-point-point at her lady bits, where someone’s head is about to pop right on out.

Needless to say, they got her to a room, and by the time the door shut all the way… IT’S A GIRL! Dad probably hadn’t put the car in park yet out in the parking lot.

And that was how it was, 37 years ago this very morning. I have to say, that while it is technically my birthday, it’s really Mom and Dad’s special day. Because really, their lives would be so much less awesome without me. So thanks you two. Thanks for getting it on one April day in 1973.

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December 30, 2010

Early present

My husband has slowly but surely learned that of all the stereotypes that women carry, I do not fit into many of them.

I hate shoes. I have a single pair of black heels. I bought them in Baton Rouge in 1998, and I still wear them. The three pairs of “cute” shoes I do own were bought only after photos were sent and approvals were given by friends.

I hate shopping. Except at WalMart. And in that case, for food.

I have no sense of style or understanding of what is and isn’t stylish. If it is fancy and it is in my closet, it is because someone named Nancy, Kayla or Carrie gave it to me. I think stretch pants should be mandatory, and still believe that “designer jeans” mean that the name “Z Cavaricci” is emblazoned on the ass pocket.

I think lace on a bra is flat-out ridiculous. How the hell do you hold those girls in place with lace? Cotton-spandex, people. Cotton-spandex.

I don’t understand why “granny panties” is a joke. Seriously, your granny wears them because they are COMFORTABLE. She is a wise woman, follow her lead.

But one of the things I could care less about is the age-old adage that it is in bad taste to ask a woman her age. Hence, in preparation for my birthday and the fact that I am a terrific birthday brat, Jim ordered up this bad boy for the paper where I work:

That’s right. It reads, “Love, your Fans.” Classic.

When my boss spotted this, she said, “Did he really mean to put your age in there?” and I was like “HELL YEAH!!!”

The best part of this was that I totally caught Jim rifling through my photo boxes, and he was all, “oh I’m just looking” and I didn’t think anything of it. And of all the pictures of me — such as the adorable pics where I am all full of the make-up and the cute hair from Kayla’s wedding or where I am at least less splotchy-looking — he picked this one. The reason I am bent over like that in the photo? Because Hank is the photographer. Over my right shoulder there you may be able to make out a face. That is because Hank took this picture of me watching the Cubs on our new tv a few years ago. I think that might be Dempster.

But of course, who am I to complain. That is exactly what I look like.

January 4. It’s just around the corner. The post-Christmas sales are in full swing, so go buy me something cheap and non-designer.

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December 27, 2010

Most wonderful time of the year!

Ah, Christmas. We know what it’s all about. The baby Jesus and how God sent us His son so He would suffer for our sins. Caring, kindness, love, charity, treating others as they should treat you. It’s this time of a year that we should all pause for a moment and reflect on our lives, our choices, and know that even when difficult times rear their ugly heads, we are lucky. We are the recipients of good fortune. We are blessed.

Of course, I am a good lefty liberal, so screw that crap.

Christmas is all about PRESENTS!

Let’s check out the awesome that hit our home this year:

Star Wars was again a recurring theme for my first born, which makes sense, seeing as he is a Jedi Knight in training. But it seems this year, the fever has spread to Number 2:

Don’t let the look on his face fool you. George is crazy excited about his new Darth Vader action figure, which, surprisingly, was not easy to find. I am not sure how to feel about George’s newfound love of the dark side, other than to say, probably should have seen that one coming.

But who cares about the wee ones. What are the chances that they’ll even have vivid memories of this Christmas, anyway? It’s the ADULTS that made out this year. And man are we happy with Santa:

Zumba for the Wii!!!! LOVE IT!

The Best of Van Halen, Volume 1! If I had more hair, I’d grow it and headbang all the livelong day!
Sweet Mother of Pearl, a SHAKE WEIGHT! Just like I asked for! Thank you Santa, my arms are so freaking buff already!!!!

No really — I asked for that. It’s not the Easy Bake oven I requested, but it’s still awesome. And I’m not the only one who loves it. But, no matter how well I follow the Word Press rules of how to put a video from You Tube on my blog, it won’t work. So you’ll have to click the link and check it out for yourself:

http://www.youtube.com/user/marneyike?feature=mhum#p/a/u/0/C-EhUN4Wz7s

Now, let me just tell you… I’m not kidding about the Easy Bake oven. My mother insisted we had one at some point in time, but I’m pretty sure the person who had it was Carrie. And she’s 10 years older than me. It did not get handed down. I want to bake tiny little cookies and brownies in a plastic box powered by a lightbulb. After all, lightbulbs as we know it will be gone soon enough, and those high-efficiency, better-for-the-environment crap pieces won’t fire up hot enough to make me a tiny little piece of sugar cookie bliss. Freaking tree huggers. So if you are reading this, remember, my birthday is JANUARY 4, and I only got two presents for Christmas (see above), so I’ll be expecting some compensation for filling the world with my awesomeness for 37 glorious years. 

