You say it's your birthday...

It's my birthday too, biotches!!!!  Today I am 29 for the third time.  And, as long as I keep using Botox, I should be able to remain looking 25-ish for several more years.

Thanks, Modern Science, for poisonous face-freezing botulism!  You are the best!  Now, please invent something that shrinks my ass, lifts these 32-year-old A-cups, and removes the long, black hairs from my moles. 

BTW, I once had a mole on my stomach that my sister dubbed "the tick."  I know, no details necessary.  It removed itself during an especially strenuous high school cheerleading practice.  It was never found.

I wonder if it's still on the floor of the C.E. Byrd High School gym...

A thought...

Was watching Hoarders on A&E last night.  Am seriously considering making my house slightly messier.  My garage already qualifies us for the show.  Maybe they will come clean it all up? Hmmmm...

Funeral Part I

The start of the new year always makes me reflect on past years, and life's trials and triumphs. The year 2008 provided me with, hands down, two of the most memorable and entertaining events of my life.  Both were funerals. No disrespect to the dead, but these funerals were truly ah-maz-ing experiences.  Not because they were particularly moving spiritually, but because of the entertainment value.


Background:
Everyone knows someone like me. When I get nervous, I laugh (and my armpits tingle). When someone falls, I laugh first, then remember that I'm supposed to ask if they're ok. The worst though, is that I laugh when I'm not supposed to laugh, i.e., Fart in church, and I'm a goner. 

(Remind me to tell you about the time that Bart and I were in the Cayman Islands for our first anniversary. There was an elderly man at the table next to us. He was eating alone. I started crying at dinner, because I concluded--with absolutely no supporting evidence--that it was also his anniversary; however his beloved wife had passed away. Poor man was mourning his dead wife, and here I was practically rubbing it in his face.  Right about that time, he lifted up one leg, and ripped the loudest fog horn of an old man fart that you have ever heard.) 

Ahhhh, a fart.  The joke that never gets old.  And, proof that God has a sense of humor.

As usual, I digress. In 2008, my Mimi passed away.  My Mimi and Papa lived in Paragould, Arkansas.  Never heard of it?  Shocker. 

My family, including my sister and her husband, who have been in Manhattan way too long, set out for Paragould from Shreveport.  Never heard of Shreveport?  Shocker.  We met up with the rest of my dad's family in Paragould, (including those cousins who we are now no longer on speaking terms with), and headed to the funeral home. 

The first hour was immediate family only.  We were all extremely sad and subdued.  My sister and I were both crying.  Dawn couldn't bring herself to approach the open casket, so I went first. 

I leaned over to get a better view of my Mimi, when I noticed something in her casket.  What's that in Mimi's casket...no, not her pillow...is that?...NO!...oh my god, it is!  They are NOT burrying Mimi with a hand held video poker machine.  Oh my God.  They ARE. 

Well, at least she's not Baptist.

Pssst, pssst, Dawn, get over here!  You are not going to believe this...

During the visitation, Bart commented on one of the children's outfits, which was a pair of overalls.  He turned to me and asked, "I wonder what age you are when you get too old to wear overalls to a funeral?".  The answer:  63.  Because that's the age of at least four men in attendance sportin' overalls.  And drinking beer.  In a can.  Although it is hard to tell a person's age in a place like Paragould.  Time has not been good to some of Paragould's people.

In case you were wondering, shorts and T-shirts are also equally acceptable (for all ages), as well as a leather mini-skirt and sunglasses worn indoors and out (that one would be my mom).

Ironically, the point that I lost it--and by lost it, I mean laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants--was not when I discovered the video poker machine in the casket, or when "Elvis Sings the Gospel" began wafting through the boom box speakers (there's nothing like the cassette tape version of the King singing Ave Maria, coming through a ghetto blaster's speakers, while being operated by the preacher).  Nope, that didn't do it; I still had my wits about me at that point.  It was the dove release that broke me...set to Celine Dion's "Fly Away."  Same ghetto blaster.  Same operation.

The site of those doves flying over that Valero station, coupled with Celine belting it out through the boom box, proved too much for me to handle.

That would be the first of two funerals within two months of each other, that I would pretend to cry hysterically to cover up laughing hysterically.

I know what you're thinking.  And, that's not the first time that someone has thought (or wished) that I'm going to hell.  I just hope that you get a good laugh at my funeral when I'm on my way there.

A long line of crazy.

Dear Nephew Callan,

Your mom recently informed me that you are showing definite signs of inheriting the dreaded Futrell sister unibrow.  As long as you don't adopt your mom's Mary Lou Retton do, or my punk (which was really just a glorified lesbian-ish mullet), while sporting the uni, you should persevere. 

