Category Archives: funny stuff

Survive the Rapture and Get Naked

Watch out world, a wild weekend awaits us all.

The BAD News: 

You had better party hard, kiss your kids, and knock as many items off your bucket list as humanly possible by Saturday.   Stop planning your Doomsday parties and trips to watch the aliens land in France in 2012 because you only have until this Saturday.

According to Family Radio, a so-called network of Christian Radio stations, Judgment day will be upon us May 21st 2011.  Yes, that’s this weekend.  Start praying or partying.  Family Radio has bought 1,200 billboards proclaiming the end of days nationwide and 2,000 overseas to scare us into submission.   Five caravans of followers have been criss-crossing the county to spread the word.

Funny how the billboards prominently advertise their website and live open radio forum.  Apparently marketing is a required class in wacko religious fundamentalism school because even though many of these people are certifiable, they manage to get their word out and bilk plenty of “believers” out of their social security checks and milk money in the process.

The radio programs have reported that great earthquakes will shake the Earth (at 6 p.m. EST if you want to brace yourself or go hide under your sturdy desk) and believers will be called to the heavens while the unrepentant will be “thrown to the ground and shamed.”

I’m hoping it’s similar to the morning after walk of shame.  Although unpleasant and embarrassing, it is certainly survivable even if one’s pride is no longer in tact.

I will be sure to have my loved ones beside me and a top-notch glass of wine in hand as I watch the clock tick down Saturday.  Just in case.

The GOOD News:

If you manage to rise from the ground after Saturday evening’s cataclysm just dust off your knees and dump your clothes.  You won’t need them for Sunday’s main event: the Streak the Cove 5K Run. 

Yup.  It’s a naked 5K.

While that might be rather freeing and spare runners from chafing, well ladies, wouldn’t that just hurt a bit?  There is a reason women spend a small fortune in search of the perfectly supportive jog bra.   I suppose many men will be thrilled to sway in the breeze while imagining themselves as the original Olympians, but wouldn’t all that knocking be distracting?

I have a feeling the spectators will far outweigh the participants.  Which is all good and fine if the runners looked like this:

Considering the resort offers a steep discount to visitors 18-35 (and hey–kids are free!) I really don’t think the hot runner above is the average participant and guest.  Damn.

Alas, a trip to Cypress Cove is not going to fit into my weekend plans, but I give kudos to those who make it (and show it off).   Maybe they should advertise free admission and wave the race entry fee to all wide-eyed Family Radio listeners.  Give the caravan free on-site camping.  Offer them a complementary post-race drink at Scuttlebutts Lounge or Cheeks Bar and Grill.

After all, followers  are going to be searching for a new cause to dedicate themselves when they wake Sunday morning here on Earth without angel wings.  Why not go Natural?  I just hope they remember to bring LOTS of sunscreen.

Talk Dirty to Me

Hubby and I were getting cranky one recent afternoon as we slogged through traffic to a destination we really didn’t want to reach anyway. To improve the mood I flipped the iPod to a playlist filled with some of our favorite upbeat anthems everyone must should love.  Within minutes the familiar riffs of  Kidd Rock’s All Summer Long swirled through the car.  Kiddo sat happily in his booster singing along:

And we were trying different things
We were SMOKING FUNNY THINGS
MAKING LOVE out by the lake to our favorite song
SIPPING WHISKEY OUT THE BOTTLE, not thinking ’bout tomorrow
Singing Sweet home Alabama all summer long
 

We couldn’t stop the big s#*! eating grins from spreading across our faces. Kiddo was chair dancing, playing his invisible drums, and working his rock star hair.  I cursed myself for not having the video camera.  It was awesome.

When I relayed the story to some other Moms they were pseudo-outraged.  THEY only let their kids listen to Kid Bop or Radio Disney.  Kids should NOT be listening to vulgar songs like that.  We were corrupting him.  They basically let it be known my Kiddo would be hanging out under a bridge drunk, stoned, and slumming around by the time he was twelve because we let his brain rot to such music.

Really?

Music always filled the air while I was growing up.  My parents raised me on 60’s and 70’s standards and classic rock.  In the 80’s I started developing my own tastes (with much trial and error) and now when I think back, there were some pretty dang raunchy songs I listened to in my youth.  And I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what they meant.  I just liked them.

