Sunday, December 12, 2010

Apple Pie (the only thing I didn't eat today)

How awesome is America?  Where else on earth can you do the following on a Sunday?  [Cue Lee Greenwald's "I'm proud to be an American."]

Eat (in specific order from morning until present):
Vanilla ice cream
Sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit (thank God for answered prayers re: time McDonald's still serves breakfast.  BTW, they now have a revolving, self explanatory menu screen.  When I drove up, there was nary a lunch pic on the menu.  I didn't even have to ask whether they were still offering crack, er McGriddles.  It was all breakfast, sans quarter pounders and Big Macs, in all of Mickey D's greasy breakfast glory; however, we did have a lost in translation moment over whether I wanted a
"coff-a," an  "Oh-jay" or a "McCaffe."  The answer is black coffee.  Just black coffee.)
Hot chocolate (2 pouches, one cup.  Not to be confused with two girls, one cup)
Vanilla ice cream (again)
Granola bar
Mixed nuts (one of the most awesome Christmas presents ever)
Tortilla soup
Vanilla ice cream with Hershey's syrup.

While watching marathons of the following:
Basketball wives
Real Housewives
16 and pregnant
Cupcake Wars (kinda pissed I didn't get to eat a cupcake today)

Score: Kim Jong-Il, 120/80
America: 160/100

Friday, November 5, 2010

Dressing your Dogs up for Halloween: the Gateway Drug to Toddlers and Tiaras?

Whiskey donned a show-stopping banana split costume for All Hallow's Eve.  Contrary to what some of you may think, she is not channeling her German roots by donning a Klansman's hat.  I originally thought her head piece was a soft-serve ice cream swirl; however, I later came to the conclusion that it's a banana, hence the "banana split" label on the costume.

Abby later sported the same costume, because Bart won't let me buy costumes for her or dress her up. 

She is a huntin' dog, not a Barbie (said with an over exaggerated southern accent and a dip in mouth).

Am I (by I, I mean my kids) doomed?  Are they destined , at the ripe ole' age of 4, to look like Dolly Parton's character in Best Little Whore House in Texas?  Am I going to insist they wear a flipper at all times and spray tan abs on them?  Am I going to ruin their childhood, causing them to hate me forever?  Come to think of it, I'm sure that will happen regardless.

P.S. What is it about dog costumes that immediately renders them immobile?  Forget mace.  If a pit bull is chasing you, your best bet is to have a cute, matching dog sweater and hat handy. 

Friday, October 29, 2010

How to Remove a Bird from your Den.

Earlier this week, I woke up, made myself breakfast, and headed to the den to get my Good Morning American on.  As I was headed towards the den, with said breakfast, I heard several bonking noises.  It took a few bonks for me to realize what was going on.

Internal Dialogue:

What is that noise?  Whiskey, lick that milk I just spilled on the floor (while tapping toe, pointing at milk).  What is that noise?  Why does that bird keep flying into the window?  Birds are so stupid.  Huh, I guess that's where the name "bird brain" comes from.  Seriously, what is that bird's problem?  Why does it want inside?  Why are birds always flying into windows?  Gosh, we as humans are really destructive to nature.  Birds fly into windows everywhere...there are even commercials about it...Wait, is that bird outside...or is it...OH MY... WHA THE FU...SHIT!!!!!!!!  THERE IS A BIRD IN THE HOUSE!!!!



How do you get a bird out of your house? 

How did that bird get in here?!!

Cease internal dialogue.

318.469.****.  Bart, did you leave the door open this morning?  You didn't?  Well, there is a bird in the house.  I don't know what kind.  A brown one!!!!

Obviously, I'm going to have to go at this one alone.

So, for all of you that will have an uninvited bird in your home, here's how to successfully remove one:

1.  Scream at it really loud.
2. When it flies at  your head, scream really, really loud.
3. When it perches on your curtains, scream at it to get the f**k off your curtains.
4. When it takes off again, scream at your dogs to get it.
5. When your dogs have no idea what you're screaming about, scream at them that they are worthless beasts and that they have failed at their very existence in life.
6. Make mental note that when you have kids, not to scream the same thing at them.
7. When it alights from the curtains and flies at your head again, scream really, really, really loud.
8. Think to open doors to the exterior, while closing off all other doors to the den.
9. Repeat instruction Number 1.
10. Repeat instruction Number 7.
11. As it flies out the door, thank God that you didn't have a heart attack.
12.  Wonder why it didn't have a heart attack--it would have made steps 1-11 much easier.

Here's your own "Where's Waldo?".   It's hard to spy the bird, due to camo.  Why are Southern women so obsessed with westernized, Chinese-inspired toile monkeys and birds?

Monday, October 25, 2010

I just want your extra time and your...

Sunday, October 24, 2010


I know it's been forever since I've posted.  Two of you told me so much today.  Due to the overwhelming interest in my blog, here goes.

