Monday, December 28, 2009

Jingle Blogs, Jingle Blogs...

I've been doing a bit of "jingle blogging" today, reading up on everyone's latest Christmas and after-Christmas postings. It's been quite fun.

One trend I have noticed is a lot of blogs having certain themes for certain days of the week. For example, Batcrap Crazy has a day she devotes to posting little, yellow post-it notes (which are really funny!). Katie's Corner now has a Wordless Wednesday, where she will now post only images or pictures instead of writing something. Speaking From The Crib (SFTC) has a lot of different themes devoted to different days or weeks of the month as well.

So this got me to wondering if I should come up with a theme and devote it to a certain day of the week or month. Maybe I could do something in honor of my unexpected periods. Perhaps I could follow alongside Katie's idea and just post a picture of my blood-stained underwear each time it happens.

I was thinking I could have a "Kill The Teenager" day, but that would be almost every day and it would be filled with way too many cuss words.( teenage daughter knows EVERYTHING! It's true! Every time I say something to her, she says, "I know, Mom!" Even before I finish my sentence, she knows! It's fricken amazing! WINK! WINK!)

Of course, I do my best to post a blog each month when I'm PMSing, which basically could be considered "Bash the Husband" day, which is always fun (for me at least).

Anyway, just thought I'd pass along my random thoughts and observations today. I'm going to go back to my "jingle blogging" now. Perhaps I will find another great idea I can steal...I mean, borrow and give credit for.


Friday, December 25, 2009

The Night Before Christmas (PMS Style)

For those of you who didn't get any presents from Santa this year, it might be due to the little run-in I had with him last night.

This is how things went down...

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Each child steered clear of me, even my spouse.
The stockings were hung, but no chocolates inside,
So I yanked them all down, and threw them aside.

The children were frightened as they ran off to bed,
And my husband was thinking, he’d be better off dead.
Yes, me and my hormones, we were raging like mad,
I was bloated and moody, my PMS was quite bad.

Suddenly, outside, I heard such a noise,
So I rose from my bed, thinking, “Damn neighborhood boys!”
I stomped out of the room, annoyed out of my mind,
Went to the window and flung open the blinds.

With the street lights shining my front yard all aglow,
I started to get pissed when I saw down below.
There on my lawn, to my angry eyes did appear,
A huge-ass sleigh attached to eight F’ing reindeer,

With a big, fat old driver, so large and so thick,
I knew it was Santa, that stupid prick!
Faster than a mood swing, my anger grew,
And I cursed and shouted every bad word that I knew.

"Damn it, Santa! You dumb-ass! You F’ing nitwit!
Get the hell off my lawn! Look at all that reindeer shit!
It’s all over the porch! It’s even on the wall!
Get the hell out of here! Before I kill you all!”

As awkward as chickens when forced to fly,
Like fumbling idiots through the sky,
To the rooftop of my house the reindeer flew,
With that huge-ass sleigh, and Santa’s fat butt too.

Like a circus of elephants, I heard on the roof,
The damaging of roof tiles from each clumsy hoof.
As I thought how my insurance would never pay for that claim,
Down the chimney, that hairy bastard came.

Santa was filthy from his head to his toes,
With ash and reindeer poop all over his clothes.
He had a huge dirty bag, which he dumped on my clean floor,
And that got my hormones raging even worse than before.

When Santa’s eyes met mine, he knew I was not merry,
He could see I was pissed and my nostrils were flaring.
He gave me a smile and said, “Ho, ho, ho!”
And I said, “What did you just call me?” and he said, “Uh-oh.”

He tried to explain that he did not mean it that way,
But I told him to zip it, and not another word did he say.
“Did you bring me the ugly maid I asked for this year?”
When he shook his head no, I said, “Then you stay right here!”

I ran to my closet in a speedy, mad dash,
And returned back to Santa as quick as a flash.
“Here, put this on!” I said with demand.
And like a child in trouble, Santa obeyed my command.

There Santa stood, in my pink apron with white frill,
On the front it said, ”Put your big girl panties on and deal!”
I then put Santa to work, with a broom and a mop,
Then scolded, “Not until the floor shines, do you get to stop!”

Santa swept and mopped until he’d satisfied my wishes,
But when he was done, I pointed to the sink full of dishes.
After he scrubbed and rinsed them, I handed him a towel,
“Now dry and put them away, damn it,” I said with a scowl.

After Santa carefully dried and put the dishes away,
He asked me politely, “May I go back to my sleigh? ”
I looked into his begging eyes, as innocent as a pup,
“Nope, not yet, you’ve got reindeer shit to clean up!”

As I stood at the door watching Santa clean the lawn,
My husband appeared beside me with a big sleepy yawn.
He asked, “Is that the ugly maid you asked Santa for?”
“No, that’s Santa,” I answered, and he said nothing more.

When Santa was done cleaning up all of the crap,
His face beamed with joy when I started to clap.
But his joy soon vanished and he became filled with despair,
When he heard me tell my husband, “Go get the ladder…he’s got a
roof to repair.”