A few childhood favorites: 

Grease Soundtrack (favorite movie age 5–did you ever really listen to the lyrics of Greased Lightening? )

Grease 2 Soundtrack  (I’m Gonna Score Tonight, Reproduction, Let’s Do It for Our Country–Perfect songs to sing at the playground.)

Phyiscal–Olivia Newton John (It was about working out at a gym, not on a mattress, right?)

Come on Eileen–Dexy’s Midnight Runners (Rediscovered high school when someone gave my date a rousing thumbs up as I danced along –oops.)

Sugar Walls–Sheena Easton (I thought was singing about a house made of candy. Really.)

Like a Virgin–Madonna (My mother was unthrilled when Santa left the tape under the tree, but I wasn’t really sure why it was SO bad.)

Darling Nikki/Little Red Corvette–Prince  ( I’ve been married for 11+ years and those lyrics still make me blush.)

Centerfold–The J Geils Band (Catchy tune, come on…)

Secondhand News–Fleetwood Mac (Just lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff…bowm bowm bowm bowm…)

Sexual Healing/Let’s Get it On –Marvin Gaye (That voice, those words…yeah it seems pretty obvious…)

She Bop–Cyndi Lauper (Some girls just want to have fun…lots of fun…all by themselves…)

Whole Lotta Love &/or Hey Hey What Can I DO–Led Zepplin (Everyone needs a Backdoor Man screaming all of those ooohh oohhhhs)

Lola –The Kinks (Nothing like kissing a drag queen.)

Almost anything by the Rolling Stones (I can remember singing Mother’s Little Helper while I put my dolls away.  Nope, didn’t get it.)

By the time the 80’s hair metal kicked in I had a tiny clue…well, not really…Talk Dirty to Me, You Shook Me All Night Long, Cherry Pie, Pour Some Sugar on Me…the list could keep going…

I don’t think Kiddo will end up in juvie or rehab before he sprouts facial hair from listening to a little Greenday.  But I do draw line at Sex on Fire, Crazy B*tch, (thanks for listening to those Hubby, ahem) and many of today’s skanky rap anthems.  But you just can’t make me listen to Justin Bieber.

Which lyrics from your youth made you blush when you realize what they were REALLY about?

Mother’s Day Marlarkey

This year my family will kneel down before me as I sit regally upon my alter.  They shall lay flowers, honeyed cakes and wine at my feet to honor my years of cleaning up baby poo, puke puddles, and those inevitable drops of pee all boys must leave on the bathroom floor.  They will sacrifice an animal (perhaps a fish or a fowl) and prepare a feast beyond my wildest imagination.   I will spend the day luxuriously wallowing in creature comforts and obscene pampering as a tribute to my exalted status as Goddess of Fertility and Creation a.k.a. “Mother”.

 Goddess

I really do have this costume.
Perhaps I should wear it and start a new Mother’s Day fashion trend?

Then I will wake up from this lavish dream, most likely due to a cat walking across my face. I will be handed a donut and a card purchased the night before at Walmart and spend the morning home alone with  Kiddo because Hubby has a soccer match.  I will do a load of laundry, clean the kitchen, and make the bed.  I will stare at my feet and wish I had a pedicure while I try to motivate myself to go to the gym later.  I will pour juice and prepare snacks.  I will scrub cat yak off the rug, water the wilting landscaping, and yank some stubborn weeds from the garden.  Even though Hubby has the best of intentions, I will end up cooking dinner after he asks me so many questions I just kick him out of the kitchen to get it done faster.

Just another day in the life…

But really–I don’t WANT any overpriced guilt gifts on Mother’s Day (including a $5 card).   I know my family loves me…at least most of the time when I’m not yelling or threatening to take away their video game time or feeding them tofu.   I didn’t buy my own Mother or Mother-In-Law any fancy gifts.   (My amazing Mom doesn’t expect anything so I grew her a pot of herbs.  My Mother-In-Law does expect something grand so I bought her a plant she can grow herself.)