 Happy holidays everyone!

I mean, Merry Christmas everyone! Because we all know when you say happy holidays, the terrorists win.

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December 14, 2010

Quit your swining….

Today’s story is brought to you by Tamiflu. Tamiflu: breaking the wallets of sick people since 1999.

So George was all sick and barfy and not right over the weekend. And I was thinking, eh, he seems a little worse than a regular flu, but not too bad. Then Sunday he starts tugging at his ear, so I’m like, A-HA! Ear infection. So off to the doc we go yesterday.

Nope. No ear infection. H1N1. Aka, influenza A. Aka, Swine flu.

Ok, it’s not as bad as it sounds. The media always gets the swine flu thing wrong. Liberals. Because really, only swine get swine flu. H1N1/Influenza A is just more severe than your average seasonal flu, and lasts a little longer. George has already been through the worst of it. The doctor said complications usually come at the END of the cycle, which should be the end of this week. But his fever is already gone.

Speaking of which, the doc was a little shocked that I hadn’t taken his temperature. I said, he had a fever, and she was like, how much, and I was like….. uh……. hot on my hand? She gave me that one eyebrow up in the air look. Is it no longer acceptable to touch your kid and KNOW they have a fever? If so, um, looks like I need a new thermometer for Christmas. I don’t even know where mine is at. Or which end it goes in.

Lucky for me, Hank stayed home from school yesterday, he had a dentist appointment. And when he came out, his eye was blazing red. So I had the doc look at him too…. and he has a raging case of pink eye. Probably related to the flu, the doc says, but he is not symptomatic of the flu. Lovely that I might have spread it all over the dentist office, hmm? Which is a whole ‘nother story, jeeze louise.

Anyway, George’s doctor says, oh, by the way, the entire FAMILY has to be treated for H1N1. With a medicine that costs $50 each. EACH I TELL YOU! You should have seen my eyes bug out of my face when the pharmacist said that — and that is WITH insurance. And Jim’s got the good stuff, too! Guess who is super happy that Jim talked her into stopping at two kids right about now? Of course, it makes sense though since we’ve all been exposed. I mean, on Saturday, when he barfed all over me and the pillow I threw out, the first thing I did after ripping his clothes off was give him hugs and kisses, then I cleaned it up. And it’s not like I put on rubber gloves to do it.

 So I have to hold down George twice a day to pump this stuff in his mouth. Hank only gets it once a day, but I also have to sit on his head and pry his little eyeballs open to put the eye drops in. And Jim is the biggest baby of them all. He has pretty much doused himself with hand sanitizer and last night he freaked out a little when he grabbed the pantry door right after Hank had touched it. Although, I think Jim is more afraid of the pink eye then the flu. Big baby.

Anyway, the house has been throughly Lysoled. Bah.

However, just so everyone knows, even though you have been assured by the doctor that things are okay and your kids seem fine and they’ve started treatment, when your 4-year-old gets diagnosed with H1N1, you wake up every 30 minutes or so to make sure he is breathing. I am sure it will be a fun week for me.

Meanwhile, Hank – who is 8 years old — needs not one, not two, but THREE root canals. THREE ROOT CANALS. And I didn’t really want him sedated, and the dentist thought that was funny. His treatments start in January. Seeing as I have had one cavity ever in my life, let’s blame his other biological contributor for this one.

 The end.

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December 8, 2010

This kid…

So, as you well know, Hank is a ripe old 8 years of age. And with that age comes much, much wisdom. Some of his more memorable nuggets as of late:

To my brother, at his wedding, which yes, was his second wedding: “This is the best wedding you’ve had.”

Same day: “I hope you don’t divorce this one, because I like her.”

Same day, upon exiting the dance floor: “Not only am I having the night of my life, but I’m getting great exercise.”

Watching Faith Hill sing the Monday Night Football song: “Ah, if only she was 8 years old.”

Waving his hands at the automatic doors at Walmart: “I’m getting good at using the Force.”

I think it is fair to say that while the boy did not inherit my looks (and seriously, if you look at this photo and do NOT see his other biological contributor clear as day, you either don’t know the dude or you are messed up), he at least got my sense of humor.

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