Category Archives: Good Mom/Bad Mom…why aren’t you reading it now?

WOLVERINES!

This morning I wrote a post for the Chronicle about Wolverine blow-jobs and then right after that I twittered:

You know what would be awesome? If for no reason at all we all just randomly screamed “WOLVERINES!” once today. That would be awesome.”

And then suddenly eleventy billion people tweeted back “WOLVERINES!!!!!”  And it was awesome.  So awesome, in fact, that within an hour “WOLVERINES!” had become a top trend on twitter and people were vowing to shout it on the subway.  Then Victor woke up and was all “This house looks like shit.  What have you been doing all morning?” and I’m all “I’ve orchestrated a mass Red Dawn awakening before most of America has had coffee, that’s-what-I’ve-been-doing“.  Then he gave me this look of disgust and said, “I don’t get it” and I’m all “That’s why it’s so funny.  No one gets it. It’s like when you’re at the grocery store and you suddenly yell out ‘SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE!’ and everyone stops and looks at you weird, but then one person over in the cereal aisle starts laughing and yells back “KHAAAAAAN!”, and then you laugh and go back to shopping.  That’s what life is all about.”  And Victor’s all, “Yeah.  I just don’t think it’s funny” and I yelled “YOU DON’T THINK THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE AROUND THE WORLD RANDOMLY SCREAMING ‘WOLVERINES!’ IS FUNNY?!”  Then I thought about leaving him.  Then Hailey started screaming “WOLFAREEMS!” and I’m like “Even four year olds think this shit is funny“.  Then we went to this sandwich shop for lunch where you write down your name and order and then they call out your name when it’s ready, so I filled mine out and gave it to Victor so he could pay for it.

Then the sandwich guy was all “Uh…I’ve got a BLT here.  Uh…wolverines?” and then I laughed so hard coke shot out of my nose.  And Victor was like “What is wrong with you?”  And I’m all “WOLVERINES!!!” It was awesome.  Then we went back home and Victor left to do some work, but like 10 seconds later he stepped back inside and screamed “WOOOOOLVERIIIIIINES!!!!!” Like, so hard he was panting afterward.  And I’m all “Exactly.”

And that’s how Red Dawn saved my marriage.

Comment of the day: Speaking of Wolverine blowjobs, here is how I got introduced to the concept of furries: this friend of mine in college told me that he (my friend) was e-chatting with some dude about some innocuous, non-furry-sex thing and then said dude typed something completely insane and filthy and perverted and then followed up with “Oh, sorry, I’m getting a blowjob from a raccoon in the other chat window.” And my friend said (to me) “And the weirdest thing is that raccoons don’t even have saliva, so why would you even want a blowjob from a raccoon?”   That was more than 15 years ago, and every time I see a raccoon I still think of this. Every. Time. ~ jfruh

UPDATED: Tell me a cat wearing a sandwich board wouldn’t be entertaining. You can’t.

I was going to post this post over here, but I couldn’t because I think it’s against my blogher ad contract so instead I posted it on the Chronicle, but I had to delete all the curse words because it goes against the Chronicle’s terms of service.  Also, my font is too small here and I can’t fix it, and my “upload image” button is wonky, and my kid jumped on my laptop and broke it.  Also, people on twitter keep changing their icons and then I don’t know who they are anymore, and a lot of them don’t even have icons right now, like Maggie Mason who just shows up with a tiny red X where her face should be.  And I keep wanting to ask her if she’s okay, and then I remind myself that the red x is a sign of technical problems and not actually some sort of mood ring.  It’s moments like these that make me want to quit blogging and twittering, and instead find a less complicated way to communicate with the world.  Like throwing leaflets off my roof, or tattooing random thoughts on stray cats.  Except I’d have to shave the cats first to tattoo them, and when their fur grew back you wouldn’t be able to see the blog posts I’d written on them any more, which would totally suck.  So really I’d need to tattoo those hairless, sphinx cats, except that their wrinkles would probably cover up my writing when they sat down…so if I wrote “I’d pummel Hitler with rocks!” it would just come out “Hitler rocks!” and then all these hairless, suspected-nazi cats would get shot, and then later the gunmen would examine the body and actually see that they were mistaken, and they’d have to live with the guilt of killing an innocent cat who did not think Hitler rocked at all.  So to keep the cats safe I’d have to make tiny sandwich boards for them to wear around with my posts written on them.  It’d be hard to comment on though and there would be no spam control, so probably by the time you found one of my stray, sandwich-board cat posts it would be covered with badly scrawled viagra adverts.  Fuck.  Never mind.  I’ll just keep blogging.

