Road tripping

OMG...has it REALLY been over a year and a half since I wrote anything here?! I just got an email from a cousin who mentioned this blog and at first I didn't even know what the hell she was talking about.Guess I've been busy with the family and work. Not to mention all of that critical facebooking that I do.

We had two massive roadtrips this summer, which made me think about playing Bingo for the first time in my adult life. My personal favorite box, "Car smells like a mix of feet, farts and French fries." I've never read a more apt description.

So...how was YOUR summer?? 

Anatomy of a Snow Day in the South

Day 0: I heard it might snow!! I feverishly tell my kids, who whoop for joy. I immediately go to Costco, Publix and the wine shop. Not even in that order. That night, I'm so excited I have trouble sleeping.

Day 1:

Morning: Wake up to a winter wonderland. School is canceled. Yay!! Throw on two pairs of pants, a sweater and my rain boots. Freeze my ass off but don't care because we are having so much fun!

Afternoon: First fight breaks out among the kids over mitten ownership. Have to google medical information on how best to treat chapped cheeks. Can barely feel my feet, due to mild frostbite from running around in plastic shoes that have zero insulation.

Night: Knock back my evening cocktail like my life depended upon it. Rinse and repeat.

Day 2: Unbelievably, the girls who normally have to be pried out of bed with a crowbar in order to make it to school in time have woken up at 5:30 in the morning and are downstairs fighting over who gets the last of the Special K. The fact that there is another full box in the cupboard is, somehow, irrelevant. Curious.

The 5 year old is exhausted from playing in the snow yesterday and has peed about 10 gallons in his bed. The laundry room was already brimming with super absorbent clothes that are inappropriate for snow (but were worn anyway because it’s all we have). Perfect. Massive amounts of time are spent not making a dent in the laundry.

Day 3:

Morning: Playing outside has lost its panache because all of the snow has grown a crust of inch-thick ice that hurts to fall on and will literally cut you if you touch it wrong. This is bad news for the parents who might actually need to accomplish something beyond resolving the never ending disputes over which kid left her sopping wet scarf on the floor.

"It wasn't ME, Mom. It was HER. I know this because I left MINE upstairs behind my bed where we won't find it for months so you and my doctor can worry and wonder if there is a mold infestation in our house because my allergies don't seem to go away."

Afternoon: I see the following quote on Facebook, "five asses in the house, you're stranded for three days with two rolls of toilet paper, you do the math." I think this is hilariously funny until it occurs to me that I, too, have five asses in the house yet have absolutely NO idea how much toilet paper we have. Panic ensues.

Evening: The countdown to happy hour began before lunch was digested. The school just announced that there will be no school tomorrow, either.

Oh my holy hell.

PS I have absolutely why this post switches up the font. I've spent tons of time* trying to fix it and blogger won't let me. It keeps accepting my change but keeping the funky font. So I've officially decided to say FUCK IT and let the weird font stay.

*By "tons of time" I mean almost a few minutes.

First impressions are important, yo.

My two oldest kids are in elementary school, which - in the fine state of Georgia - started last week. My middle kid, Thing Two, was a bit dismayed early on when she was given homework by her teacher. It consisted of a bag and a note stapled to it that said:

What's Your Bag??

Attached to this letter is a lunch bag. Please fill the bag with three to five items or pictures that tell about you. Bring the bag back to share during the first week of school. Here are some ideas:

• something in your favorite color
• the wrapper from your favorite snack
• the best book you have ever read
• something you collect
• something that tells about your hobbies
• a picture of your family

I asked her if she wanted any help and she said, "Nope! I've got it covered, Mommy...I know exactly what to do!!"

And then I thought nothing else about it. After all, sticking 3-5 things that say something about you in a brown paper bag is a piece of cake, right? Today I noticed that she had brought it home with a teachers "check" mark on it. Curious to know how she would introduce herself to her teacher and classmates, I opened it up to find this:



Let's review the contents, shall we?

1. A spool of green thread clearly stolen from somewhere as I do not sew.
   
2. A ballerina with club feet from her jewelry chest.
3. A broken pencil.
4. A fake gold coin.
   
5. Mommy's St. Patricks Day garter.
   

Can I get a what the fuck?! I'm thinking that the first parent-teacher conference is going to be awkward. And obviously, I will be wearing the garter.