Santa gave my husband a look, then up the ladder he did go,
And my husband quietly whispered, “I know, Santa. I know.”
I glared at my husband, ready to break off his weenie,
When he eagerly said, “Let me go make you a chocolate martini!”

As Santa fixed every tile his reindeer did break,
The noise from it all caused the children to wake.
At the bottom of the stairs all three did appear,
All ready to ask me if Santa was here.

Right at that moment, Santa walked through the door,
“I’m done with the roof. Is there anything more?”
I downed my second martini and gave Santa a wink,
“Actually, yes, there is…you can make me another drink.”

Santa mixed the vodka, Baileys, and Godiva liqueur,
The perfect ingredients for a PMS cure.
Santa handed me my drink and I took a sip,
As I eyed him up and down, with my hand on my hip.
“No too shabby,” I said with a smirk,
“I think this chocolate martini will be the last of your work.”

As Santa moved swiftly towards the door,
The kids asked, “What about the big bag of gifts on the floor?”
“Just keep it, ” he said, “take every gift in the sack.
Because after tonight, I doubt I’ll ever come back.”

Before I knew it, Santa was gone,
So I stumbled out front and watched from the lawn.
Up the ladder he scrammed, back to his sleigh,
And he and his reindeer began flying away.

As I staggered around, waving goodbye,
I hollered out loud, up into the sky.
"Merry Easter, Santa! Have a good life!
And make sure to mention my blog to your wife!”


Thursday, December 17, 2009

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I know it has been awhile since you’ve heard from me. Gosh, I think the last letter I wrote to you was sometime back in the 1970s. I guess that’s just because over the years, I’ve learned a thing or two about the whole “Santa” thing and know that not everything my parents told me about you when I was a kid is true. That’s what comes with being a celebrity, I guess. There’s always going to be gossip and false rumors floating around about you.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t still believe in you. I remember sitting on your lap that one year when you made an appearance at Sears, and how you knew my name without me telling you. You also brought me that Barbie camper I wanted so much when I was eight, and when I sent you a letter with my Christmas list when I was nine, you brought me the Donny & Marie dolls I asked for.

So, in case you’re still doing the whole delivering of presents thing, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to write you a letter and let you know what I’d like for Christmas this year.

I guess the thing I want most this year is a maid. Between work, the kids, and trying to be a good wife, I just can’t seem to find the time to keep up with all the messes that get created around this house. But please know that I don’t want just any maid. She’s got to be an ugly one. I don’t care if she’s skinny or fat, short or tall, just make sure she’s nice and ugly…maybe one of her legs is shorter than the other, she has some facial hair, a few missing teeth…anything that will keep my husband from wanting to check her out and getting himself into a mess like Tiger Woods. Come to think of it, one that looks like Hillary Clinton would do just fine.

The second thing I would like is a math tutor. No, the math tutor is not for my kids, it’s actually for me, because when my kids come to me and ask for help with their math homework, I have no fricken idea what I’m doing. Between the fractions and algebra and negative integers, it all looks like hieroglyphics to me. And to think I was an “A” student when it came to math during my younger years. Well, not anymore. Somehow all those math memory files in my brain got deleted or overwritten. I guess it’s like they say, “Use it or lose it.” (Either that or all the partying I did in my 20s.)

Next on my list would be some new clothes. This is mainly due to the fact that all of my clothes keep shrinking…especially my pants. I don’t know how or why this happens, but it continues to be an issue every single year. I've tried switching detergents and fabric softeners, washing my clothes in cold water, and even leaving them out to hang dry instead of putting them in the dryer, but no matter what I do, the damn things continue to shrink. I really do think it’s the manufacturers and the materials they use. You know, a marketing ploy to force people to buy new stuff from them every year (kind of like Microsoft does with their damn operating system software). Now, I know you might be thinking that maybe it’s not my clothes, maybe it’s just “me” getting a little larger over the years, putting on a little weight. But believe me, Santa, when I say, YOU DON’T WANT TO GO THERE! Just bring me some new clothes, okay?

Since we are on the subject of clothes, there is something else I need. I’m almost embarrassed to ask, since it’s kind of personal, but you’re Santa, and my parents told me when I was younger that you see and know “everything” that I do (BTW…my apologies for what you’ve seen me do with my husband in the bedroom…and living room…and kitchen…and closet…shower, countertops, stairs…oh, yes, and those couple times in the car). So, I’ll just come right out and tell you that I need some new underwear. Now, I’m not asking for any of that expensive Victoria’s Secret stuff, because I figured out her secret a long time ago, and that would be that her fancy panties and bras are overpriced and can’t make it through the wash more than three or four times (I don’t care if the tag says I’m supposed to hand wash it in cold water with mild detergent…I don’t have time for that crap! Remember? That’s the whole reason I need a maid!) Hell, I’ve still got some period panties that I bought years ago from Walmart that have outlasted every pair of Victoria Secret panties I have ever owned. So panties and bras from Walmart will do just fine. Oh, and make sure the panties are all red. Now that I’m in my 40s, my period seems to have a mind of its own and starts whenever it feels like it, so red helps hide the stains those unexpected periods leave behind. Thanks!

