More Freshmen News

Um, okay, I try to understand those who seek their own fashion expression. Today I saw...well...I'm not sure what I saw.

It looked like a fuzzy bath mat with a hole cut lengthwise in the middle. The person was wearing said bath mat like a poncho. As if this wasn't enough, fuzzy cuffs were sewn onto the bottom of the jeans.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if the color hadn't been 1970's bad tuxedo powder blue. Or, if it hadn't been so short, laying across the shoulders like a new pelt stiff with rigamortis. I guess the jean-cuffs were what's left of the matching toilet cover.

On fashions super highway there are those who lead, and those who get ran off the side of the road, crash into a guardrail, and burst into a ball of flames. Personally, I think death by fire is too good for the fuzzy bath mat poncho.

Ah, Freshmen

The incoming freshmen for the 2005-2006 season are starting to filter onto campus. I have a few friendly words for them:

If it says NO PARKING ANYTIME, that means you, too, dumbass.

If you hit, step on, or bump into a person while you are meandering through the bookstore, apologize. Don't just look at them like an alien life form and move away.

You thought you could get away without shaving the pits in that tanktop, but sweetie, you were wrong.

Regardless of what may have been hip at your pathetically small high school, professors here do not give good grades depending on how short your skirt is or how low your tanktop. Scientists give less of a shit than regular professors.

Yep, that no parking sign still applies to you.

Stopping suddenly in a crowded hallway to talk to a person you know will get you run over. In this case, I don't have to apologize as your the stupid squirt who slammed on the brakes in the first place. It's called "momentum", look it up.

Screaming and jumping up and down when you see a familiar face should be limited to the sorority houses. Anywhere else and you deserve to get bitch-slapped.

Cash means cash, you can wave your daddy's credit card around all you want.

Just because you have a $50,000 car does not mean you don't have to pay for parking. Oh, and I don't have to give up my space to you.

Finally, I don't care who your parents are, how much money you have, how well dressed, well groomed, or well bred you are, you cut in line again and I'm taking your ass down.

Have a great school year!

I Hate the Sun

Hubby and I rode 32 miles this weekend. It was really nice until we hit the hills, then I remembered what it was like to hyperventilate. We rode in Alton, a very pretty town in Illinois just across from the Missouri border. I like this trail, it's very pretty and close to water, but the thing I hate about it is there is no shade on most of the ride. None. Doesn't matter what time of day it is, no freaking shade.

And I hate the sun.

I'm not saying that in a flippant, "I hate Monday's" kind of way, I really, truly, honestly despise the sun. I try to avoid being in it at all costs. I'm am the whitest person most people know. I wear thick sunglasses at all times because the sun hurts my eyes. I hate driving in a car with it beating down on me, I hang pillowcases or jackets from the window just to get out of it. If there was one sickly, broken twig of a tree in the middle of the dessert, you'd find me huddled beneath it. If there was a way to destroy the sun WITHOUT disturbing the earth's crust, I'd do it. I hate the sun.

So we had to wait for a ferry yesterday to take us back to Missouri. There was no building or tree anywhere close that could offer shade. It's in the 90's, there is no wind, and not a damn cloud I the sky. I'm baking in my black bike pants. I can feel sweat sliding down my ass crack, not an altogether unpleasant experience, but the rest of my body is burning up. My eyes hurt because sweat is dripping into them. My camel-back and water bottle hold warm liquid because the sun is cooking them. My skin is burning, my body temperature is rising, I can feel myself losing breath. Everything is hot and there is no damn escape. I would have burst out in tears, but the resulting steam would have burned my face. Finally, the slow-poke of a ferry arrives and we start across the river. A breeze! It's short lived, though, as the last 5 miles of this ride are through corn fields. Yep, no damn shade. I hate the fucking sun.

I hate it! Why can't we ride at night when it's nice and dark and cool? Why do we have to traipse out in the beginning of the day so we're sure to have maximum exposure to the flaming ball in the sky? I don't want to be in it, and after this MS150, I'm riding at the end of the day so I can watch the sun set and imagine that it will never rise again. Death to the sun!

Whose freedom are we fighting for?

I'm sorry, but I'm sick and tired of people saying that soldiers are dying in Iraq for our freedom. If Iraq were to be blown off the face of the earth right now, would anything change in America? There would be a lot of widows, that's for sure, but would Martha Stewart cancel her TV show? Would malls close? Would schools? No, nothing in our country would change except our attitude.

So don't try to blow smoke up my ass about how these boys dying in Iraq are doing it for us. If you have to say something, say that the boys dying in Iraq are doing it because they have no choice. They belong to the Army. They are defending the Iraqis, whether the Iraqis want it or not. They are keeping our oil supplies guarded and helping a moronic president feel like he's really doing something, but they ARE NOT dying for our freedom. Our freedom is not tied up in the outcome of Iraq. It's not. Our oil is, but not our freedom. If Iraq goes down, no big wall of thick iron is going to clamp down on America and keep us all in. We will not be under house arrest. We will not have to have a passport to cross a state line. We will not be forced to work in camps and be led there in chains.

Oh, wait, I guess if oil prices keep going up then all you morons that drive around the city in your Hummers and SUVs will have to pay more for gas, meaning you'll have to curb your extra-curricular activities around how much money you spend, so yeah, in that way I guess your freedom is at stake. Damn, you'll have to eat at the Macaroni Grill and not Spago's. Yeah, that's really, really worth dying for, isn't it.

