Stupid Questions = Stupid Answers

    

     I don’t know about you, but I’m wondering when we can officially stop saying, “Happy New Year!” to every damn body.  I mean it’s already the freaking sixth of January, and we’re still saying it?  And it’s not just people who I’m seeing for the first time in the new year that are saying it either.  I’ve had the same people tell me “Happy New Year!” multiple times!  What is the point?!  Is it because they know that 2009 was a really shitty year for me, or do they have nothing better to say to me?  I rank it up there with those other instinctual comments and questions that people mutter to passersby without even really listening for a response.

     One of these such questions is the old, “How were your holidays?”  I don’t really know if people are fully prepared for my particular answer to this question.  Truth be told, my holidays were very sad and a bit strange without my parents for the first time in the history of my existence.  But do I dare regurgitate all this information onto each and every person’s face who poses this question?  No, of course I don’t.  Surprisingly, I’m not that much of a jackass.  Instead, I simply say, “They were good, thanks.  How were yours?”  

     Another one that always gets me, especially coming from complete strangers, is the old stand-by, “How are you?”  Why on earth do we say this to people we don’t know?  We know damn well that we are on a limited time schedule and don’t have time to listen to a long-winded reply, so why would we expect someone else to do the same for us?  Honestly, am I stupid enough to believe that the dry cleaner REALLY wants to know about the general state of my well-being?  Does he REALLY want to know that I’m in an extremely pissy mood?  Does he REALLY want to know that my daughter peed all over the toilet seat, and that I sat in it?  Does he REALLY want to know that the dog had a frozen clump of shit on his piehole and that I had to clean it off?  No, I’m not thinking that he does.  So, what do we typically say in response?  We say, “Fine, thanks.  How are you?”  

     If you ask me, it’s all just a waste of breath.  They are superficial comments that elicit superficial responses.  It’s like when you give someone else a $20 gift card for Christmas, and in exchange, they give you a $20 gift card for yourself. Why not just save your money and call it even?  The same can be said of meaningless small talk. We should say what we mean and mean what we say.  If we’re not really fine, we shouldn’t say that we are.  We should say that life is sucky at the moment if, in fact, that’s what it is.  And if the person can’t handle our response, then tough toenails.  Don’t ask the question if you don’t want to know the answer.

My Realistic Resolution

     

     It’s a new year — a time to start fresh and begin a new chapter.  I guess that’s why so many people feel compelled to make resolutions. They resolve that this year they’re gonna do things differently; this year they’re gonna do things better.  They’re gonna work out more or eat healthy or quit drinking or quit smoking.  Sadly, many of these promises are broken before January even gets off the ground.  And this, my friends, is why I don’t really do resolutions.

     I tried to explain this whole concept to my kids last night after my husband turned them loose with cans of silly string in my kitchen (he most certainly didn’t get any late-night action from me after that stupid little stunt).  Anywho, I asked my little peeps if they wanted to make any New Year’s resolutions to be better about doing something over the next twelve months.  My daughter said she wanted to be better about remembering to make her bed every day — a commendable enough goal, I thought.  My son, however, just sat there pondering.  I finally offered a suggestion that perhaps he might like to be a better listener, since I often wonder if the kid has a hearing problem, given his lack of response to me 99.9% of the time.  He thought about this idea for a minute and then said, “Nah, that’s WAY to hard.”  At least he’s honest.

     As for me, I would rather make a promise to myself that I know I can actually keep.  So, rather than saying I’m gonna give up wine (which would be ridiculous since I am a stay-at-home mom, after all) or that I’m gonna give up swearing (cause shit, who would I be kidding?), I’d rather try to make a point of doing something more practical.  This year, I’m gonna make it a point of saying “I LOVE YOU” to the people that matter most to me every single day.  If 2009 did nothing else for me, it proved to me that life is precious and ridiculously short, and family and friends are what it’s all about.  So, here’s to 2010 — may it be healthy and happy for each and every one of you!