PS.  For some reason, whenever I talk about hairless cats I always inadvertantly call them “skinless cats”.  If I had a nickel for every time I told someone I wished I had a skinless cat I’d probably have 80 cents.  I usually realize that I’ve said it wrong about five minutes after whoever I was talking to has left to tell other people that I want to skin cats.  No one ever lets me babysit their cats.

PPS. I fixed my wonky “upload image” button.  Yay?

ImageChef.com - Custom comment codes for MySpace, Hi5, Friendster and more

PPS.  I just noticed that on the “More from Blogher” box it now has this post (“Tell me a cat wearing a sandwich board wouldn’t be entertaining”) immediately followed by an ad which reads: “Why don’t you get a cat from the shelter?”  Which is weird and kind of insulting.  Because it’s not like I’m going to steal house cats to tattoo them and then throw them back into the window of their homes.  That would be insane.  And also, a horrible waste of a tattooed cat.  The mass public is not going to be able to see a tattooed indoor cat, Blogher.  Think, for God’s sake.

Also, I would insert a picture here of the “More from Blogher” graphic but my “upload image” button suddenly isn’t working again.  Why?  No fucking idea.  Probably because I ate a pickle, or sneezed incorrectly.

Comment of the day: My cat ate an iguana yesterday, which has me thinking… Maybe you could write your posts with a Sharpie on iguanas. Iguanas shed/molt quite often.The iguana could scoot around town promoting your post, then shed and leave it like a Post Secret for someone to find – then you can reuse the same iguana for a new post. Bonus – the iguana will now be bigger and able to hold a longer post. The iguana my cat ate would have only been big enough to write a very short post like “Giant Squids are %&*#@ scary.” or “Nice kitty. Please don’t eat me.” ~ Vamanos

FatSuck 2008!

So this week I got my fat sucked out of me.  For real.  It’s totally as disgusting as it sounds and you should go and read it now because I’m not sure I can actually call someone a bitch on the Houston Chronicle so this might be my last post there ever.  I’m reasonably sure they regret ever having offered me a blog and would probably withhold my paycheck if I had ever actually gotten one from them.

Comments are open here as well just in case you can’t manage to leave a comment without saying “c0cksucker”.  God knows I can’t.

Comment of the day: I always thought the pubic mounds were where the Crab Indians buried their ancient ancestors…  ~Spamboy

I'm famous(ly stupid)

So my friends Jason and (his special lady) Tiffany are throwing a Houston Big Lebowski Bash on Saturday and Jason put this call out on his blog:

Fellow Achievers, Fox news would like to do story on us and our party live in their studio. So if you have a Lebowski theme costume and would like to be on TV Tuesday afternoon contact me.  Let’s show Houston that the bums haven’t lost!”

So I dressed up in my ‘post-coital Maude’ outfit, which is basically a red wig and a bed sheet held up by one strained safety pin and I walked out of my house intent on joining the horde of people dressed in viking clothes, bowling pin hats and bikinis.  It was at this point that I remembered there were a dozen construction workers standing outside my house who had seen me naked just 48 hours before.

So I waved at the construction men and stuck my stomach way out to give the impression that I wasn’t just some naked whore in a bed sheet but was in fact a pregnant woman wearing a muumuu but when I got halfway to my car my sheet snagged a shrub and I frantically grabbed at it and forgot to do the stomach thing and so basically I just looked like a chick in a bed sheet failing to carry off a fake pregnancy.  So, you know, so much better.

