Tag Archives: what the hell?

The thoughts that I think

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Taking it all in. Inhaling the universe. Being all observation-y.

Wanna hear about it? Here goes:

*Tonight we went to Subway, me, Jim and George. And I found myself splashed over with sadness just ever so briefly at the fact that Hank wasn’t there. This happens to me a lot when Hank is off for the weekend with his “second dad.” The family moves on without him, and suddenly I miss him so badly it can make me want to cry.

Then, as I was lost in thought about my eldest child, I looked up to realize that George was standing on his seat, licking the picture of lettuce that was bolted to the Subway wall. Suddenly, I had more important things to do than wallow — I had to hide my head in shame.

*As has been well documented, I tend to really hate commercials. Not because they ruin my favorite episodes of Fringe and Law & Order and whatever Kardashian show is on, but because anything can pass as plausible ad material these days. Yesterday, I saw a spot about the new, hip designs for Playtex packaging. Because nothing says “man I love when my uterine lining leaks out my lady parts in a bloody shower of nastiness” like neon colors on my tampon wrapper.

*Speaking of commercials, has anyone noticed how HAPPY men are when they have erectile dysfunction? Commercials seriously make me want herpes and my period every second of every day, while my husband battles with rising to the occasion and how his gray hair prevents him from getting a job. Because with all those issues, we would be a couple of dancing, cartwheeling, bike riding, road tripping, laughing, walking on the beach fools! Oh the joy!

*Bud Select 55 isn’t just light on calories and taste. It’s light on standards for the bottle. Because if you drop one of those babies, it will shatter into 8,000 tiny pieces… right before your bare feet.

*It’s totally cool to be excited about spending your Saturday night watching House Hunters.

*There’s such a thing as too comfortable with someone. And it’s when you apologize to them, and they have to wait to figure out what it is for. Only to find out it was for your stinky fart that you know is wafting their way. Too. Comfortable.

*According to some random website that no one in their right mind should ever look at (except for those growing children in their enormous bellies), the most popular girl name last year was Isabella. There are also several other names that seem to be on the list most years — Emily, Grace, Ava, Sophia. All names I really, really like. But you know what’s never on there? Marney.

Growing up, I actually was fond of having an uncommon name. Marney is not common, but doesn’t sound so unusual as to make people think “wow, how much pot did your parents smoke?” Which, we all know, is untrue anyway. Mom is a boozer, not a druggie.

But the consequence of having an uncommon name is that you are then associated with every person who shares that name, as if the common trait of your moniker makes you somehow connected to that person.

There was the Alfred Hitchcock movie, “Marnie,” where Tippi Hedren plays a thief and a total lunatic named, well, Marnie. And she is always lying about her name, but when she finally confesses that her real name is Marnie, her psychiatrist, played by Sean Connery, scoffs at her, “Well, that fits.”

WHAT THE HELL, SEAN CONNERY?

I thought it had reached a pinnacle with the infamous Marney Thanksgiving Letter, the one that people really thought was from me. But no.

Enter Marni Yang. Several weeks ago, Marni Yang was convicted of murdering the pregnant girlfriend of former Chicago Bear Shaun Gayle. And let me tell you — this woman is a prime WACKO. Total freakshow land. Killed this woman out of some weird fit of jealousy, but she was crazy obsessed with Shaun Gayle.

Of course, the story of the murder and arrest and trial was top news here. But last night, it was featured on an episode of 20/20. Once again, Marni Yang — MARNI — is on my teevee.

My favorite part was when the interviewer, one Ms. Juju Chang, first said her name.

“Marni,” Juju says, sarcastically, raising both an eyebrow AND the corner of her lip, apparently disgusted.

“Marni!” repeats Shaun Gayle, equally disturbed at the sound of her name.

PEOPLE. She is not a crazy person because her name is Marni. And for real — Juju? Someone named Juju is cocking her head funny to the name Marni? Juju. I’m not 100 percent certain, but it’s possible that just saying Ms. Chang’s first name is slightly racist, but she sneers to Marni.

Gah!

I heard many times from various folks, ohhhhhhh, the murderer is named MARNI. Oooohhhhhh! Oh my! Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh yeah shut the hell up.