I must be honest with you though. You come from a looooong line of crazy.  Your mother is just mildly crazy in comparison.  You have met your Nana, right?.  Nana can't help it though.  Her decendants, the Coulters, were train robbers.  Most were killed by vigilantes.  Or Indians. 

Nana's father, your great grandfather, taught your mom how to eat like a squirrel, our cousin to fetch the paper like a dog, and tried to give us all baby goats.

Oh, by the way, you're related to Ann Coulter.  Just deny it if anyone asks you.

Your Papa's family isn't much better.  While your great, great, great grandfather was the governor of Arkansas, he was also a boot-legger.  Not surprisingly, your great grandparents, Mimi and Papa, owned a liquor store, and had a slot machine in their basement.  Your mom and I grew up roller skating and playing the nickel slots in that basement. 

Sadly, we aren't on speaking terms with all of those cousins that we used to roller skate and gamble with, because some have an "alleged" propensity for smoking crack.  Oh, and managing apartment complexes so that they can break into those same apartments that they manage--you know, to support their habit, uh hum, "alleged" habit.
*Note that all family members discussed herein are considered innocent until proven guilty.

Fortunately for you, the coo-koo factor seems to decrease with each generation.  You may even turn out normal.  We shall wait and see...

Idiot. Masochist. Both.

My current state:

I know, I'm an idiot.  Or a masochist.  Or both. 

So, here's my Houston Marathon recap (written while watching Intervention and drinking wine).  Oh my God, I'm so glad I'm not addicted to drugs, and instead, only the pain that comes with running 26.2. 

Bart and I headed to Houston Friday afternoon.  Per usual, we left a good hour and a half after our EDT.    Bart was sweating, nearing full-on Alexander melt down stage; meanwhile, my blood pressure was eye-level.   After a truce was called (and spousal murder avoided), we happily set sail.  

Due to our late departure, instead of meeting our Houston friends at their homes, we went directly to the Spaghetti Western.  

WHAT?!  

Apparently you can't take 7 children to sushi.  Who knew?  

7 and 1/2 kids (one currently cooking), 4 couples, 2 hours, and one training potty in a suburban at the Spaghetti Western later=a double dose of birth control, me ordering my husband not to touch me for at least a year, and simultaneously googling wine.com and doctors that tie tubes.  

Whew!  I'm exhausted just writing about it.

The next day, we visited with Brad and Jennifer, and Bart got his hair and make-up done by Elle.  Elle is 3.   How you say, "bee-u-ti-ful, no"?  [Pictures to follow].

We carbo loaded (fancy talk, for eating the shit you normally feel guilty for eating) and turned in early.

Much to my surprise, Bart decided to run the 5-k, instead of hunting geese.  Something about rain and water, [insert Charlie Brown's teacher here], and geese not liking something, [and here].  It must be similar to what he hears when I speak Missoni, Louboutin, and D&G.   Huh.

We woke up bright and early (read, I yelled at Bart for having the nerve to tell me good morning), and set out for the marathon (and 5-k).

Immediately upon pulling up to the Houston Convention Center, I had to go.  Number 2.  IMMEDIATELY!!!  

Crisis averted, Bart walked me to my starting position.  Holy Shit.  I had to go.  Number 2.  Again.  IMMEDIATELY!! 

Apparently, that's what happens, when you eat 2 pounds of pasta and combine it with nerves.  Who knew?  Actually, I did.  I've been in that boat before.  Three times.  One of which involved a chimichanga, a bowl of queso, and 26.2 miles.  Nuff said.

Due to my dual assplosions, I didn't start my race in my designated time corral.   However, at 7:10, I was off!  I felt good.  At mile 9, it dawned on me that I had run three 5-k's.  At mile 13, I was ecstatic that I was half-way through.  At mile 16, I was pumped that I only had 10 miles to go.   And, at mile 21, I didn't just hit the wall--I effing did a full-force U around the top and the bottom of that fucker.  

I have never had calf cramps.  I've always been of the opinion that those NFL guys were faking it when they clutched their calf muscles, and begged to be carried off the field.  Sweet Jesus, forgive me, for I was so wrong.

I had dual calf cramps.  And 5 looooooooooonnnnnnnnnng miles to go.   I stopped and stretched.  Bad. Idea.  I broke my number one marathon rule--don't stop.  Ever.  It hurts WAY worse when you stop.

At that point, I officially bent over and took it from the marathon gods.  

I continued another mile of my run/walk/hobble, when, what's that I spied, an oasis?  Yes!  The beer garden.  I promise you, that's the longest, and hardest that I've thought about anything in a long time (sorry, oil and gas clients).  I could surrender to those marathon gods, and enjoy a cold, delicious brewskee (or two), and call my sweet husband to come get me.  