Last, but not least, I would like to ask that you “actually” bring my kids their presents this year. The older they get, the more they ask for gifts that cost a fortune. Between the X-boxes, video games, iPods, cell phones, and clothes, clothes and more clothes that my teenage daughter wants, my kids are going to bankrupt me before they get old enough to move out of the house. I know you are a busy man, and you’re really old now, and you’ve got the whole weight issue and all. I’m sure you’ve got some health problems you are dealing with, maybe need a knee replacement or two. Hell, for all I know, you might be sitting in a wheelchair in the North Pole Nursing Home right now. But you’re Santa! Is it too much to ask to bring my kids some presents just one time? I’ve been covering for your ass for years now, and quite frankly, I’m getting tired of spending all this money, staying up late every Christmas eve, waiting for the damn kids to fall asleep so that I can retrieve all the presents I hide in the attic and stuff them under the tree, all with tags marked “From Santa” on them. God forbid should they find out you have not brought them any presents over the years. Do you know what that would do to their self esteem? I'm also tired of eating all those damn Christmas cookies the kids leave out for you every year. That’s not helping my thighs or my ass (remember, Santa, don’t go there when it comes to the whole “clothes” thing…my clothes are shrinking…got it?).

Well, I guess that’s about it for my Christmas list this year. There are some other things I need, like some type of software that I can install into my husband’s brain or some other body part that will make him more romantic, but I know our technology has not quite made it there yet, and you’re no miracle worker. I also need my own personal plastic surgeon, but I think I can hang on a few more years without one.

Thanks for taking the time to read my letter, Santa. I really don’t expect you to bring me everything I asked for, but if you were to bring me just one thing on my list this year, I would be thrilled. Seriously, if I wake up Christmas morning and find only an ugly maid sitting under the tree, I will cry tears of joy!

Merry Christmas!


Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Things I'm Really Good At

First and foremost, I apologize to each of you for my absence over the last few weeks. Geez, it's been so long I think it's PMS time again. To tell you the truth, I've lost track. But that's just because I've been dealing with some medical issues and the drugs they have me on not only screw with my memory, they have caused me to bump into the walls in my house so often that I now tell the walls, "We've got to stop meeting like this?"

But don't worry, it's nothing serious. I'm going to live. I've just been busy trying to get the issue resolved so that I can go back to my normal life of working, working, working, yelling at my kids, PMSing, and giving my husband a hard time. Actually, my hubby has been such a sweetheart through all this, I don't know if I'll ever be able to get mad at him for anything again (okay, we all know that's not true, but it's a nice thought, isn't it?). In all seriousness, he truly has been the BEST hubby these past few weeks with taking care of me and everything else around here.

Now that we have that out of the way, let's get to today's post.

Have you ever sat back and thought about the things you are "really" good at? I took a moment today to do just that, and this is what I found:

1. I’m really good at being tired. In fact, I think I’m a master at this now. I am so good at being tired sometimes, I actually have to take a nap. I take my naps very seriously too. I have rules and everything. Even my kids have learned that if Mommy is sleeping, you don’t wake her unless you are bleeding or on fire.

2. My husband would probably tell you I’m really good at "leaving the dirty dishes for him to clean." But I actually would disagree with this and say that I’m really just good at "not getting around to doing the dirty dishes" myself. At least it works out well for the both of us, since he’s really good at getting around to doing them (as well as getting them nice and clean). I like to look at it as one of those opposites attract kind of things.

3. I’m also really good at telling other people what they should or should not do and why they are wrong. I really don’t mind giving advice and correcting people on the errors of their ways either. I like to look at it as my way of giving back to the very own charity, if you will.

4. Another thing I’m really good at is creating piles of laundry. I have a dirty pile and a clean pile. When the dirty pile gets too big for my own liking, I wash everything. I then start building my clean pile as I unload everything from the dryer. Eventually, as I wear clothes from the clean pile, I slowly build up the dirty pile again. From there the cycle continues. It’s actually quite harmonious.

5. But the one thing I think I am really, really good at is singling out the stupid idiots in the world. I located one on the phone not long ago. I called into DirecTV because I was not able to order a Pay-Per-View movie through their online service. The lady on the phone told me she could order the movie for me over the phone but it would cost me an additional $5 for her to do so. I explained to her that it was not my fault that their online service was not working properly, so I did not think I should be charged. But she just simply told me that it would cost me an extra $5 for her to order the movie for me over the phone. I then tried using my skills in telling people what they should or should not do and why they are wrong. I once again explained that I had no choice but to call in to order the movie because their online service was not working, it was not my fault, and I should not be charged because that would be WRONG! Her answer was, "Ma'am, if you want me to order the movie for you over the phone, I will have to charge you an additional $5 to do so." So, I told the lady to forget it, let her know that she was a stupid idiot, and hung up the phone. What can I say? It’s a gift, I tell you.