The Itchies

I don't know if anyone else suffers from this, but if I'm trying to go to sleep sometimes I become overrun with the Itchies. Various parts of my body will spontaneously itch, making me twitch and writhe around until I scratch every one. And these aren't the "I'll ignore it and it will go away" itchies, either. These are the poked with a super-heated hypodermic itchies one can't ignore.

This morning the alarm went off at 5am and my husband got up to check the weather, (we were going riding). It was raining so he came back to bed. Yeah, I get to sleep in. NOT SO! The damn Itchies started. My nose, my toe, the back of my knee, that one space on the center of my back that I can't reach no matter how I try, my finger, my butt, that damn back part again. All I want to do is sleep! After about thirty minutes of scratching I fell back asleep. And no, it's not my sheets, I wash those. This has happened my whole life.

Sucks.

There is a huge crane with a huge wrecking ball attached to it swinging away right outside my window. I'm hoping it will crash through my window, that way I can go home early. It's rainy and dreary, perfect sleeping weather.

Me, loopy, the night of my bachelorette party. Mmmmm, root beer float, hittin' the hard stuff. 

One of my favorite photos of me and B-Butt. 

My father and I. He's really taller than I am, but I have the big boots on and he's in his Ninja slippers. 

My new sister-in-laws. They're twins, see the eyebrows? 

My new father-in-law making his toast. Notice his devil-son in the background? 

I've had requests for some wedding pic's, so here they are. My grandmother had just broken her arm in this photo, she and my grandfather were off to the hospital afterwards. 

Arg

My sister has the worst luck with answering machines and answering services. In the 15 or so years that she has been living on her own she has had the misfortune of owning the worst answering machines on the planet.

They never work. Well, they work sometimes, but sometimes they eat a message before she has had a chance to listen to them. It's amazing. Of the 20+ machines she has had, they all have the same problem. I think it's a conspiracy. Some little gnome is following her around and when she looks away from her shopping cart, it replaces a perfectly working answering machine with one of the magically selective ones. Now she has an answering service thingy on the phone and it does the same thing. My messages just *poof* disappear.

I think the same gnome is taking care of the people she lives with, too. Of all the different people she's lived with, not one of them could take a message. They have all been incapable of picking up a pencil and writing down two simple words, "Sister called." you'd think after the first two or three my sister would stop living with ignorant zombies who listen to her messages before she gets home, then forget about it in their forage for fresh flesh.

I've noticed that my "Thanks for calling me back, bitch!" messages always make it through, though. They somehow bypass the sucking vortex of emptiness that surrounds my sister's phone line. I guess I'll have to make all my messages sound angry.

My sister is just a hapless victim here. I wonder if there is a support group for people who get screwed over by their answering machines? Maybe there is some coven that can take the curse off my sister because obviously, somewhere, she pissed off a witch.

Give Him Enough Rope...

More news from the "Too Big For His Britches" camp...Pat Robertson has taken his ties to the White House just a little too far. Seems he wants to have the Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez taken out by the US government because he doesn't like what Chavez has been saying about America. He also thinks he has the freedom to speak for the rest of us.

Robertson's comments state that Chavez is turning his oil-rich country into "a launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism all over the continent." Robertson thinks we should take him out in order to save ourselves a costly war trying to take over his country.

So many things are wrong with Robertson's thinking I hesitate to point them out. First of all, we, the USA, do not control the rest of the world. Do you hear me, Pat? WE DON'T CONTROL THE FUCKING WORLD. If the president of another country wants to run it as HE sees fit, your just going to have to put on your big boy pants and deal with it. Oh, and another thing, your God doesn't control them, either.

Second of all, I don't remember ol' Pat being elected to an office that makes decisions for the rest of us. Pat doesn't like the fact that Chavez stands up and criticizes the USA. He doesn't like the fact that Chavez has questioned our President and our country's motives. Chavez has told us, in no uncertain terms, to leave his country alone or he'll introduce our faces to our own asses. Gee, is anyone surprised that a Christian wants to kill someone who doesn't think, act, and talk like he does?

I don't agree with you, Pat, and I don't want the rest of the world thinking that I do.

But here is the real kicker. We, as the good 'ol US of A, have taken a very solid stand on terrorism. If I were to go on TV and say that I think we should kill Bush, I'd be in FBI custody in a matter of hours. Robertson has done no different than all these other terrorists who threaten to murder every other leader in the world. But what are we, the good 'ol US of A, going to do about it?

Venezuela is calling us on our own policies. What are we going to do about terrorist threats made by our own people on our own soil? The White House is wussing out and saying that Pat is a private citizen with a big mouth. I'm sorry, but I have to agree with the Venezuelans, that's not good enough. The Venezuelan ambassador to the US said it best. Pat is "no ordinary private citizen." He's been in Bush's pocket too long to be considered benign. What Pat said was a criminal statement, why is he not being treated like a criminal?

Hey, Bush, here's your chance to show us all how tough you are on terrorism. What are you going to do about Pat? Forget the fact that he ran a very successful and lucrative re-election campaign for you built around your faith. Forget the fact that he holds a very large majority of voters in his blessed little hands. Hey, you're not going up for re-election. You're going to have to be a president now and NOT a Christian. Do you think you can do it? Are you beginning to understand the importance of separation of Church and State? Do you think you can finally stand up and be the leader of this country FOR ONCE!