The Bad Massage

     Santa was very good to me this year and even left me a spa gift certificate in my stocking which I fully intend to use to go get a massage today.  (High fives, you North Pole stud, you!)  And every time I get a massage, I hope and pray with all my might that it doesn’t end up to be like the one I had a few years ago with the world’s most inappropriately awkward masseuse.

     When I go for a massage, I’m looking for nothing more than an opportunity to zone out and relax.  With kids and the every day pain in the ass stress of life in general constantly bitching and yapping away in my ears every damn second of the day, I get very few chances to just chill the hell out.  I am most certainly not interested in dropping a hundred or more dollars to make small talk and chit chat with some douche bag idiot about the weather or the price of tea in China all while I’m laying buck naked on a table in a dark room.  If I wanted that, I’d just strip down, turn the lights out, and lay on my dining room table while my twins and the dog run circles around me.  

     So, a few years back when we took the kids up north to a resort for the weekend, my husband very nicely scheduled an hour-long massage session for me.  When I arrived to the spa, I was asked if I minded having a male masseuse.  I said I didn’t care, because gender makes no difference to me — it’s all about the hands anyway, right?  I was told by a ridiculously smiley masseuse to disrobe and lie down on the table in the therapy room. I did as told and settled onto the table for what I hoped would be a relaxing sixty minutes of pure bliss. 

     However, when douche boy came back in the room jabbering a mile a minute, I knew that this session would be anything BUT peaceful. Homeboy talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked throughout the entire hour about everything under the damn moon.  I wanted so badly to scream, “SHUT YOUR FREAKING WORD HOLE, MAN!”  I tried so hard to just keep my eyes closed and tune him out, but it was no use.  I was doomed to suffer the mental torture and anguish of the Motor Mouth Masseuse.  Things started to get a little weird when I could actually feel his breath on my legs.  I had a little talk with God and told him to please let this just be my imagination, but it seemed as if he was REALLY REALLY close to my skin.

     Ewww doesn’t even begin to describe how uncomfortable I was starting to feel.  I mean, weren’t there supposed to be some sort of physical boundaries or something?  When he told me that he was finished and I opened my eyes, the dude’s face was no more than a few inches away from mine as he stood there staring at me and smiling ear to ear.  This guy had clearly been born with a stupid stick in his mouth.  I thought about opening up my can of whoop ass on him, but then my girly goods would be even more exposed.  He then had the uber balls to say to me with that psycho-killer grin on his face, “It’s been a REAL pleasure working on you Mrs. Nucking Futs.  I mean a REAL pleasure.  I mean I REALLY loved working on you. REALLY.  A LOT.”  I tried with all my might not to think about just what he’d been doing while I had my eyes closed that whole time, and I couldn’t scramble to get my clothes on fast enough when he finally left the room.  I felt dirty and violated and wanted to just get the hell outta dodge.  

     So, as you can probably imagine, I cross my fingers each time I get a massage now that I don’t end up with a creepy repeat of that particular incident.  With the exception of the female masseuse who tried to give me a boob massage one time, I’ve been pretty lucky ever since. Here’s hoping today is an uneventful, grope-free experience that leaves me feeling refreshed rather than in need of counseling.

The Anti-Hoarder

    

     While my husband and kids could easily qualify for the A&E show “Hoarders“, I could easily qualify for the show “Throw Away All Your Shit And Then Some“.  I’m constantly getting busted for throwing away somebody’s crap that was apparently REALLY important. I get so sick of all the random piles of stuff that are sitting in every crack and crevice around here.  How am I supposed to know that an itty bitty piece of paper that’s sitting in the middle of the coffee table is the be all end all for something when we seem to have itty bitty pieces of paper scattered EVERYWHERE?!