Then I pulled into the news studio parking lot I breathed a sigh of relief and it hardly even bothered me that my sheet got caught in the car door and I’d totally flashed everyone driving down the highway because I knew that within seconds I’d be surrounded by “my people” and then I walked in and saw that it was just five of us and fucking no one was wearing costumes.  You know that dream where you’re naked at school and no one else is naked at school?  It’s like that but replace “naked” with “wearing a bedsheet” and “at school” with “on national television”.

So basically it was me, two people in normal clothes and two people in bowling shirts who could have gone into any Starbucks in America without getting a second look.  Then Jason handed me the latest copy of Barstool Magazine in which I was mentioned as “a certain bloggess whose vagina I know way too much about”.  It was at that moment, reading a glossy magazine about my vagina and dressed in a bed sheet poised to go on live television, that realized I had lost control of my life.  Somewhere in between becoming a sweet mommyblogger and this exact moment a series of bizarre choices had landed me in this psychotic life and I had no other choice but to run with it.  Someone handed me a badge which said I needed to be escorted by an employee at all times.  Clearly these people had heard about me.

They quickly ushered us into the studio which was flashy and awesome and I threw off my purse, shoes and badge because at that point those accessories were so normal they were actually making me look more bizarre.  Like when you see a homeless guy wearing only a clear shower curtain but he’s carrying an attaché case and all you can think is “Why the hell would that guy need an attaché case?” and it throws you so off you hardly even notice his dangly ballsack.

The producer explained that most of the anchors of the show weren’t familiar with The Big Lebowski because they were “in their 20’s and were too young to have seen it”.  So basically I’m old and socially irrelevant and wearing a bed sheet on a show about to be broadcast live over the internet. And this was the point when I decided that these anchor people would regret ever having met me.

So we all sit up on the stage and I’m in the center, looking…fucking ridiculous and coming dangerously close to showing my jubblies to everyone when Matthew mentions that during the interview he’s decided to pose as Jason’s sleazy Italian lawyer who doesn’t speak a word of English.  It made no sense at all which actually made it even more brilliant at that point. Coincidentally this was also the same point when my xanax kicked in.

The show began and consisted largely of video clips of dancing sushi, doggie sex motels and kissing robots.  Then we came on and Tiffany told the male host that we’d be having the Lebowski Fest “in your backdoor” and I start giggling like a 12 year old.  Then I somehow got a microphone and became hypnotized by how fat I looked on the monitor and threatened to show my boobs.  By the time that Jason and Matthew did their Italian-lawyer-demanding-soccer-scores bit the anchors seemed ready to kill themselves.

Our work here was done.

PS.  Guess who’s number 30 on “The Twitter Hall of Shame: 50 Tweets That Will Echo in History“?  (Special subcategory?  “Mistakes“.)  I couldn’t make this shit up, people.

PPS.  Did I mention that after the news shoot I had to go directly to pick up Hailey from preschool and didn’t bring a change of clothes?  Yeah.  That happened.

Comment of the day: Well, if you did flash anyone, they could just say that your rug tied the room together. ~ Avitable

50 things is 49 to many

My friend Arianne said I should write 50 things I like about myself  to make myself feel better about having just been totally dissed by all of my friends and several construction workers who just saw me naked which would possibly be really easy to do if I hadn’t just been dissed by all of my friends and several construction workers who just saw me naked.  And actually, it’s not my friends’ fault that they all have lives and can’t just run off with me every time I put multiple posts on twitter and the Houston Chronicle begging people to come see Sex and The City with me and I end up alone in the theater crying at Sex and the Fucking City (WTF, me?!) and eating goobers.  Oh and when I went to the ticket counter and said “One for Sex and the City” the guy in the ticket booth said (fucking seriously, people) “Oh, I could see that coming a mile away”.  Like…what-the-fuck, guy-selling-tickets?  You’re judging me for seeing Sex and the City?  You work in a box, dude. 