Here's what should happen: Pat should be publicly condemned. He should be criminally investigated, prosecuted, and have his reputation ruined. He should lose his job and a good chunk of his finances. He should be black-listed from the high society that gave him all of this power in the first place. He should be made to publicly apologize to Chavez and his country for being a bigot. Alone, broken, and broke, he should fade away into history as the guy who opened his big mouth a little too far.

We, as American's, should not make excuses for assholes who think they talk to Jesus. We, as American's, should recognize fighting words when we hear them. There is no difference between Osama Bin Laden saying he is going to kill Bush and Pat Robertson saying we need to kill Chavez. Freedom ain't free, bitches, and here is the price we have to pay. We must sacrifice one of our own on the alter of peace.

R.I.P. Pat Robertson.

Screwed Eight Ways from Sunday

I watched a four hour show last night called "Inside 9/11". Let me just say this, our own intelligence screwed us over as much as those terrorists that flew into the twin towers. The FBI and the CIA had plenty of warning that something big was going down, but because of their refusal to listen to others and their fear of sharing information, they pretty much rolled over and let 9/11 happen.

The FBI was worried about sharing information. The CIA was worried about sharing information. The White House was worried about sharing information. If any of these agencies had gotten their heads out of their asses and worried about what not sharing information could do, we might have been able to stop 9/11.

Some big-wig said it the best, the intelligence community is guilty of not having an imagination. All of these agencies received more than enough information from outside sources to point to 9/11, but because they just couldn't believe what they were hearing, they dismissed the warnings. One reporter, after calling the FBI with news that Mosques in America were breeding grounds for Al Qaida recruitment, was asked "What are you smoking?"

9/11 was successful because the terrorists preyed on America's two biggest faults, our vanity and our conceit. The FBI, CIA, and White House were too vain. They all had to have the biggest dick, and if that meant keeping things quiet and ignoring warning signs, so be it. The top brass was more worried about keeping their jobs than doing their jobs.

They were all too conceited to think that someone could attack America this way. Not the USA, we're the USA! Land of the free, home of the brave, so what if our airport security is a joke and anyone from any country can learn how to fly our commercial airlines? So what if known terrorists live in our country and operate under their own names, we don't need to trace them, we're the USA! So what if reporters and priests call us with disturbing news, we're the USA! No one would actually do the things that they've been talking about for years.

I also learned from this show that Osama Bin Laden is a coward. He funds the terrorists, he helps plan the attacks, but when it comes to the actual work, he hides in a hole and lets others get their hands dirty. He finagled his way into being a hero and he plays up that role, yet he's nothing. He gives interviews and talks a lot, but if it came down to an actual one-on-one, I bet Osama would get on his knees and beg for his pitiful life. He hides behind his friends, he hides behind his money, and he has incredible luck. One day it is bound to run out.

I understand now why it is imperative that our intelligence agencies have a firmer grasp on who is coming and going from this country. What I don't understand is why these agencies pick on average people and leave the terrorists free reign. Those guards searching bags in New York subways are told not to racially profile. Why the hell not? Of all the terrorists that died on 9/11, none of them was a big-tittied blonde with pale skin. If you see a person who looks suspicious, search his/her damn bag and let their feelings get a little hurt. I don't understand why they don't have x-ray machines at every entrance to the subways as it is. That would cut down on a lot of useless harassment.

But it's a fine line between protection and harassment, and unfortunately the people in charge of that line are human. Humans make mistakes. Lots of them. Humans have bad days. If there were a master computer where each name of every person who moves about in the USA could be tracked, cross-referenced, and recorded, it would be great. But then you'd have protest upon protest of privacy rights. People cheating on their spouse would get their noses out of joint. And of'course, our government wouldn't just use this master computer to track terrorists, they'd find a way to track everyone who didn't think as they did. They'd use it to get rid of their political enemies and devise ways to take away more of our freedom.

Then the entertainment industry would find a way to track celebrities and the media would be clogged with useless stories about who's getting a divorce and where Jennifer Lopez spent her vacation. You know THAT news is sooooo damn important. Parents would want ways to track their children because they can't understand that fighting for independence is something that every child must go through. Poor people would protest that it's a way to keep them poor, ethnic groups would use it to cry "Racism!" Corporations and businesses would use it to keep an eye on their employees. Everyone would be so concerned with what this computer could do for them that they'd fight to their last dying breath to have control over it and terrorism would be pushed back to a back-burner in Egypt.

Is it a wonder 20 men with fucked up morals walked into this country and killed nearly 3,000 people?

Open your eyes, people. Terrorists are slowly, methodically, and masterfully attacking the world. Bombs in the US, Egypt, England, Spain, India, and Iraq are not just coincidence. Hate-mongering is not conducted in back-rooms anymore. These ideas of destroying the western world are not just ideas. There are people with the resources, the patience, and the will to carry out plans of mass destruction. The days of Ozzie and Harriet are over and they ain't coming back.

We live in a world of terrorism. To ignore it is to doom ourselves to failure. It's sad, but it's a damn fact.

News from B-Butt, "I don't like school."

B-Butt does not believe that this school thing is permanent. Last night he was tired and cranky after his first full day of school. He, his mother, and I sat around the table practicing our ABC's. As is for apple. Bb is for book. Cc is for cat. He kept messing it up. If he can't master the ABC's, the rest of the school year is going to be tough. On we plodded, Dd is for duck. Ee is for egg. Ff is for fish. Right in the middle of it his 4 year-old cousin, R, came by and the two boys had to start rough housing. Since R was wearing his Spiderman suit, B-Butt had to put on his red Power Ranger suit. They ripped up the living room and screamed like banshee's while R's grandmother tried to have a conversation with my sister. All the while her boyfriend was getting ready for a big interview tomorrow, so a hot iron was thrown into the mix. My sister started chanting, "Bb is for basketcase."