From the mouths of babes....

I was in the car today with my three kids, ages 3, 8 and 10. The three year old announced that his "penis hurts...and it's getting bigger!" He wanted me to help it. "No-can-do, Buddy...that's illegal, even in Georgia. Just give it time, leave it alone and it will go down on its own."

About 10 minutes later one of my daughters exclaimed, "Oh NOOO!!!" Naturally interested, I asked what was wrong.

She said, "I lost a fart!" When I asked her what the hell she meant by that, she said that she "...pooted, but it turned into a bubble and went up the front and didn't come back out."

So if any of y'all want to know why I have a cocktail every night at five SHARP, now you know.

The Roof! The Roof! The Roof is on FIRE....

Today is 9/9/9. And all I can think about are flame-retardant pajamas. What the hell is up with this?!

I realize that some poor little kids must have been in a house fire where their pj's went up in flames. That's horrible (and totally not funny so I'm gonna quit talking about it right...NOW.). But do children really have to, until the end of time, sleep in weird, sweaty fabrics that boast "Flame Retardant!" on their labels??!

And what, exactly, does "flame retardant" mean? I realize that it probably won't go off like a roman candle if exposed to a spark, but what happens if fire gets on it? Does it melt?? That probably wouldn't feel good, either, Folks.

My 8 year old has begun sleeping in her daddy's t-shirts because they are just regular old cotton. That's all kids want - some normal cotton jammy's that don't make them sweat so much that they have recurring dreams that they're stuck under a waterfall that feels like damp burlap.

I wonder if any studies have been done to find out how this has helped humanity. I would think that it has not. PLUS, they don't make adult flame-retardant pajamas, and I'm guessing that adults are the ones who fell asleep with a Marlboro dangling out of the side of their mouth, causing the fire in the first place.

Do other countries do this? I'd bet...not. The kiddie pajama people probably got sued by some Marlboro-smoking-while-in-bed jackass and now the rest of us have to deal with our sweaty, bullet-proof sleepers.

I'd like to see a label that says:

"This is non-treated fabric. It is neither flame retardant nor particularly flammable, but it feels nice. Just keep your kid away from matches, read her a story and quit smoking before you fucking hurt somebody."

Dare to dream....

Wacko Yacko esta MUY loco.....

I have a strange affinity for Reggaeton music, which has me, at times, listening to Hispanic radio stations. This morning was no exception. I don't speak Spanish so I have no idea what the hell the announcers are saying...but I imagine that the DJ's are dressed up like clowns like on the Spanish TV. The guys are almost always fat and love to make wild and sometimes suggestive facial gestures. The women either are beautiful and curvy or look like a prison warden with makeup.

Anyhoo, this morning they were playing a cool song and then when it ended, the crazy (Muy LOCO!!!) announcers took over. It sounded something like this:

Labbadda labbadda....LabbaaaaaDAAA!!! [cue the canned laughter] Blah blah
blah....Michael Jackson .... blah blah blah...labbadda....... ....esta...Wacko
Yacko....

I finally figure out that I was listening to the "zany" morning crew discuss the Michael Jackson funeral coverage. So much for my self-imposed moratorium on the subject today. Does anybody REALLY give a flying fuck this "guy" is dead?? Don't get me wrong...I think that he was an innovative pop star back in the day. I saw him in concert a LONG time ago and thought it was great.

That was THEN. Before he mutilated himself with countless surgeries and chemical treatments. And that was also before he practiced what I consider to be WILDLY inappropriate activities with children whose parents had lost their minds and granted permission for unsupervised sleepovers at Creepy Uncle Mikeys house.

I can't wait for tomorrow...that's for damn sure. Bury this crazy fucker and let's all move on.

Until then, I'll console myself with a Reggaeton remix from youtube, during which I will try not to lament the unkind gods who didn't make me from the Dominican Republic so I too could have a glorious ass. No, out of all of the "mixed blood" in my family I had to get the Irish ass. Meh....

OH Baby!!!!

I became aware of a documentary today called 'Orgasmic Birth'. It documents, essentially, women who have "natural" deliveries and then are blessed with some kind of orgasm at the end of the delivery. Wha...really????!