Even founder of the U.S. holiday,  Anna Jarvis, spent her life and fortune fighting the rampant commercialization which overshadowed her intentions.   Arrested for disturbing the peace in a 1948 protest against the over-commercialized occasion, she said she “wished she would have never started the day because it became so out of control …”

The best gift my boys could give me–the gift I would brag about far and wide and remember forever–would be for them to clean the house.  Bathrooms especially.  Meanwhile I would be left alone to sit by the pool or in the hammock with an icy cider and good book.  Forbid me from writing blog posts, chapters, or resumes.  Better yet, just keep the computer turned OFF.  Hubby could grill some burgers and corn on the cob for dinner and he and Kiddo could promise NOT to fight over the Wii.

Life would be grand…hint, hint…

What would make your toes curl in delight this Mother’s Day?

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you amazing women out there…and may your families honor the inner Goddess in you each and every day…

The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter by the Brilliant Tina Fey

When I grow up I want to be Tina Fey.

This excerpt from her new book, Bossypants, shines and speaks for all Mothers in this brave new world…even if we happen to have a son…

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. 
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty. 
When the Crystal Meth is offered, 
May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half 
And stick with Beer. 
Guide her, protect her 
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. 
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. 
Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes 
And not have to wear high heels. 
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. 
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. 
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. 
Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, 
For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming 
Magenta for one day — 
And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait. 
O Lord, break the Internet forever, 
That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers 
And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. 
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, 
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, 
For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. 
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, 
That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. 
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. 
“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget. 
But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. 
Amen.

Utter and Pure Brilliance from Tina Fey’s new book Bossypants.  Read it.

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Soccer Mom Crash Course

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the Soccer Complex.  Osprey soared through the blue sky over the fields and the air was thick with excitement, sweat, and apprehension.  It was the first game of the season…and Kiddo’s first game ever.

I had the requisite folding chairs and Kiddo’s water bottle.   Hubby and I should have just settled down in the sunshine to watch a pack of six and seven-year-old chase a ball around a field.   Right?     Wrong...

This is Kiddo’s first season  playing any sport.  My Hubby still sacrifices himself to the Soccer Gods each Sunday, so I wasn’t exactly overeager to give up my Saturdays as well.  We waited for Kiddo to tell us he really wanted to play.  It just took a while for him to tear himself away from his Legos and hours of free play.

His team has had a whopping three practices.  Basically, the coach showed them how to kick a ball.  We haven’t really gotten to distance, passing or even much aim.  Several times the players had to be rounded up from playing tag or picking dandelions.  Kiddo was excited to have cleats (excuse me, boots) and knee socks (a.k.a. soccer socks) like his Daddy.  Two little girls showed off their new shoes with pink stripes and chased their matching pink balls.  Most kids were in Kindergarten.  Newbies.  Fresh meat.

Hubby (soccer show-off that he is) volunteered to help the coach wrangle  kids and herd them towards their correct goals out on the practice field.  He had no official position–it was just a fun way to blow off some steam after a stressful day at work.  But last Thursday after practice the coach pulled him aside and said he couldn’t make it to the first game Saturday and the assistant coach had been a no-show for two weeks.  Could Hubby possibly help out?

How could  he say no?  Hubby was drafted.

Now, it’s Kiddo’s first game ever and our first time even watching a kids’ soccer match, and suddenly Hubby is the fearless leader of a pack of wild and mostly untrained players.  We figured it would be fine–just some low key bumble-bee ball.  He’s played for 30+ years himself.  How hard could it be?

We arrived to find the opposing team doing organized warm-up drills called out by a drill sergeant.  There were a lot of them–the field was aglow with future World Cup contenders zipping along in their fluorescent green jerseys.  And they were all easily a head taller than our biggest player and probably double the weight of our smallest.  They looked as if they had been playing together since they were waddling in diapers. Ugh oh…

Their coach must be a professional high school football coach and/or a Marine drill sergeant.   He paced the sidelines barking orders and calling plays like,  “Hey Wolf–get on that kid–take him down!” and “Defense stay in your positions– knock ’em out!” 

Coach Hubby ran along with the kids yelling, “Just kick the ball!  No, our goal’s in the other direction!”

The other team had fourteen players.  They switched the entire squad on the field out every few minutes for freshly rested and watered reinforcements.  We had one sub.  Our little guys and gals were thirsty, unsure, and exhausted.  Their goalies hunched in front of the net wearing special pennies and goalie gloves.  Our goalies wore one of Kiddo’s X-men t-shirts and I caught one picking clovers in the grass.  At half time the other team had an organized huddle while their coach dressed them down and went over new strategies.  At half time our team drank all of their water and tried not to cry. 