With tears in my eyes, and self-loathing in my heart, I kept on.  Cussing the whole way.  Telling myself that I will NEVER.  EVER.  DO.  THIS.  AGAIN.  

I crossed the finish line at 3 hours and 44 minutes--four minutes from qualifying for Boston.

Our friend, Brad, qualified for Boston, with an impressive time of 3 hours 4 minutes!  

His wife, Jennifer, ran her first half marathon!

Bart came in 46th in his age group for the 5-k!

And I'm seriously considering running another one in February.  Idiot.  Masochist.  Both.  

The family that doesn't play together, stays together.

We are packing our bags and heading to H-town tomorrow to run the Houston Marathon.  And by we, I mean we are packing our bags, we are heading to Houston, and I will be running the marathon.  Mr. Fitness backed out of the 5-k.  I think it's because his vajay is sore.  However, he has promised to meet me at the finish line...if he's back from duck hunting by the time I finish.

The cold I have in my face and chest (the Mucus Family has moved in with no intentions of going anywhere) plus the extra 10 elbeez I'm sportin' should work in Bart's favor.  Not mine.

*Note, contrary to popular belief, if you train for a marathon over the holidays, it does not prevent weight gain.  In fact, you eat more butter fried in lard, because you think you can, causing the opposite effect.  Who knew?

So, while you (and Bart), are happily and restfully drinking mimosas on Sunday morning, please send me good thoughts.  Oh yeah, you definitely made the better decision.

Under the boardwalk, down by the sea...

As a lover of all things reality TV, The Jersey Shore had me at Guido. However, I have not been able to put my finger on why the rest of the nation is so obsessed with this show. People that don't normally tune into reality TV are watching, mesmerized. It can't just be the train wreck factor--there are tons of train wrecks all over the tube. Is it the fact that such strange microcosms of people exist outside of the Brazilian Rain Forest and the West Bank? It's like these people have been cut off from the rest of the world.


Exhibit A: The girls all dress like whores. I'm not talking your run of the mill trashy biotch at the bar that shows waayyyyyy too much cleavage. I am talking straight up street-walking, crack-using, 80's video vixen, whores. All of their clothes look like a tiger clawed-up an 8-year-old's closet.

Exhibit B: Not one person in this whole town has gotten the memo that tanning beds are bad for you. Really, really bad for you.

Exhibit C: Not one person in this whole town has gotten the memo that steroids are bad for you. Really, really bad for you.

Exhibit D: They genuinely like house music.

I really, really try not to make fun of people. The exception to this rule, is that if you subject yourself to reality TV, then you're fair game. With that said, here is a breakdown of the cast of characters:

Snooki. Ladies, if you're under 5 feet, go ahead and check that Halloween costume off your list. This lovely lady stands in at 4 feet, 5 inches. If you crossed a troll doll, Christina Aguilera, and a Mystic Tan booth, you would arrive at what is now Snooki. Snooki would be wise to invest all the money she makes off of this show in Bump It stock.

Sammi Sweetheart. Sammi's the kind of girl that you can't decide whether or not you like. You think she's stuck up, but then she pulls a bitch's hair for you. And this girl knows how important hair is--it takes her hours to attach her weave before a night on the town.

Angelina "Jolie". Angelina is no longer on the show. Why you ask? Because, MTV actually forced her to work in a sweat, I mean T-shirt shop. To this, she stated, "I feel this job is beneath me. I'm a bartender. I do great things." Mother Teresa is so proud.

Jen "JWoww".  One look at this girl, and you know she's sporting a mean case of the herps.  And the clap.  After the show's over, mark my words.  You will find this girl in porn.

Mike "the Situation." Go to your bookshelf. Get out your Thesaurus. Turn to the word "douchebag" or words "douche bag." Now check the synonyms. The first one is Mike, right? Whatever bad things happen to this guy in life, he fully deserves them.

Pauly D. This guy has a blow out, has tattoos, his ween pierced, and is employed as a DJ. Doesn't sound that bad? Well, he's 30.

Ronnie. Ronnie is the most clear cut example of failing to get the above memos. He's actually almost likeable. Then he says something like this, "You just take your shirt off and they come to you, it's like a fly comes to s**t!"

Vinny. Vinny looks exactly like a Beastie Boy, circa 1988. He's also the most normal of all of the cast. And by normal, I mean the least retarded of all of the cast. And, he managed to contract pink eye. In a bar.

And just in case you were a little jealous that you don't have a similar such nickname http://www.unlikelywords.com/2009/12/08/jersey-shore-nickname-generator/

Fist pump!