And yeah, I used to sell snow cones in a shack in a parking lot when I was your age but I didn’t berate my customers when they ordered the rainbow cone even though I totally could have.  (Special note to people who order the rainbow snowcone:  There is no such thing as a rainbow cone.  If you don’t specify which flavors you want we just pick whatever colors are closest and that means you might be getting green apple & bubble gum or you might be getting leftover pickle juice & industrial cleaner.  Rainbow is not a flavor.  Be specific.  It serves us all.  Also? you should probably avoid snowcone shacks in general because there’s no air conditioning so when we’d get too hot we’d crawl inside the coolers and lay on the iceblocks.  Sorry, Snow Wizard, I’ve spilled your nasty secret.  Bonus nasty secret:  “Snow cream” is actually just half-and-half.  We just put it in a special bottle so we can charge you extra for it.)

 Anyway, where was I?  Oh yeah, 50 good things about me:

1.  I can curse really well.

2.  Really fucking well.

3.  When I was 8 month pregnant I screamed “DIRTY C-NT!” at a pushy car salesman.  Even Victor got a little scared.

4.  I’m taking off all of next week to write my book.  Seriously.  I have a book inside of me and I’m going to get it out if I have to squeeze it through my vagina.  Because that’s what the world needs.  A book squeezed from my vagina.

5.  I make myself laugh.

6.  I almost always listen to my brilliant husband when he tells me what to do.  This has served me well.

7.  I almost always refuse to listen to my brilliant husband when he tells me what not to do.  This has served me better.

8.  I can put on lipstick in the dark.

9.  I can play the guitar like a motherfucking riot.  (No, wait.  That’s Sublime who does that.)

10.  I got married on the 4th of July because of a dream.

11.  Whenever there’s a dinner party my table is always the most fun because I say something inappropriate and stupid right up front and then everyone feels free to talk about astronaut dildoes because they know that they aren’t going to be the one remembered as being the weirdo at the table.

12.  My mom is a lunch lady and my dad is a taxidermist and I am immensely proud of them.

14.  I’m not afraid to embrace my phobias.

15. I have a genius for choosing friends.

16.  I can create art with no true artistic value and still be proud of it:

17.  I survived being attacked by wild(ish) dogs.

18.  I solved America’s National Deficit Issue.

19.  I have a rare blood disease that causes fetal death and gave myself over 500 injections in the stomach so my daughter would live.

20.  I forgave myself for the children that didn’t live.

21.  I totally just brought down this whole post with #20 and I’m leaving it in anyway because it’s important even if it isn’t funny.

22.  I’m easily distracted.

23.  Did I take my meds today?

24.  I have to go to the bathroom.

25.  Is that infected?

25.  Crap.  I accidentally switched to 50 things I was thinking about.

26.  I’m not afraid of heights.

27.  I’m not afraid of ghosts.

28.  I’m not afraid to admit that I’m afraid of giant squid.

29. I’m not afraid to end this list 21 numbers early.

Comment of the day: You got married when you did because of a dream. I got married when I did because I thought the Rapture was looming and wanted to have sex before Jesus came back. ~Musing

Crap on a crap cracker

A word of advice from me to you:  Don’t upgrade your wordpress blog to the new version because you won’t be able to upload pictures and you’ll get VD and the world will explode.  I’m not certain about the last two but definitely the first.  So while technical support (Victor and some autobots who are trying to destroy him) tries to get this fixed, perhaps you could drop by my other blog that no one goes to because it gives you seizures.  (Seriously Chronicle, the flash ads are giving us all cancer.  Please stop.)  Today I wrote about alien abductions and before that it was the f-word on Sesame Street.   

Kittens pushing strollers?  The 1,400 glass animals at my house?  My drugged-up co-author Mindy intentionally ripping the leg off my cat?  Any of that doing it for you?  No?  You’d rather stay here and re-read the leprechaun post again?  Okay.  No pressure, little ninjas.

PS.  If you already go to my other blog you are not a nobody.  You are God’s own special warrior and your hair looks great today.

Comment of the day:  Hey! I am totally there all the time and commenting and shit. Cause I am THAT awesome. But no mention of me being awesome and shit and commenting like ALL THE TIME. Meh. Scuse me I have some Damn Emo music to listen to…  ~Kelley  (who is awesome and shit and commenting all the time.  Please don’t cut yourself, Kelley.)