Vv is for vicodin.

I've decided that I'm going to have to have a baby. In 9 months I can offer it up for a full tank of gas. Why isn't Bush impeached already?

I get to see my husband this evening. I'm so excited! It's only been two days but I feel like I've been away from him for weeks. The cat slept with me last night, ha-ha. Just as I suspected.

First Day of School

Today is B-Butt's first day of school. Already he is asking when this is going to end. Um...13 years? Get used to it buddy, it only gets worse from here. My sister is a wreck. Her emotions are so into overdrive I should call her Christine. That's okay, though, it's tough to send your only baby away to an institution where he'll have to sink or swim on his own. I liked school. Well, until I started the 8th grade, then it was shit, but before then I really enjoyed it.

I watched "Brat Camp" last night. All I have to say is, "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Three of the kids got to go home and man, was it a tear-fest. The rest of the kids were bummed, and that bitch Jada still blames everyone else for her problems. The other's seem to be okay with it and accept that they need to change more or they'll never make it. Jada will never go home, I'm telling ya, she'll rot in that desert.

Two of the girls released last night were going straight into boarding school. Do they still have those? How much does that cost? I've had a few friends who lived in boarding schools and they can come out just as messed up as us poor, public schoolers. Wait, maybe that was Catholic school...

My husband is house sitting and I was all alone last night. I liked it, but when I let out this particularly loud, rumbling burp and there was no one to say, "Whoa, baby!" I realized how much I missed him. I missed hearing his smack-talking while he played his video game. Our cat sat by the window most of the night looking at all the cars that passed. He even slept there. I'll be alone again tonight. By then our cat will have given Jason up as dead and go back to begging for my dinner. Ah, loyalty.

You Don't Want To Take My Picture

Because I won't remember. If you gathered all the photographs of me taken during my life, you'd have maybe half a shoebox. Okay, I'll be generous, a whole shoebox. Pathetic, isn't it, that a 32 year old woman would only have a few snatches of her past to look at. No one wants to take my picture.

My mother offers this excuse: "You always take more pictures of your first born." Yeah, until the second kid is born, then you take equal amounts. At least, most of the population of the earth operates that way. See, my mother never stopped. For every five pictures of my sister, there is maybe one of me. She's gotten a little better, but when my sister and her family visit my mother and father, it's Picture City. "Here's us eating, here's us getting into the car, here's us sitting and watching TV, here's us..." When my husband and I visit, there are maybe two or three pictures taken at the end of the trip in sort of an obligatory kind of way. My mother insists that we stand at attention, outside, facing the sun. Forgot the fact that cameras have advanced to the point of natural sunlight not being necessary, we have year after year of photo's with us all standing like squinting soldiers, and that's all I have.

Then there is my husband. I have told him, on many occasions, how important pictures are to me. But he doesn't like to have his picture taken. Thus, we have very few photo's. Birthdays, anniversaries, parties, holidays...years of special events have gone unrecorded because my husband doesn't like his picture taken. We have a $300 digital camera for nothing. We may as well have a disposable, it would last two years in our home. When I do ask about the camera, I usually get "Oh, the battery's dead," or "I forgot to grab it."

Why are pictures so important to me? Because my memory isn't the greatest. I want to be able to look back and remember certain times of my life. I like being reminded of events, hairstyles, and people who may no longer be a part of my life (sometimes, thankfully). Friends I no longer speak with, people who are no longer alive. I like having a record of myself and my life. I'm not going to look like this forever. When I'm old and wrinkled I want to see myself as a young woman. I want to remember trips I took and things I did. Is that so fucking awful? Am I asking for too damn much? Is it such a unbearable request?

I go to my sister's house and she has photo's all over the place. I'm so envious. They aren't photo's of special events, just everyday "Hey, we love each other" photos. My sister-in-laws have tons of pictures. It makes me want to cry that something so simple is out of my reach.

I've had to resort to taking pictures of myself. My arm is only so long. My husband found some and laughed at me for it. That really hurt. What am I supposed to do? I guess I have to resort to asking strangers to take my picture. I have modeled nude for more than one photographer because it's the only way I was going to get pictures that year. Not that I didn't want to do it, but c'mon! I shouldn't be this desperate.

Allow me a little pity party here; am I so unimportant? Am I so forgettable? Do I matter so little in your life that you don't care if you have any memory of me? Is that how much I'm worth?

Pity party over. Now I'm just tired. I'm tired of the whole thing. I'm going to get the camera, it's chips, the battery charger, and everything else from my husband and carry the damn thing around with me every minute of every day for the rest of my fucking life. I'll ask strangers to take my picture. I'll do the stretch-my-arm-out-and-hope-for-the-best thing. I'll make demands and become a real bitch about the whole thing because if I want my life recorded, that's what I'm going to have to do.

Noxious Fumes

What stinks more than the Bush family acting concerned about the raising oil prices?

My office.

I don't know if it was the cucumbers or the beer, but I'm killing myself over here. The silent one's are enough to make me worry that HAZMAT will show up. My pants may have a burn spot. At the least, the material unfortunate to be near the blast site is growing thin. My worst fear is one of my professors will come to visit just after a fart has escaped. How do you explain that? And trust, there will be no question as to what has occurred.