I've had three kids, but they've all been born via c-section. In the beginning I really wanted a vaginal birth...it just never happened for me (stupid cervix). But I planned for it, gave it a lot of thought and when I was crafting my Personal Birthing Plan my doctor asked me to put whether or not I'd like drugs and I wrote (after careful seconds of consideration), "Hell yes, I want the drugs! And if y'all are running low just let me know and I'll bring my own!"

That having been said, I have plenty of girlfriends who have done it without anything and they are just fine. Although, one would think that the same women who told me that I've just got to get a Rabbit vibrator would have the 4-1-1 on the orgasm at delivery if you don't do drugs thing. I'm guessing it doesn't happen for just anyone. (Maybe there is more to that bat-shit-crazy octomom than I had previously thought????)

After reading further through their literature it appears that some use "manual stimulation" to reach orgasm as they are delivering their child. I can tell you guys this much; my husband already thinks I'm a freak. I'm pretty sure masturbating during the delivery of our child would push him over the edge (not in a good way).

There are some good points in the article, however. When you are sexually stimulated, you don't receive pain the same way. And, to some, pain actually feels kinda good (you know who you are) when you're having sex.

I know some granola girls who will be all over this shit. I'm not judging you, Sisters! Squeeze that pickle through your straw anyway you can! I, personally, will take this movement seriously as soon as I hear that the same advice is being given to other people in pain.

For example, someone getting a tooth filled. Or, keeping it "apples to apples", how about a guy getting a vasectomy? That hurts (if my husband is to be believed). Perhaps he should have just allowed himself to reach down, and...oh man. I can't even finish the thought. Anyway, it is an interesting idea. And you never know, right?? Maybe the next time I stub my toe I'll give it a try.

Perez Hilton...he's quite the schlub

This is why I love Southern Women. And Drag Queens.



Sing it, Sista!!!

Party Chit Chat

I met a very interesting woman today. We were at a luncheon and were seated across from one another at a long table. She introduced herself to me and we began chatting. Suddenly, things got weird:

Her: This egg salad sandwich is YUMMY.

Me: Mine, too! There must be relish in here....

Her: Speaking of eggs, I have endometriosis.

Me: Oh man, that sucks. I have a couple of girlfriends who have it, too. (the men at the table are now slowly scooting their chairs away from us while I bat my eyes at them, silently imploring "PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME HERE BY MYSELF!")

Her: It's VERY painful. I had cysts on my uterus AND cervix. I also have boils taken out from time-to-time. It really sucks.

Me: Ummm...yah, I'd imagine. Oh! Not to change the subject or anything, but did you SEE the cake over there!!! Wow!!

Her: I like cake. It reminds me of my ovaries.

Me: ......eh.... So...I hate to change the subject again, but I'm dying to know: what do you do for a living??

Her: I'm a Matron.

Me: Is that like a Patron, but a chick?

Her: No, that's like a Matron. As in a Prison Matron.

Me: [some unintelligible noise leaves the bottom of my throat as I look at her with curious horror, knowing that I'll never be able to stop her from telling further horrible truths about her life.]

Her: Yep, I do full body cavity searches on female prisoners for a living.

Me: Cavity searches...that means that... [and then silence as I automatically begin imagining the women I've seen on the TV show 'Cops' naked with their cavities exposed. Suddenly the egg sandwich was slowly rising in my throat, inexplicably trying to return to my mouth.]

Parties are kind of overrated.

Jabba can suck it.

On my way to drop my kids off at the local elementary school this morning there was a police officer who was directing traffic. I was behind 5 other cars that he had stopped so that another line of traffic could go. We had been sitting there for about 30 seconds when the truck behind me beeped his horn. I glanced in the rear view mirror thinking, "Hey, Einstein. I'm not stopped here because I love the way the beater Chevy in front of me feeds poisonous gases into my car. Open your fucking eyes and see that we either have to stop or run a cop over while our kids are in the car."

But I kept my acerbic and witty comments to myself as I had wee ones in the car. Because I have self control.