Coach Hubby just shook his head and muttered how it was like reliving The Bad News Bears.  Except soccer instead of baseball.  And he couldn’t drink beer at the field–although we probably all could have used one.

In the end, it was a debacle.  The league is *not supposed to* keep score, but we went down in flames 13-0.

The parents still cheered as loud as we could each time one of our players got a foot on the ball or made a run towards the goal.  We took pictures and gave pats on the back.   We shouted words of encouragement.  Since there were so few players, we quickly learned all their names and ages and previous experience (or lack of).  We discovered who had unexpected speed and who wasn’t afraid to lock horns with kids twice his size.  We saw how amazing our kids were no matter how they played.  And they did play well–the other team just played better.  We were all proud.

After the game Kiddo knew his team had been spanked.  But he still had fun.  And so had Hubby.  That made it a great day anyway.

 And I hope when our team gets into the swing of things we come back and kick the green team’s collective ass.

Chicks Dig Vino: Fab & Funny Wines for Any Girl Gathering

Yes, I admit it, I am a label whore. I will buy a wine simply because the label intrigues me or makes me laugh so hard I snort wine out my nose. Sometimes it’s just not the points that make a wine pourable. Sometimes the wine’s personality is so just much more intriguing. A bottle or two of these hip vinos is sure to get more than just gossip flowing at your next gathering of girlfriends. Cheers!



Mad Housewife
At the end of a absurdly long day don’t we deserve to leap off the carousel of household catastrophes to savor a much deserved glass of Chardonnay…or two…or three…? For red vino aficionados, a Cabernet and a Merlot are also available from the vineyard that was supposedly inspired by the film “Diaries of a Mad Housewife.” I am going to have to splurge on one of their “Don’t be silly darling, it’s just a wine…” t-shirts immediately. Tons of neat stuff to check out on their website Mad Housewife Cellars.



Bitch and Sassy Bitch
When the party turns into an all-out Bitchfest it’s time to pull out these cute little numbers. All the way from South Austraila, the Bitch Grenache is rapidly becoming available in local markets. The newly discovered Sassy Bitch simply screams for a night out with girlfriends, gossip, and a bit of glamour. Every girl should be entitled to revel in her bitchiness every now and then.



Mommy’s Time Out
Heaven would be a quiet corner where a perfectly chilled Pino Grigio is waiting for me while my child is left to figure out that temper tantrums, baby powdering the bedroom, and flushing frogs down toilet does NOT make Mommy happy. All by himself. While I get some much deserved chill-out time. Wouldn’t it be lovely if life actually worked that way? I have a bottle of this tempting Italian White I am saving for the moment I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.


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Working Girl Wines
We all know that every woman is a working woman no matter what her official title may be. These labels from Olympic Cellars Winery, “Created by women, in support of women,” include Go Girl Red, Working Girl White, Rose the Riveter, and the token hot guy Handyman Red. And you can gulp your glass guilt free, for portions of the profit support various women’s charities. WorkingGirlWines.com

Old Tart
We all have one of these in our circle of friends…or family. This blend of Sauvignon Blanc and Terret is supposedly flying of the shelves across the pond. Made for adult consumers who with voluptuous bodies, who are fresh, fruity, and a bit up-front. OLD Fart Grenache is also available, but personally, I’d prefer this dame at my party. As the bottle says, “Be smart, enjoy the tart!”



Cat’s Pee on a Gooseberry Bush
Sometimes we need an escape from our furry babies as well. Having been the mom of five fab felines, and I have cleaned more than my share of ill placed puddles and piddles some memorable days. So, I simply couldn’t resist including this New Zeland Sauvignon Blanc, self described as “Extremely playful, with aromas inclined to leap out of the glass at you and a long and racy body.” I’m assuming those aromas are much more pleasing to the palate than than the name suggests.



White Trash White
It’s a scenario that is all too familiar. After a few glasses of wine someone inevitably breaks out the country tunes, and often a sing-along ensues. Next time anyone attempts to subject me to such a situation I’m going to insist this wine is served. Perhaps not for the Manolo and martini set, but guaranteed to give the rest of us a good chuckle. The back lable reads: Nestled in the scenic foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the quaint community of Oildale. Strategically planted btween pumping oil wells and oil sumps are rows of grapevines. This blend of oil and tar-tainted soils leds itself to a wine grape flavor seldom duplicated throughout the world of viticulture. At your next trailer park potluck, surprise your neighbors with this teasingly trashy white. No catfish should be served without it.
‘Nuff said.