I read about a prisoner who died because he filled his isolation cell with his own methane. The window in my office doesn't open. I don't think the crack in the door is going to be enough air flow - I'm going to have to open it. God protect those walking through the hall. As the maker, I'm supposed to be immune, but I can barely type this as my eyes are melting out of my head. My nose hairs have been singed to nubs. I've even lost my appetite.

Help....meeeeeee.....

Wedding Show link

Here is download of our segment of the wedding show. If you have broadband or faster, it should work for you. Anyone with dial-up may feel like they have cataracs. It's a MP4 with 8.4mb.

WARNING: cursing and strippers. If you have a work place that frowns on personal downloads, you may want to try this at home.

America's Trashiest Weddings

64 Days Till My Cru-u-uis

My mom and I are taking a cruise to the Bahamas in October. I cannot wait. This will be the first cruise for both of us. My father and my husband are not cruise kind of guys. They don't like shows and activities as much as just laying around and maybe eating a lot. So my mom and I are leaving the men at home and going into the sunset, drink in one hand and big, fat sandwich in the other.

Anyone who knows me well is probably thinking, "You and your mom? Aren't you going to kill each other?"

See, my mom and I are working on our relationship. We didn't have the best one when I was growing up and once I left home for good it kinda got worse. We've both changed as people and we came to realize that if we were going to have a relationship, we were both going to have to work at it. It hasn't been a cake-walk, but I've been pleased with the results.

It's different when it's the two of us. My father and sister can't stand confrontation or arguing, even if it's lighthearted. Nothing else exists when my nephew is around. My mother is stressed when she's around her family, and she's pissy around my dad's family. Her and I on a boat for five days - we might actually be able to talk. Although neither one of us is looking forward to traipsing around on the beach in a bathing suit. Cabana boy, another Mai-Tai!

Talk less, think more

I hate talking on the telephone. I do it because my carrier pigeons have gotten too fat and lazy to deliver my messages anymore. I'm not a big fan of talking, period. I mean, I like to talk, but I am not one of those females who can carry on a conversation for hours and hours and hours and talk about everything under the son three or four times over. Ten minutes and I'm done. I hate repeating myself, and if we've already talked about something once, there is no real need to talk about it again. I prefer the written word. People can't interrupt or ignore you when you write something. One of the reasons I started this blog was so my mother would actually hear everything I have to say.

My mother doesn't interrupt on purpose, it's just that whenever something pops into her mind, it comes out her mouth at the same time. If you just happen to be talking, that's your tough luck.

But she's not the only one. In fact, everybody interrupts these days. Even Oprah - the less famous her guest, the more she interrupts them. The art of conversation is dead. Everyone is too busy thinking of what they want to say that they don't take the time to actually listen.

I hate the One-Uppers, too. You know, you tell someone that you (insert here), and then they have to tell you a similar story only they did it faster, sooner, better, or cheaper than you did. They can't just listen to your story or maybe laugh about it with you. When I was in high school I knew a girl like that. You could tell her you just rescued on alien from a pack of rabid penguins in a stolen school bus and she'd say, "Oh, I rescued two last Tuesday." It's no fun talking to a person like that, you don't learn anything new. Like parrots, they regurgitate your story back to you with a few changed details.

Bigfoot died today. If you're a Howard Stern fan, then you know who he was. For everyone else, he was the giant in the movie "Big Fish." He was 32, the same age as me. That's creepy. RIP, big guy.

Three letters - P. M. S.

To my dear husband - I knew it. I KNEW IT!

For all you men out there who are in a serious relationship with a woman, there is something you need to understand. Inside all of us lives a little monster that, about every 28 days, grows into a raging demon for which we have no control. Hey, them's the breaks. We don't like it any more than you. It's horrible feeling like a live volcano and standing by helplessly watching our mouths spew forth obscenities and accusations. And here's the kicker, we don't know what's going to set it off. It could be something major, or something so mind-numbingly stupid it's ridiculous.

I know my husband loves me, but last night I could have kicked him. Hard. Why? Because he was irritating me. I know he loves me. I know he cares for me, and that's why he asks questions, but last night I had a very hard time keeping my mouth shut and my fist away from his face.

I turned the TV off and he asks, "Oh, are you going to bed?"
No, I think, I'm going to turn the TV off and sit in the dark for a while, that okay with you?

Then I walk towards the kitchen and he says, "I already fed the cat." Outside, I say, "I know." Inside I'm saying good for you, asshole, because I'm checking to make sure the back door is locked. That okay with you?

Then I go into the spare for something and my husband so kindly points out that I'm looking in the pile of dirty clothes and not the clean. Outside I say, "I know." Inside I'm saying, well, my fucking lip balm wouldn't be in the clean clothes, now would it? Leave me the fuck alone and stop assuming you know what I'm doing every fucking minute of the fucking day. I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN MY ACTIONS TO YOU!!

It took all I had to keep my mouth shut. It wasn't me feeling hostile, it was the monster inside. It wants to come out and bite heads off. It wants to point out each and every stupid thing other people do. It wants to rip the dick off any male that has the audacity to talk to me. It wants a Dove chocolate bar and a pint of mint ice cream.

Men, we try to fight this demon, but sometimes it wins. Sometimes it completely takes over and you're just going to have to deal with that. It's not personal... unless you make it personal. There is something you need to remember and this may save you some heartache. You can not win a fight against the demon. Oh, you may think you've won, but trust, that demon is filing away everything you've said and done and will use it at a later date. It's malicious, unfair, and cruel. It doesn't play by the rules and it has no idea was rational means. And it will not die until the host goes through menopause. Hopefully, after about 7 days, your girl will return and appologize for anything the demon has done.