Anyway, as we entered the drop off zone I stopped the car (because that's what I typically do when SMALL CHILDREN need to get out of the fucking car) and my two daughters picked up their bags and hopped out. As my second grader was closing the door she said, "I love you, Mommy." At this very moment the jackass behind me laid on his horn again, causing my sweet little second grader to nearly jump out of her skin.

My self control slid into my penny loafers as I felt a murderous rage boiling up inside me. WHY are some people such complete and utter tools?! I stopped the car and stared my poisonous gas-fueled hairy eye at him. He was fat. He was bald. He was sweaty. You could just tell that he had offensive body odor. It looked as though Jabba the Hut had somehow managed to grow two little patches of hair above his ears and squeeze himself into a large Ford pickup truck.

What a miserable, disgusting man. He probably didn't even mean to beep. It was probably an errant roll on his flab-a-lanche of a stomach that unexpectedly reared up and hit the horn. Fat fucking asshole. I hope that he chokes on the raw rodent that he will undoubtedly scarf down for lunch.

Florida: The Good. The Bad. The Holy SHIT!!!

So you know...I live in Florida now. The good news is that my southern accent is stronger than ever - I think it was some sort of defense mechanism...of or for what, I have no idea. I definitely miss Atlanta and my friends, though, especially now. Spring in Atlanta is SO beautiful.

But Florida is pretty nice, too. We go to the beach at least once a week and we all love having a pool in the backyard. Also, my husband makes me a Planter's Punch every night and I don't even feel guilty by knocking it back - we're on vacation, right??

A couple of weeks ago I was reading the news and saw this weird picture:



In case your eyes can't make sense of it, I'll give you a hint. It's not a puppy. I'm guessing it's not an air freshener, either. It is, in fact, a Burmese Python that ruptured and now has a really big dead Alligator sticking out of it's stomach. Oh, and something ate the snakes head off. That's why there is no head there.

National Geographic has been studying this and has even done an "event recreation" that they aren't sharing with me (bitches). But according to their website, here is how the above train wreck happened: a 13 foot python ate a 6 foot alligator. While the snake was busy ingesting his meal (I'm guessing getting a 6 foot INTACT gator through your digestive tract would be very distracting) another alligator sneaked up and bit the snakes head off. In that struggle the python surprised everybody by rupturing in the middle, leaving half of the eaten gator hanging out. And this, boys and girls, is why we don't wrestle after Thanksgiving dinner.

At any rate, I'm pretty sure that my mouth doesn't open wide enough to let out the scream that would surely accompany anything even resembling the above scene.

So it's not all Key Lime Pie and Hibiscus flowers. But it's sunny. And besides...I've got my rum punch and I'm not afraid to use it.

Pardon me, Brother, but could you spare a dime?

In Florida our homeless people seem to have some sort of union or something. They have matching uniforms and are up - at the crack of dawn - asking for donations on my street corner as I'm unsuccessfully trying to hustle my kids to school on time. And it's always the same guy which leaves me to wonder, "If you can get your shit together enough to show up here everyday asking for money, why don't you just...oh, I don't know...get a job or something??"

My guy, I call him Hud (stands for homeless unkempt dude), is not tall enough. This is basically a nicer way of saying that he's fat. But Hud is totally FAT!! I keep wondering just exactly how needy IS this guy when he can afford to eat an extra thousand calories a day?!

Every morning he greets me in the same fashion - he puts a sad little frown on his crinkly face and holds his hand up with his thumb and index finger almost touching as if to say, "Sadly, my shrinky dink is only this big...that's what fucked up my life and got me all begging on your corner and stuff."

But in reality I would imagine that he's just suggesting that I give him a little bit. (Just the tip. Just for a minute. Just to see what it feels like.) I always smile and then shake my head to imply, "Not in this fucking lifetime, Fatty. Try the car behind me. They look like the type who would love to sponsor an aging drugged out homeless union beggar dude."

Yet I see people giving him money all of the time. I suppose that's why he does it. He probably makes more than the President.

There is another corner nearby where I saw two uniformed homeless people on an apparent Smoking and Cell Phone Break. They were literally hiding in the bushes so I guess those two activities are either bad for business or verboten when you're in the homeless dude union. Unions can be a bitch, you know? Unlike me. I'm never a bitch. Well...almost never.

Switching up the team....