When my sister named her son — the family’s FIRST grandson — Jonathan, no one shrieked, “Oh my God, you’re naming him Jon? But what about John Wayne Gacey? OH THE HUMANITY.”

No one ever stared an interview with Ted Kennedy by saying, “So… Ted. You and Ted Bundy. That’s a rough one, huh?”

No one ever said, upon learning that my husband is named Jim, “Oh my God, you mean like the Jonestown Massacre? Don’t trust HIM with the Kool-Aid.”

But somehow, Marney = Marni Yang.

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare wrote.

Well, apparently, if the name is Marni/Marnie/Marney/Marny/Marnee, what’s in that name is a murderous, lying, thieving, villainous psychopath.

Of course, Shakespeare should have known better. Being named Bill, he obviously knows that THAT name carries a lot of weight with the ladies.

*My husband and I Tivo Teen Mom and 16 and Pregnant. What the hell?

*Beer can help you sleep. Sleeping pills can also help you sleep. Mixing them will make you sleep until 1 p.m., and will make your husband really pissed off at you.

*When ordering food through a drive-thru window, you shouldn’t be allowed to even GO to that drive-thru unless your window rolls down. You know what is aggravating? Waiting for the mom with 18 kids and equally as many bags and drinks try to collect all that stuff from the cracked open door of her 1999 rusty beige Suburban which she naturally pulled a little to close to the window number two. Seriously woman, get your tie-dye wearing, scrunchie-haired self INSIDE the restaurant. You’re holding up the line.

*My baby is turning five years old this week. I suppose it’s time to stop blaming the little bastard innocent boy for my big fat ass.

*My other baby will be nine in just about a month. So while I REALLY can’t blame him for my big fat ass, I am going to start blaming him for my gray hair.

I read somewhere that there’s a special place in heaven for a mother of boys. And someday, I hope my friends and family members with boys will leave heaven to visit me in hell to let me know what that place is like.

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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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A whole new level of bad ass

Holy crap, people. Holy crap.

For those of you who have children, you know that there is “the story.” For my mother, there are five of them. With Carrie she was so drugged up she couldn’t point her out in the nursery. Tommy I think is the one where every doctor, nurse, cafeteria worker and janitor in the hospital took a peek before she finally delivered him. Laura — 10 pounds, two sets of forceps, double-episotomy, born arm first with a tooth (that’s a good one). Amy was born during Monday Night Football. Me? Well, I shot out so fast she almost left me right there on the hospital floor. Nice.

My stories are lame. I was totally drugged up and had both my children removed from me — against their will — in a nice, sterile operating suite. Hank refused to come out. George didn’t get the chance to even try.

Everyone can chip in something here. What you or your wife or your girlfriend went through. But no matter how you tell the story, to you, it seems fairly unbelievable. I mean, you DID that. You made that kid. Cool.

But, as far as baby stories go, no one can top the delivery of one Miss Lilah, born to my friend Nancy and her husband Mark (and big sister Cara) this week. In Nancy’s own words:

I delivered my own child. Yes I did.

Lilah Jane was born yesterday morning around 9:10. My contractions were still 6 minutes apart, so I told Mark to take Cara to daycare. I figured I’d get dressed and we’d head for the hospital when he got back. As soon as the van door closed I knew I’d made a bad call. I figured the best thing to do was get up, get dressed, and go sit with next-door-neighbor Jen until Mark got back.

I went and sat on the potty, and my water broke. I yelled out the window for Jen, but she had gone into her basement to work out. I told myself not to push, but my body wasn’t listening to me. At that point I realized the baby was ready to come out. I gave one good push, and most of her was out. One more good push and there she was. No I did not drop her in the toilet (but I think her feet got wet). So now I’m stuck on the in the bathroom with no help and a waxy, blue baby. Fortunately I had read just the night before what to do if you accidentally gave birth at home. I did what I could to clear her airway, wrapped her in a towel draped her cord over my arm since the placenta hadn’t been delivered yet, and walked over to my bed.

After calling 911 I ran over to the window and called Jen again, which still did me no good. I couldn’t call anyone else because 911 wouldn’t let me off the phone. The EMT’s were there pretty fast, but Mark had locked the door (ever safety conscious). Poor Jen – just about to get in the shower and wrapped in a towel -was running around her house looking for my house key.