I hope this helps.

Teen Queens

First, I think it's about time someone told it like it is.

Second, I watched Ms. Teen USA last night because I just love cheesy programs like that. I like to see the evening gowns mostly. Last night took forever because they chose 15 contestants instead of 10. Then 10. Then 5. Then the winner. The program could have been cut an hour if they had 1) gotten rid of the horrible soap opera host, and 2) gotten rid of the badly synthesized dance routines.

Anyway, I don't think I'll be watching Ms. Teen USA anymore. The evening gowns were horrible. You're telling me those girls spend hundreds, nee, thousands on getting to the pageant and they can't cough up the dough for a final fitting? Tip: If something sags, puckers, or bunches, it doesn't fit. Ms. Illinois looked like she was wearing a blue potato sack with strategic holes cut into it.

That's not the reason I won't watch it again. These girls are too wholesome to be any fun. The sexiest thing they did was come out in the bathing suits. Now, Ms. Universe, there's a competition. Those ladies have assets and aren't afraid to show them off. You can see the bitch-claws just under the surface on some of those women. They also get to make cool state/country costumes. I love the costumes.

But the Latino beauty pageants put all of us to shame. I caught the Mrs. South America pageant one night on Spanish TV. Wooo! They had big boobs and big butts and weren't afraid to show them. They wore dresses that strippers would kill to have. I never knew mesh could be used in so many creative ways. They shook and shimmied down the runway with a purpose, none of that stiff smile/grimace while walking like a robot crap like on American TV. During the bathing suit segment some girls broke out into a Salsa. Word of the day: Cle-vage!

CoverGirl sponsored Ms. Teen USA, I guess that's why it was so boring. I wonder why there isn't a Ms. Slut USA? Can you see it? Instead of evening gowns, they'd have bondage wear. During the bathing suit segment they would have the option of being topless. Their final question could center around how many men they've slept with and how. Ron Jeremy and Howard Stern could be judges. The sponsors could be KY and Ted's Tattoo Parlor. I think that would make for very interesting TV. Yeah, then there could be a Ms. Universal Slut. I could be onto something here...

Glad it's finally over!

The Wedding Show finally aired. Thank God, now I can stop explaining to people that just because FOX filmed our wedding doesn't mean that I control the network. People don't seem to understand that FOX doesn't consult with each and every person they put on their channel about each and every decision they make regarding a certain show. It doesn't go down like that. I signed away all rights when I took their money. End of story.

I was nervous as a virgin on a pirate ship when the show came on. I mean, it was called "America's Trashiest Wedding," there was a lot to be nervous about. Our wedding was the first one they taped for this show, then going under the name "America's Wildest, Weirdest, and Trashiest Weddings." They changed the name about 7 months after our filming. My husband is an editor, we knew they would have to make our wedding fit into the theme of things. They did their worst, but I was glad to see that they didn't really have that much to work with.

We were the Halloween wedding. So, there it was, our 15 minutes of fame. It could have been worse.

Okay, so I came across as a bossy, bitchy Bridezilla, but I didn't kick my sister's ass at my bachelorette party or come across as a dick-whipped pushover to my husband. I happen to think that our wedding had the most personality and class. I mean, there was a wedding based on Part-a-Potty's! Although, now that I think about it, that couple did look pretty darn happy. Not like the poor bride in the Hunter's wedding. She looked miserable and embarrassed.

Seeing the footage from my husband's Bachelor party was worth the two years of constant questions and nagging. My mild-mannered, laid-back, cheery husband was turned into a loud, foul-mouthed ogre. Now I know why he doesn't drink. At the wedding he was back to his old self, flubbing up the vows and looking so darn cute doing it.

I wish they would have shown more of the guests. What they didn't show was my grandmother falling in the park during the pictures and breaking her shoulder, thus missing the ceremony all together. When it happened, both camera men shoved their camera's in her face. The next shot they got was my sneering face telling both of them to get the fuck off. I really thought that would have made the cut, but I'm glad they didn't add it in. My grandmother would have been really embarrassed. Oh yeah, they just HAD to show me bonking my head against a hanging lamp. I damn near lost consciousness, that lamp was the old, thick, heavy kind.

All in all, it was great to see our best day again. I looked pretty foxy, and my Baby looked so cute. I just wish more people could have seen it. A lot of people don't have the FOX Reality Channel. We taped it and will be making copies for our loved ones. I wonder if I'll ever be out somewhere and have someone come up to me and say, "Hey, aren't you that trashy wedding girl?" Ah, fame.

Here's a neat trick...

If you drink one cup of coffee with cream and sugar, eat a wrap with chicken, rice, black beans, muchrooms, tomoatoes, cucumbers, and cheddar cheese with ceasar dressing, and then use Bert's Bees Wax lip balm all around the same time - your breath will smell like a skunk.

Mother Nature is taking her shit back

We had one hell of a storm last night. The thunder woke me from a dead sleep. I was dreaming that I was in a storm. Nothing screws you up more than waking up, realizing you are awake, yet still hearing what was in your dream. The whole house shook after each thunderous outburst. There were a couple of times I swore lightening had gotten a transformer. The wind roared like a train. I've always heard that tornados sound like trains, so I kept waiting for the house to pull a wizard of Oz. Our driveway lies under a very branchy tree, this morning I fully expected to see that my car had become a convertible.