You know the holidays are officially here when you read your first holiday hangover cure article.  

They print them in the newspaper.  They print them in a magazine.  You can read them at your desk.  You can read them in a limousine.   

If only Dr. Seuss had used his degree for the greater good of adults instead of children...

Each and every year, I'm fooled by the same a headlines: Cure for that Holiday Hangover!; Say Goodbye to the Hangover; Seven Sure-fire Cures for the Modern Hangover!; How to NOT Feel like you were Dragged by a Bus Straight into the Land of Self-hatred while Puking your Guts out and you don't Even Feel Good about the Fact that You Just Lost Five Pounds.  

As someone who's habitually hung-over (don't judge), telling me that there's a cure for a hangover, is like telling me that smoking is now good for you, or that Rotel and Velveta causes weight loss.  

If one more "expert" tells me to drink a glass of water between every drink and before I go to bed, they've never been drunk.  Ever.  Can you imagine:

Bartender, I'm really, really, really drunk, but can I please have an Evian every time that the long hand on the clock hits two and ten?  You'll come find me, right?   That will surely prevent me from waking up at 4:00 AM, with a rapid heart beat, sweats, and the feeling that not only did I embarrass my husband so badly that he left me at the bar (ok, let's be honest, I refused to leave because, no matter what he says, I'm NOT drunk), and now that I've alienated every friend that I have, I'm...shit, where am I?  Oh, that's the fan above my bed.  I'm home.  Wait, how did I get here?  If only I'd had that glass of water!!!!!

Really, it's 2010 and all that ya gots is "drink more water"?  How dare you waste my time, when my head hurts this bad!

Everyone knows that there's only two official cures for a hangover:
1. Work out and sweat like you've never sweated before; or
2. Drink.  More.  
3.  And when you're that hungover, you really only have one option.  Please refer to cure number 2.

Honestly people, it's 2010.  They make pills that grow more hair on your head, pills that make your ween work even when you're 92, and to counteract that, pills that make you not have a baby after you get really, really, drunk and that bartender forgot your Evian at two and ten and well, that 92-year-old only looked 70.

We put three people on the moon 40 years ago--ok, "we" is a stretch--but, 40 years ago!  You mean to tell me that we can put people on the moon, Skype with someone in Africa, and clone some sheep, and there's not a real hangover cure?  

Calling all scientists!  You may have gotten into it for the greater good of the human race, but let's be real--you stayed for the money.  Find a real hangover cure.  Confusus says cure for drunken debauchery to be rewarded with much financial success.  

Sunday, August 29, 2010

The Unfriendly Skies

Is there anything worse than flying? 

Yeah, yeah, I know, cancer, AIDS, world  hunger...but you should know by now that this is a superficial blog.  Please see Julie's cancer-curing friend's blog if you want something with a little bit of substance. 

Now back to fluff.

Flying plain sucks (pun intended).  PERIOD.

Not only am I CONVINCED that I'm going to die each and every time I get within 24 hours of flying (there's simply not enought Xanax in the world), inevitably, at some point during the journey, I wish that God would just go ahead and put me out of my misery.  

I know.  Everyone has a story.  This is just the first time that I have had a forum. 

For those of you that have ever had the "pleasure" of flying out of the Shreveport airport, go ahead and skip to the end of this post, as there's no need for you to read on.  YOU KNOW.   You probably also got the full body cavity search because you had a lip gloss over 4 oz in your bag.

After arriving at SHV, which a much more appropo airport code would be SHIT, we learned that our old broken down horse, I mean plane, couldn't make it to Shreveport.  And, they really weren't sure when the next one would arrive.

Today?  Tomorrow?  Christmas?

Why oh why don't they make an extra large US Weekly?

So, if I want to see my sister who lives in New York, I should just sit in the airport, close my eyes, and wish really, really hard for the next death tube loaded stock full 'o' smelly people to arrive sometime in the next 24 to 48?

And, I shouldn't try to get on another connecting flight, because it may, actually, never connect?

"Now would you all stand for the National Anthem?"


I consider myself a patriot.  I get misty eyed every time Mariah Carey even thinks about the rocket's red glare.  BUT, I do not want to get chastised by the Delta Airlines desk worker for not standing and singing the National Anthem in the Shreveport airport every hour that it's looped on the sound system throughout the airport.  Especially when I've been sitting there for four hours.

After a five hour delay, we set sail for the Hamptons (pronounced the huummmmtunnns).

We had a lovely stay.

On the flip side, we got up at the crack of dawn to take the train to the tram to the airport.  Bart and I couldn't sit together on the plane, and I made fun of him, because he had a middle seat and I had a window.