They didn’t break down the door because they knew I was ok, so they found an open kitchen window and climbed through. They grabbed the baby, cut the cord and sent her on her way to the hospital. Right about this time Mark turned down our street and had a mini cardiac episode when he saw all the emergency vehicles at our house. He came up to see his blood covered wife starting to kind of pass out on the bed, with 6 EMT guys standing around. One of them offered me a sheet to cover myself with. I looked around and asked if anyone really thought my modesty was an issue at that point.

I had a partial placental abruption, so my upstairs looked like a crime scene (which my poor mom cleaned up) – which got even grosser when my placenta delivered. Then they packed me up (tromping around in the blood all the while) and sent me off in my own ambulance. Lilah is fine. She spent the night in the NICU. I feel great and aside from lots of blood loss I ended up in pretty good shape.

Dudes… she delivered her OWN child. Alone. In the bathroom. And not like, I’m at the prom and my mom doesn’t know I’m pregnant so I’ll push it out and leave it in paper towels in the corner then go dance with my boyfriend. More like, I have a bag packed and names picked out and I’ve called the maternity ward ahead of time and I STILL managed to have her on the fine radiant heat tiles! She’s like a genuine case of “I didn’t know I was pregnant” only she TOTALLY KNEW she was pregnant!

Holy. Crap. On. A. Stick. With. Beans.

Nancy is absolutely, 100 percent, the world’s most bad ass mother.

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Embrace the awesome

When you drive into downtown Joliet, there is a sign. It reads, “If it’s fun, it’s in downtown Joliet!”

For real.

Now, not to speak poorly of Joliet. It is, after all, home to the Rialto Square Theatre, where Jim and I were married. And most people say, hey, that’s where Peter Brady was married! No no no no no no no. It’s where JIM AND I were married. Peter Brady and his gameshow wife just had their reception there. Celebrities and wannabe celebrities have a way of ruining my stuff. Peter Brady took over my Rialto. Of course, the day I got married there was the same day that Entertainment Tonight covered the wedding of one Mary Kay Latourneau to her rape victim, Villi. Same exact day. Then Tom Cruise and his wife Joey Potter were rude enough to produce their weird little mini-me on the SAME day I had George. Rude rude rude.

Back to Joliet.

The sign reads that it is where the fun happens. And last week’s Joliet Jackhammers game was no exception.

Example:

Check out the main man in the sweet plaid shorts there behind Hank. He’s making rock star hands — devil fingers — you mess with the bull you get the horns — whatever you call it, he’s doing it. On purpose. In public. But that’s not even the REASON I planted young Hank on this spot to grab this photo. There’s more:

Oh. My. God. That is so AWESOME. I covered his eyes to protect his identity (not that I know him) but also to protect myself from what I can only assume will be a David Lee Roth style butt-kicking if he were to ever find himself on my blog. I envision this guy wrapping himself in “Just a Gigolo” spandex and figuring he might as well jump (JUMP!) on my face for embarrassing him. I think he even has a perm. So so sweet.

Sadly, the Jackhammers were eliminated last night in the playoffs, so we’ll have to wait until next year for the next new round of downtown Joliet fun.

At least Hank caught a grand slam — from our team even!

That is fun! See you next year Jackhammers!

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The Beck stops here

I’m not a fan of GleN Beck.

It’s not just because I am a tree hugging, Dixie Chicks album owning, blue state living, Barack Obama picture hanging on my fridge lefty.

It’s because he is bat shit crazy.

I have some other words I like to use to describe him. Shrill. Hack. Narcissistic. Shock Jock. Opportunist. Vainglorious.

Ok, I looked that last one up.

Those words might seem like insults, but they aren’t really.

Shrill – He screams. He really does. All the live long day. He doesn’t just scream at the people he hates. He screams at his own fans.

Hack – He does an easy job that requires little if any work and is greatly rewarded. Heck, he just stuck his name on a novel that someone else wrote. He just had to come up with an idea. Which is “socialist America.” Then he picks up an additional six-figure paycheck for saying “buy gold.” Way to go there, Hack.

