Monthly Archives: December 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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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:

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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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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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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Things that don’t wash off

December is here, and despite my curled lip and huffy anger at all that is winter, even I like Christmas. So, it’s time to start that decorating.

Recently, my mother has been able to slowly but surely unload a few of her boxes of total crap Christmas treasures on me. Not a lot, I warn you. I promise, my father is still buried in endless ornaments, figurines and knick-nackery, all of which looks identical. But somehow I managed to get an entire box that I didn’t even pack. Something my mother must have just handed over.

I’ll admit, as I was emptying it, I was enjoying it. My mother has, for the past 200 years or so, collected small Christmas trees. Wood. Glass. Plastic. Sprinkled with more sparkly sprinkles than will ever completely wash off your hands. And I like them. So I got some joy pulling them out one by one and taking  a good look.

Then it happened.

When I reached the bottom of the box, I found a pen. On it was stamped a business name, as you will commonly find on pens. Only this on reads:

Verdant Fields Nudist Camp

Get in touch with your OUTER self!

Enjoy ping pong, volleyball & our famous bottomless buffet.


Yeah, that’s right. I displayed my mother’s shame on a dirty pot holder and put it on the world wide web.

Thanks for the visual Mom. And for God’s sake, do NOT try to explain it. God forbid we have to have an experience where the cure is worse than the disease.

 Merry Naked Christmas.

UPDATE:  My friend Alicia informed me that this is a “joke” pen. That you can buy them with all sorts of disgusting and/or awesome fake places and hand them over to unsuspecting people like me and terrorize them. Of course, now the problem isn’t that my mother has been to a nudist camp. It’s that this is my mother’s sense of humor. I will miss her while she is in hell.


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