About 15 years ago I got a call from my sister-in-law. She was graduating from college and needed a chaperone to drive from California to the East coast with her. The reason for this, I would find out later, is that she was a notoriously bad driver. And I don't mean this figuratively. I'm being pretty fucking literal. As in, she literally flipped a car 3 or 4 times on a highway one time. That kind of stuff.

Anyway, I was just as willing way back then (as I am now) to shirk my responsibilities and do something stupid so I said "sure!" and caught a flight across the country to hook up with her.

She is a sweet girl and we had a lot of fun meeting in San Francisco, going to L.A., Vegas, Carhenge...you name it. At one point, somewhere in or around Colorado, I became exhausted and wanted to stop for the night. I was pretty tired of the Motel 6's we'd been frequenting and asked if we could use a phone book to look up a Bed and Breakfast. She'd never heard of this. I assured her that it is not that much more expensive but infinitely more comfortable.

We pulled over and I called the first one with a nice looking ad in the yellow pages. As it was late (almost 10) I got right to the point: "Do you, or do you not, have any rooms available with TWO beds?"

The innkeeper responded, "We do have a beautiful room with two beds. They are separated by a thin wall. We also have a much smaller room that goes for the same price...it has one BIG bed. Which would you like?"

I thought, 'Bless her heart. She must be mentally handicapped as I very clearly stated my wish for two beds.'

So I told her very slowly and carefully, "No...I need TWO beds. T-W-O. That would be terrific. That means 'really good'. Thanks so much...."

When we arrived she showed us around the inn and told us about breakfast. She showed us to the room with two beds and then said, "Remember, there is a room with just one big bed...if you want it."

I reiterated that we wanted the two beds all the while thinking WTF is wrong with this chick?!

The next morning I got up before my sis and headed for coffee. As I walked down the hall I looked through an open door and saw two women sitting up in a big bed, drinking coffee and reading the paper. I thought to myself, "Ha ha! They must have gotten here after us and had to take the one big bed room!"

Still snickering, I joined a few ladies sitting around the dining room table to enjoy a gourmet country breakfast. Behind one of them I noticed a painting of two women caressing each others breasts...kind of funny in a dining room...then I noticed that there were no men here...what are the odds of that...????

It slowly dawned on my that I had brought my shielded (and very Catholic) sister-in-law to a lesbian bed and breakfast. Everyone assumed that we were a closeted couple, hence the repeated offerings of the one big bed. By the time my sis headed downstairs I had already made fast friends and was thinking about leaving my husband for the kind yet funny woman with the Harley. She was into welding and long walks on the beach. I think I could totally get into that....

Check out the schweaty balls on THAT one....

Mr. Bex entered a weight loss contest at work and is driving me bat shit crazy. Thankfully today is the final day of it and, he claims, he'll take me out for lunch anywhere I want to go to thank me for my participation.

While I might have been construed of as "less than supportive" early on by mocking his giving up the nightly cocktail while I enjoyed my steak, I've more than made up for it this morning. Yes, this morning I have given counsel on the ins and outs (mostly outs) of laxatives. I have also wrapped said husband from head-to-toe in saran wrap - and we're not even going to have sex!

Then, when the aforementioned laxative kicked in I was required to rewrap and then help dress him in his already sweat (and god knows what else) covered clothes. I may never be really clean ever again. All of this and it's not even 9am yet.

This is why I will have a bloody mary bigger than my head with my lunch today and I won't even feel bad about. I've fucking earned it. He, on the other hand, may have earned about a thousand bucks and bragging rights, so he's pretty happy. I can hear him, as I type, in the other room doing situps in his saran wrap ensemble. Jesus....

Bex is going GREEN!

As in, recycling. As in I didn't write, fund or act in the following. I know. I said I KNOW!! Plus it's old, hell, you've probably seen it a dozen times. But it cracks me up every time I see it so I'm throwing it up here ANYWAY. Take that.

And the dialogue! Instant classic....

Obama says (under his breath), "baDUNKadunk". McCain adds, "I would tap that, my friend."



It is sad that I have no original material to share. But fear not, young grasshoppers. I just bought a pair of rollerblades and I'm not as young as I think I am. I'm sure I'll come up with something soon.