Narcissistic -GleN Beck thinks God talks to him. And not in the loony-tunes, padded room, purple crayon carrying way. But as in, GleN Beck believes that he is chosen. He’s a genuflect away from Tim Tebow territory.

Shock Jock – Self-explanatory.

Opportunist – Overly self-explanatory.

Vainglorious – That’s a pretty word, huh? It means boastful or proud. And GleN sure does love himself. And his message. And his gold. And his ratings. And frankly, he earned them, so he should be proud. Now that’s vainglorious.

But keep in mind that even though I think Beck is bat shit crazy, I mean that in a qualified way. As in, crazy like a fox, and not just the super-flashy-with-the-production-elements Fox that pays him more than I’ll ever see in my life for a single afternoon of shrill, narcissistic, opportunist, vainglorious, shock jock hackery.

Enter Beck’s 8/28 rally. If you haven’t heard of it, I am terribly jealous of you. Beck is hosting a rally at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC tomorrow, August 28, the same place and the same date, 47 years later, of the famous “I have a dream” speech by Martin Luther King, Junior. Beck says the rally is to “Restore Honor.” Because we need to restore the honor in this country, because it’s gone, I tell you. ALL GONE.

Of course, when Michelle Obama even suggested that she had not spent her entire life proud and gushing in love with the good old USA, she was berated as being shameful. How DARE someone suggest they haven’t always been proud of a nation while our soldiers are in the midst of fighting for the freedom that we are blessed with. We should all LOVE our country. Here we are, two years later, same country, same boys overseas fighting the same war, but now the country is honorless.

Whatever.

Back to Beck.

Beck, a self-described student of history who wraps himself in the American Flag while scribbling the names of the most important and influential men in the country on his chalkboard had no idea of even a time frame for the most famous speech of the Civil Rights movement?

I’m sure Tim Russert is smiling from heaven that Beck stole his whiteboard idea and passes it off as his own on a chalkboard, by the way.

But here’s the thing. Everyone who is angry about this is furious of Beck’s alleged attempt to hijack MLK, the Civil Rights movement, and apparently, the spirit of MLK’s speech itself. Because we all know Beck is a strong black man, fighting oppression and working for peace and equality.

But me? I think they’ve got it all wrong.

It’s not about Martin Luther King, Junior. It never was. Of course Beck knew August 28 was the anniversary of the “I have a dream” speech. But he didnt’ pick that day to try to cling to the Civil Right movement. GleN looked at August 28 in Washington, DC and saw gold as sure as the overpriced nuggets he hawks on the Fox News Channel. He saw thousands of faces. Faces of color. And he wants in.

GleN Beck is going to count the people who are there to mark the “I have a dream speech” as part of his audience. Let’s say he gets his 300,000 attendees that he’s predicted will come to see him and the mom of the newest Dancing with the Stars early cast-off candidate Sarah Palin. At that very moment, there’s also a civil rights rally, not in the same place, but near by. Very near by. And naturally most of those folks will float to the Lincoln Memorial. Some to honor MLK, some just to see what’s going on, some for both reasons. And as they do, Beck will count them (and their much darker faces) as part of *his* rally. Boom, 1 million people have attended his event. Hoo-yow!

It’s not about him hijacking MLK’s speech, or the Civil Rights movement, or anything like that. It has always been to make the Tea Party look more credible by scheduling it on a day and place where a few hundred thousand people were set to be anyway. It’s like setting a rally for Grant Park during the Taste of Chicago. Maybe it’s just you and a few dozen people for your cause, but you can say, LOOK AT ALL THE PEOPLE. Hell, hand out a few fliers to passers-by, and you’ve “spread the word” even.
 
People have been arguing that his ulterior motive was to hijack the anniversary of MLK’s historic speech. But in reality, it’s about hijacking people who are simply trying to remember a Civil Rights legend. It’s a scam to inflate his numbers and make the Tea Party look like they have more support — and more support from people of color — then they actually have. I feel 100 percent competent that, come Monday, Beck will be showing the overhead video of his crowd, and it will be ENORMOUS, and he will say something along the lines of “look at what has been inspired here! Honor is OURS!” And he won’t qualify that many, heck, maybe most, were there not because they feel America has no honor, but because they want to pay their respects to a man who had more honor in his little finger then GleN Beck will ever have in his entire (former) coke-sniffing race-baiting body.
 