It Happens

I've always been able to laugh at myself. I know, some of you are calling bs on that. A certain pantzing incident in a parking lot immediately comes to mind. (Please note that this is not an open invitation to remind me of other incidents.)  However, we all commit cringe-inducing offenses, where we wish the earth would go ahead and swollow us up. We’ve also all watched someone perform an act so embarrassing that we are physically and emotionally embarrassed for that person.  I will only bring these moments up about each one of you, if you fail to follow my prior instruction.

I did something the other day, that shall not be mentioned for another couple of years--the time it will take for me to think it's funny.  However, here's a gem from the past:

Picture it: Baton Rouge, Louisiana, August of 1997. LSU campus. Sophomore year.

At that time, I was a journalism major, and had attended my first class of the new year. My professor passed out the syllabus (I refuse to use the word syllabi), which listed the year’s outline, as well as the supplies we were required to bring for the semester. Think archaic items like floppy disks. One such item required of each student was a packet of 12lb paper.  List in hand, I set out for Office Depot to purchase my supplies.

If any of you have been to Baton Rouge in August, you are aware of the humidity and heat. You might as well just take a swim in a bowl of Campbell’s tomato. Students must park miles away from their classes due to the geniuses that designed the campus as well as the City. And of course my classes all started at noon, due to my pension for late nights at the worst bar in the world—Bogies. Go ahead, Google it. It’s so bad, that DJ Pauly D from the Jersey Shore will be all up in the 1’s and 2’s there in February.  Go ahead, Google it. The fact that I think an orange guido with a blowout and a prince albert is hot is beside the point. 

I digress.  The next day of class, I pulled into the parking lot, retrieved my supplies, and set out on my mile trek in 100-degree heat, with only 8 of my 12 pounds of paper—It was all I could carry. Between the heat, the extra eight pounds, and the 7 beers and 2 gin and tonics that I drank the night before, I didn’t accurately assess the time that it would take me to get to class. I was tardy.

When I finally got there, class was in session. I walked through the door, dripping wet, make-up smeared, caring 8 pounds of paper. [insert record screeching to a halt here] My professor, sadly, I can still see her face, asked why I was late. I smugly informed her, that if she expected me to carry 12 pounds of paper to class, she couldn’t possibly expect me to be on time. Plus, the other four pounds were in my car, because she couldn’t possibly expect me to carry all 12 pounds at once.

Silence...followed by the roar of laughter.

Why was everybody laughing at me?

Lesson: there’s a difference between 12lb paper and 12 lbs of paper. Ok, lesson learned.

It would only be two short weeks until I put a big gulp without the top on it on my sunroof. Then got in my car. Then opened my sunroof. 

I've driven away from a gas station with the pump still in my gas tank.  I've split my pants during a deposition attended by 12 people and not known until a bathroom break.  Try sitting on a toilet trying to figure out how you're going to get down an elevator, accross a street, and to a parking lot to the safety of your car, with the least number of people seeing your bare bum.  I've peed my pants at work while simultaneously sneezing.  Shoot, I've pooped my pants as an adult.  Twice.  (fortunately, not at work).  (Sh)it happens. 

So, the next time you do something stupid, laugh at yourself, then share it with your friends, so that they can laugh at you too.

Risky Biznass

I love New Year's Eve.  I always make resolutions, and I don't care whether I keep them or not.  Here's a trip down memory lane: Learn Spanish--sorry, no habla Espan-yole.  Drink more wine--mission accomplished.  Drink less wine--mission aborted. 

The wine-drinking part seems to be a reoccurring theme in my life.  Last year I gave up wine for Lent.  I replaced it with vodka.  And cognac.  And rum.  Not smart.  I learned my lesson though.  I will NEVER give up wine again.

Besides, someone out there is a liar.  Did you know that Lent is actually longer than 40 days?  It was 47 loooonnnng days in 2009.  No, the vodka gimlets didn't go to my head; If you don't believe me, just count the days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday last year.  

I did however quit smoking 2,923 days ago today.  For someone that used to smoke on the way to the gym, that's a pretty amazing feat.

My resolution this year is to take more risks.  I don't mean the sky diving, recreational drug-using kind of risks, but the kind of risks one must take in order to pursue happiness.  It's ok if some of you just threw up in your mouths--you can continue being cynical.  I'm going to take risks from not being afraid to ask a stupid question (no matter what that teacher told you, there are in fact stupid questions), to not being scared to take forward steps to do what I think will make me truly happy.  Even if that, gasp, means being a little poorer. 

Yes, this is coming from the girl who thinks shoes less than $300 are a bargain.  $300 shoes= $150 per foot, divided by the number of times you wear them.  This same concept can be applied to anything--diamond earrings at $10,000 per pair= $5,000 per ear divided by the number of times you wear them.  Since I wear them every day, they are practically free.

For all 10 of you out there reading this blog, join me in this resolution!  Let's be the 10 that look back in 30 years without regret.  Lift that glass of wine...Cheers!