The only major casualty was to our back screen door. The wind ripped it right off it's hinges. That, and our decoy owl had one quick, short flight. The head was in one place while the body was in another. After the ruckus last night, I expected to drive to work through the remains of an apocalypse, but the neighborhood looked fine. Amazing.

All was well until I felt an itch on my arm and found a wasp sitting on me. I damn near wrecked. The people behind me probably thought I was having a seizure. There is no graceful way to flail around and try to roll down four windows at the same time. Luckily, it stayed on it's side of the car and I stayed on mine. Once I got to work it flew out the passenger's window with no prompting. I had to clean my pants.

My husband and I like to pick "horses" when a reality show comes on. Rules are: you must pick one boy and one girl before the first episode comes on, or if there is no website, after the first episode airs. You must stick with these choices no matter what. If your choice loses early, you can pick a replacement but it doesn't count.

My last winning horse was Richard Hatch on "Survivor". Yeah, that was 10 years ago. I've had a string of second place winners since: Clay Aiken on "American Idol", several "Amazing Race" couples, several more "Survivor" losers, and a smattering of one-time shows here and there. Last night was the finale of "Kept" on VH1 and again, I chose the second placer. Austin, 6'3", blonde, smart, honest, sexy - Seth won. Seth, who is 5'6", retarded, ugly, and rude. What the hell? If there was a contest for picking second place, I'd win hands down. But you know what second place is, right? First loser.

I'll be so glad when football starts again. I love football. Not just the game, per say, but the rituals that go with watching the game. The preparation of the game-watching food, the consumption of the game-watching beer, the wearing of the comfortable and often ugly game-watching clothes, and my favorite, the enjoyment of the game-watching nap. There is no sleep compared to that set against the commentary of a very lengthy football game. Babies don't sleep that well.

In my house, there is also the game-watching trash-talk spewing forth from my husband. Over the years I have come to realize that trash-talking is an art, one my husband has mastered. While I still sputter around with things like "Break his legs!" and "You gotta be shitting me?", my husband strings words of such clever filth and atomically impossible acts together that I'm left in awe. Once the whistle is blown, my stable, mild-mannered, laid-back husband becomes of demon from hell. Such passion! Such fervor!

Tonight we are going to the birthday party of a friend of ours. We are heading out to a dueling piano bar. I've never been to one. I understand the possible cheesiness levels are high in a place like that, but everyone else seems to enjoy them. We'll see.

Too bad we ain't possum huntin'

The little guy we caught yesterday was paroled. I got home and found him panting away under the towel I had placed over the cage. I thought he might be thirsty, so I went inside to get him a little bowl of water. That's when I encountered a problem. I couldn't open the cage to get the water in because, well, the darn thing was hissing at me already and I didn't know how to open the cage anyway. The holes in the cage are too small to slip anything through. So I ended up pouring it on him, thinking he could lick it off if he wanted to and if not, then he would cool down.

Looking at it from his perspective, though, I imagine he didn't appreciate it.

We took him to a big park about a mile away from our home and let him go. He was a gray bullet when that door opened. Honey moved the cage to a new location. This morning we had another possum stuck in the cage. This one was bigger and meaner than the kid we caught yesterday. He, too, found a new home in the park.

Our frustration level with the groundhog has reached higher levels. Once we catch that fat furball, ohhh, we're going all medieval on his ass. I have gotten over my wiccan love of all creatures idealism on this one, that overgrown rat is dead. Honey wants to pull a Grizzwald and tie it to his back bumper and drive to work. I don't like that idea...you can't watch him die that way.

I think we should have him stuffed afterwards and put him on the back deck as a warning to other groundhogs that want to move in. You know, little paws in the air, a look a horror on his little face. We have a plastic owl that seems to do pretty good with the birds.

I watched Brat Camp last night and Oh Me Gosh, is Jada a complete bitch or what? All the other kids have come to realize that their problems were created by their own actions and have taken huge steps in changing who they are. Not this twat. She is still trying to manipulate her parents into taking her home by writing them letters full of lies about how she's being tortured and abandoned. Then she laughs about it, calling her parents "suckers."

The horrible part is her parents fell for it. The councilor had to convince them to leave their daughter in the program. This raises the question, the kids are going through changes, what about the parents? Is someone going to take them aside and tell them how to be better parents? Are they going to get therapy for their issues? How can you send a child right back into the environment that spawned their bad behavior in the first place? I certainly hope this issue is addressed in a later episode. I would hate to see these kids come so far only to be railroaded by their very own parents.

As it is, Jada will be in this program forever. She has not changed one bit in 31 days. How those councilors can keep themselves from bashing her head in while she sleeps is beyond me. Some people you just can't reach. Maybe when other's get to go home she'll finally come to the realization that she's a horrible person. Or, maybe she'll get eaten by a coyote. We can only hope.

It's Killing Time

I'm all for killing. I know this is a pretty rash statement, but if an animal or a man (same thing?) deserves to die, then let the killing commence. However, I do not believe in killing just for killing's sake. I'll explain.

My husband is trying to catch the damn groundhog that is making swiss cheese of our front yard. First he tried filling the holes with cement. The groundhog simply dug new holes. He tried plugging the holes with timber. The groundhog pushed the timber out. Now it is personal, Honey wants to kill that groundhog more than anything else right now. So his father managed to get a trap for him and the last few days it has been sitting in various locations around our house, empty save for a half can of stinky tuna.