Like I said, though. Crazy like a fox.
 
I leave you with a little nugget of Beck’s fool’s gold. Beck has been advertising that his rally will benefit the Special Operations Warrior Foundation (SOWF), a non-profit that aids the families of fallen and injured soldiers (the ones who are fighting for the country with no honor). So when you get to the rally, make sure to buy your “Restoring Honor” merchandise to benefit these families. Just don’t read the fine print on that merchandise:
The purchase of Restoring Honor Rally merchandise is not a donation to SOWF, but all net proceeds from the sale of Restoring Honor Rally merchandise is being donated to the Special Operations Warrior Foundation. All contributions made to the Special Operations Warrior Foundation (SOWF) will first be applied to the costs of the Restoring Honor Rally taking place on August 28, 2010. All contributions in excess of these costs will then be retained by the SOWF.
Millionaire Beck isn’t paying for this massive rally by himself. No no no. He’s going to get those in attendance to pay for it for him. Then he’s going to play his pipe, and off the cliff they shall jump! GleN’s going to have to sell a LOT of t-shirts and bumper stickers to pay for the fees for security management and clean-up and everything else that comes with his big rally. Hope SOWF isn’t depending too much on that donation.

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Sock it to me – part 2

Check it out:

I know what you’re thinking. We get it, Marney, your husband has a sock problem. He leaves them around. Blah blah blah, deal with it already.

But wait, there’s more.

You see, while this scene seems reminiscent of my last post, there is a very distinct difference between these nasty old tube socks and the ones usually on my floor. See, this isn’t my floor. This is under the table of the screened-in porch of my parent’s lake house. And those socks? Why, they were pulled from the ugly-toed feet of my very own father.

So however the prophecy works — you marry your father, you turn into your mother, both perhaps — it is fulfilled.

Damn socks.

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Sock it to me

My husband is a good guy. You know, good provider, good father, occasionally listens to the things I have to say. All the qualifications for a likable dude. But he is absolutely inept at one particular thing, and it involves his stinky man feet, his socks, and the hamper. More specifically, when he pulls his socks off of his stinky man feet, he cannot, for any reason ever, manage to put them in the hamper.

No joke people.

It’s like he just takes them off and flings them. Nevermind that the rest of his clothing makes it INTO the clothes hamper. His socks are magnetically attracted to areas where they DO NOT BELONG.

Sometimes I don’t even realize it:

Look how sweet George is, asleep on the red sofa.

Wait, what's that under his pillow?

Oh, look at that, it's Jim's freaking socks. On the arm of the couch. Under a pillow. Right where they apparently belong. Jackass.

Sometimes, he’s oblivious to the fact that he does it, or that I have been carefully documenting it:

In both of these photos, Jim had no idea why I was pointing a camera at him, so he decided to ignore me. After I snapped each photo, I said, “Do you know why I took that?” Nope, he would reply. I’d point at the floor, at which point he’d take a look, shrug, and continue watching whatever was keeping his attention on the television. And no, your eyes are not decieving you. In the second picture, there are TWO pairs of his nasty socks on the floor.

If I told you I was stark naked when I took the photos, it would be a lie. But had I been, Jim’s expression would have been the same indifference — don’t bother me and my socks, woman, we’re watching the game.

Here, we see the same socks on the floor, but two different days.

Tuesday

Wednesday

Recently, though, this epidemic has reached absolutely unacceptable heights. Witness this:

In the endless battle of nature versus nurture, Jim is proving that nurture wins. Those are Hank’s shoes and socks.

Look people, I’ve tried. But the man is impossible. No matter how many times I beg and plead that he put his socks in the hamper (with the rest of his freaking dirty clothes), it does not happen. Worse, there is no amount of ill placed bras, granny panties, feminine hygiene products or dirty dishes that can make him see the other side of the issue. I CANNOT GET HIM BACK. Leaving his socks on the floor when company is coming is also not a deterrent! What’s a gal to do?

Please, if you can, help me. This sock takeover of my home may actually consume me, and I am telling you right here and now, I am not responsible for my actions.

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