Tiny Bubbles
Yeah, she looks like she would be the life of any party or its obnoxious downfall. This cheap bubbly should be good for more than a few giggles once her cork is popped. And she kind of reminds me of my 4th grade teacher. Another amusing addition from the Harper Hill Oildale Winery.

UTTER bastard
No night of female bonding is complete without a little man bashing. This lively little Syrah would be the perfect accompaniment to trashing any bastard in your life (whether he deserves it or not). If you prefer a Chardonnay or your man can stand to lose a few pounds, the FAT BASTARD is also readily available.



SinZin
Who can resist this lusty little Bacchus? Perhaps we should save the sinning for a weekend in Vegas, but this Greek God of wine and intoxication is sure to get any party started. My husband wanted to have this label tiled on the bottom of our swimming pool. Seriously. Damn tasty Zinfandel though.

Rude Boy
No need to hire a stripper, Ladies.
The back label “warns,” When this bottle of wine is chilled Rude Boy will reveal all. This hunk’s pants disappear when this South African Chardonnay hits the right degree. Never has reaching the proper temperate been so climatic. I will be on the hunt for this hunk for my next soiree…be waiting for it ladies…

Mean Mommy Monday

It all started this morning at 7:15 when an overeager little boy roused me from my dream.  Can I play wii yet? he whispered.   No, we are still in bed,  I mumbled from under the pillow.  Why don’t you come and snuggle with us?    Okay…  If I snuggle for 5 minutes can I play wii?   Sometimes I take whatever I can get.

By 8 a.m. my kiddo was throwing the wii remote in frustration, didn’t want breakfast, and it began…the whining.

“I’m   BOOOORRREEEDDD!  There’s NOTHING to DOOOOO!”

That laboriously drawn-out, sing-songy drawl proclaiming he is the most neglected, lonely, and toyless child in the entire Western Hemisphere.  Perhaps the entire world.


As if “Santa” hadn’t toiled for months shopping for the most dazzling, stimulating, and entertaining slew of presents to open that chilly Christmas morning a mere week ago.  As if unopened new puzzles, books, video games and Lego boxes were not haphazardly stacked in all corners of his over-stuffed bedroom.  As if there wasn’t a garage bursting with new Razor scooters and basketballs, perfectly good bikes and baseballs begging to be played with.

No.  There was NOTHING to do.  

For three hours I fought the whining.  He wanted to go somewhere.  He wanted to do something.  Somethings that entailed driving across town in traffic and spending money. 

I nearly gave in.  I climbed out of my comfy sweats and into some real clothes, broke out the flat iron and even put on eyeliner and concealer.

My hubby even commented on how nice I looked.  Meanwhile the kiddo continued his whining, following me around the house as his nasally, nasty, kvetching bored into the center of my brain.  That was it.  I marched right back into the bedroom, but my sweatshirt back on and proclaimed that we were not going ANYWHERE.

I was not going to reward miserable, spoiled behavior by giving him exactly what he wanted.

It was time to learn a lesson. 

But why did it have to be when I was actually having a decent hair day?

So, since there was nothing to do, not a single toy to play with, I decided to give him something to do.

Laundry.
He didn’t like that.

The frown grew longer, the sighs grew deeper, and the attitued multiplied exponentially.

The wii was taken away for the day.  A meltdown of epic proportions (at least for our house) followed.

After tossing around his stuffed animals while sobbing about the rank injustice in his miserable life he passed out.  And looked like the little angel he is 95% of the time.

Because he is a good kid.  A pretty amazing kid actually.  My job is just too keep him that way.

I woke him at lunchtime.  And somewhere, off in the vaporous clouds of dreamland, he found his smile.

We spent the afternoon doing yard work.  Okay, I spent the afternoon doing yard work while he played contently in his sandbox and occasionally helped me stick some dead branches in the trash.  Politely and with a smile on his face.  He rolled up the 100 foot hose and we sat together in the hammock snacking on some of Grandma’s homemade chocolate covered pretzels.   Being nice and helpful gets rewards.  He’s learning.

And so am I.