 I pretended not to know Bart when I left him at the front of the plane, where he was unsuccessfully trying to shove his luggage into the overhead compartment, while simultaneously sweating profusely and cussing even more profusely.  I walked the plank to the back of the death tube, when I realized that someone had the nerve to be sitting in my window seat.

I double checked my ticket, then knowingly showed it to the flight attendant.  She tried to tell the man in my seat that he was, in fact, in the wrong seat; however, his English wasn't great.  Finally, she asked me if I would just sit in the aisle.

Ha!  You're joking, right?

She asked me several more times.

What, does she think that I, also, don't have a proper grasp of the English language?  Each time she asked, I clearly told her loudly and slowly, that I wanted to sit in the widown seat, because I get airsick, don't like to get up multiple times so people can pee when I can just hold it, and that frankly, I don't really like to pee in the death tube's sorry excuse for a bathroom, and that just because the man couldn't speak English, he could move...when she finally interrupted me.

"Honey, he's handicapped, would you please just sit in the middle seat." 

Since when does broken English qualify as a handicap? 


I didn't even notice that the man in my window seat was not only foreign, but was blind and had a cane.

Wow, I pretty much suck as a person, and am definitely going to die in a firey plane crash today. 

But, then it crossed my mind that if he's blind and needs a cane, wouldn't the window seat be lost on him?  And wouldn't he actually do better in the aisle seat in case he needed to get up?

I decided to just keep my mouth shut and sit in the middle.

Until, the girl sitting behind me touched my arm with her bare, tattooed foot.  Can you just take a minute to let that sink in?  Okay.  My arm was on the arm rest, minding its own business, when the girl  in the row behind me had the nerve to rest her toe cheese on my arm.  I looked at her foot in horror for several seconds before I could even figure out what to say.  I mean, clearly, she would be embarrassed if she was cognizant of the fact that her tribal art toes were touching a strangers arm, right?

I turned around and gave my best Tyra Banks "communication with the eyes."  However, when her foot was still resting on my elbo, I knew it was time to get verbal.

"Excuse me, but your foot is touching my arm."

Apparently, this is not the right thing to say to a heavily tatted 20-something.

She yelled at me.  Yelled.  At.  Me.  Because her foot was touching my arm from the row behind me!!  Oh my God, is this how I'm going to die on this flight?  Please, no.

I almost pushed the flight attendant call button, but quickly recalled that the flight attendant already thinks I'm a crazy bitch.


Tattoo and her equally tattooed friend taunted me the whole way from JFK to Atlanta, while I pretended to ignore them.  And clearly, the blind foreign guy wasn't going to come to my rescue, so, not only was flight 1276 from JFK to Atlanta an airplane ride, but also a time machine that took me back to the seventh grade.

After my middle seat and middle school trip from New York to Atlanta, I pleasently read my book in the ATL airport while waiting for my flight to Shreveport.  We boarded the plane on time,  taxied down the runway, and prepared for take-off.  Then the AC went out.

Yep, back to the gate, time to de-plane, and wait for them to fix the AC. 

A few hours later, we re-boarded the plane.  As I was putting my luggage into the overhead compartment, the female pilot, who was standing in the middle of the plane, opened the overhead compartment and let out an ear piercing SCREAM. 

I knew it!  There was no AC problem.  It was a bomb.  We are all going to die!!!!!!!!!

A quick situational assessment determined that it was a grosshopper and not a bomb.  Okay, we aren't going to die.  Yet.  

However, female pilot then smacked the grasshopper, and flung it onto a man sitting in the row behind us.

Man screamed, and reached to fling it off of his shirt.

I was standing in the aisle, and saw what was coming next, but before I could react, Man smacked that grasshopper straight into my face.  I screamed bloody murder.  My husband peed his pants. 

Thankfully, a guy finally had the wherewithall to catch the grasshopper in his hands and throw it out of the plane. 

Damn you Bin-Laden.  This is all your fault.

Thursday, July 29, 2010


Good Lord in Heaven.  My good friend, Julie, awarded me some sort of blogging prize.  Yeah, I know, it's not really a prize if you're friend gives it to you, and it doesn't come with, well, any sort of a prize.  

Examples of others who were granted the same such prize by Julie include:
A friend who moved to Africa and is curing blindness;
Another woman besides Julie who has had three babies all at once, hasn't killed herself, her husband, or her kids;
A very sweet family that has a child with special needs; and
A blog offering parenting advice.

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn't belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

The prize also comes with conditions, further rendering it even less of a prize and bringing it much more in line with that of a curse.  Apparently, if I don't nominate others for the prize, post some logo on my website, and give Julie a high-five, 1,000 puppies will die and the Resurrection won't happen. 

You have Julie to thank for an everlasting lifetime of Purgatory and the death of 1,000 puppies.  Here's her blog so that you may thank her appropriately, as you know that I'm way too lazy and self absorbed to follow any of those directions.