This morning the Great White Hunter trapped a possum. Scrawny little thing, it sits on our back deck trying to figure out how to get out of the cage. It is driving our cat crazy. I put a towel over the cage so our kitty would shut-up and because the poor thing is nocturnal. The sun would burn its eyes out before we get home tonight. Also, it's going to be 97 degrees today and there is no shade back there. Honey wants to kill it. I don't think he should.

What has that possum done to my husband? It's not the one burrowing underneath our home. It's not the one mocking my husband at every turn. It's a poor possum who was trying to get a snack in the middle of the night. I think he should let it go. Sure, possums are mean little bitches, but they will stay away from us and much as we stay away from them. They're just trying to live. It would be killing for killing's sake and I don't like it.

A friend of my mother's is nursing a possum back to health, so they have to have some redeeming quality or she wouldn't waste her time.

Don't kill it honey, save it for the groundhog. You're not a malitious, vengeful, blood-thirsty sadist like I am. Save yourself and let it go!

Good news, good news

On the FOX reality channel, FOXRC, there is going to be a wedding show on this Saturday, 8/6, called "America's Trashiest Weddings." When my husband and I agreed to be on the show, it was called "America's Wildest Weddings." I'm not at all happy about the name change, but I signed away my rights to bitch when I signed the contract.

Taping a reality show is an interesting experience. It's weird having cameras following you around all the time and having to think about the mic pack clipped to your back. We filmed for three days and after that last day I was glad to see the camera's gone. I can't imagine what the people on a show like "The Real World" or "The Bachelor" must feel like. The crew was very nice. We even met the head of September Films, the company producing the show. Everyone was very nice and easy-going.

But there were times when I said or did something, or someone else said or did something, that I thought to myself, "Oh, God, I hope that's not on the show." You have no control over what the editors do once all the footage is shot. They can put anything on the air and there isn't a darn thing you can do about it. This scares me. How am I going to come across? Are they going to make me look bad? Did they catch me puking my guts out after the wedding was over? Oh God, why did I agree to do this?

I don't think my wedding was trashy. Weird, maybe, unique definitely, but not trashy. So I didn't have the typical white dress, bone china wedding that everyone else has. So what? I didn't get married barefoot in a mu-mu with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth and a child in a dirty diaper hanging off my hip. To me, that's trashy. I did the best I could.

Actually, screw it, I'm happy with the way our wedding turned out. It wasn't perfect, but it was darn close. I was surrounded by my friends and family and everyone had a good time. Some of my co-workers still talk about it when we get together. It's an interesting story and our wedding album is like no other out there. And I did it, I made it all come to life. I knew what I wanted and I made it happen. If a bride can't be happy with that, then she can't be happy with her wedding.

The wedding wasn't even the most important thing, the fact that I married my best friend was. It was a celebration of our love for each other, and our love isn't like any other. I'm not the white wedding dress kind of gal, and my man isn't the tux sort of guy. We're just a couple of screwballs lucky enough to have found each other. I love you, honey...

Bush is a Butt Nugget and I'm Pissy

Bush can't get Bolton's nomination through, so he'll just cheat. He'll go against everyone who says Bolton is a waste of sperm and put him in the ambassador's chair anyway. Typical. Just typical. If Bush's parents hadn't taught him how to be a selfish and spoiled all those years ago, we wouldn't be suffering for it right now. Thanks, bitches.

My mom calls me today, at work, and asks me what I'm doing. Not in that "Hey, what are you doing at work" kind of way, but in that excited, chirpy "Wow" way that indicates I'm doing something fantastic and she wants to know about it. I'm not feeding dolphins or filming a mini-series, I'm a freaking secretary. If you call me at work, odds are very good that I'm working. Seeing as it's summer, I'm working sporadically. That's it.

My mom called to tell me that B-Butt ate some plant and his mother was having a hissy fit about it. "Should I make him throw-up? Should I make him drink milk? What should I do?" Mind you, my sister had already called Poison Control. Why she thought a bunch of professionals would know less about poison than my mother, I can't say. Seems to me that poison control would pretty much have the right knowledge about controlling poison. Thus the name, Poison Control. I really want to know why B-Butt wanted to eat the plant in the first place. I know his mama feeds him. Maybe he was pretending to be a dinosour.

This reminded me of a story I saw on one of those reality cop shows or something. This woman was in her car when her brakes failed. Not only that, the car was accelerating. She was driving in mild traffic, but rush hour was approaching. So she grabbed her cell phone and dialed...her mother.

You tell me, what the hell was her mother going to do? Unless she's Wonder Woman, not a damn thing.

So her mother has to call the cops and then spends 45 minutes listening to them trying to save her daughter's life. I'm sure it was an enjoyable, relaxing 45 minutes spent going over every memory of daughter who had a questionable future. DUMBASS! Finally the cops get her stopped and no one is injured. That phone call probably took 10 years off her mother's life. If the moron had called the cops right away instead of spending all that time telling her mother what was wrong, she would have gotten stopped sooner. She put everyone on the road at risk because she couldn't think for herself. People like that shouldn't be allowed to get a driver's license. There should be a question on the test:
When you are in a crisis while in your car, you'd call:
A. The Police
B. The News
C. Your Mother
If you pick anything but A, you get denied.

To everyone, everywhere: If you are in a deadly situation, and she's not a cop, EMT, or fire-fighter, DO NOT CALL YOUR MOTHER! Dial 911, someone who can actually help you. Once the crisis is over, give her a call. Then she only has to spend a few seconds in terror before you tell her everything is okay. This isn't rocket science, people, it's called common sense.