     With Christmas comes an endless amount of wrapping paper, directions, boxes and receipts.  I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand to have that wad of clutter covering every damn inch of my floor.  I tend to immediately bust out the trash bags and start stuffing them to the max. And unfortunately, I sometimes end up throwing away something that I shouldn’t.  For example, I apparently threw away the directions to my daughter’s new puppy game that she got from her Grammy on Christmas Eve.  You would think that she might have put them in a safer place than right in the middle of a big ass mountain of crumbled up wrapping paper, but no.  After scouring the entire house and trying to wipe away a flood of unhappy tears, I had to email the manufacturer to plead my pathetic case and see if they’d email the instructions to me, to which they thankfully obliged. 

     I repeated this same crime with some special caramels that my husband received from someone at work a couple weeks ago.  They’d been laying completely untouched on the counter for almost a week, so I figured I’d save a few and throw the rest away.  We had ten thousand sweets taking over our kitchen as it was — what was the big friggin’ deal, right?  Well, when my hubby learned that I’d tossed out his precious candy, he actually dug through the nasty old trash to locate the damn things!  Thank God they were individually wrapped caramels or else he’d be getting no more kisses from this chick’s lips. 

     I would think the moral of this story would be for everyone in my household to keep their important papers, candies and any other significant items in a secure location.  Unfortunately, though, nobody seems to be learning from prior experiences that mama’s gonna throw their shit right out with the garbage if left lying around for too long.  So, in my eyes, they have no one to blame but themselves if their Pez candies from their stockings end up with the dog poop in the alley.  Am I right, or am I right?

The Fugly Sweater

     Following in the footsteps of our non-traditional Thanksgiving, our Christmas this year was also a very alternative one.  We went over to our same friends’ house who hosted us for turkey day for some good old festive fun.  There were three total families there, with a whopping sum of seven kids in all.  You can probably just imagine how apeshit crazy the kids were for Santa & his antlered bitches to swoop into town later on that night.  To add to the fun, the wives had conspired to have an ugliest sweater contest amongst our men, and I am proud to say that my hubby won, hands down, with his unbelievably gay and merry ensemble.

     Shopping for the appropriate sweater for this little contest was no easy task either.  I was actually surprised to learn just how hard it is to find a man’s Christmas sweater period, let alone a fugly one.  My mom and I looked EVERYWHERE when I went back home last weekend, and the only thing I found that was even a remote possibility was located in the larger “WOMAN” department of Target.  All I needed was a good base, since I planned to bedazzle the hell outta the thing. The one I chose was black with a green embroidered Christmas tree on it, and I then bought glittery snowflakes, beads, jewels, and multi-colored sequins to hot glue on it.  When my mom and I were finished with it, it was one hot mess of a sweater, just the exact look I was going for.

     And just before heading over to our friends’ house on Christmas Eve, I found the mother of all mothers as far as Christmas attire goes — my mother-in-law’s red plaid wool pants, which just so happened to be hanging in the closet of our guest bedroom.  Somehow or another, I convinced my husband to wear these pants with his bedazzling sweater, and he could not have looked more ridiculous.  I laughed so hard that I nearly fell down at the sight of him.  He reminded me of Cousin Eddy from Christmas vacation — the only thing he was missing was a pair of white patent leather shoes.  It was perfect!

     When our friends got a glimpse of him in this get-up, they didn’t quite know what to say.  It was truly hard to carry on a serious conversation with him without busting into snickers and howls. Needless to say, his sweater was by far the ugliest of the group.  The best part of the night came when the three husbands decided to play Beatles Rock Band in their idiotic-looking duds.  They looked like a REALLY feminine boy band gone wrong.  It was priceless!

     So, once again, our friends really came through for us during yet another difficult time.  Being without my family for the first Christmas ever was extremely hard for me, but the laughter and the fun of being with good friends (and a few too many Holy Berries) helped to put me in a jollier mood.  It also didn’t hurt to have a husband who was willing to make himself look like a complete jackass all to amuse me.  :-)

Twas the Nucking Futty Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through our pad,
Every creature was stirring, being exceptionally bad.
The stockings were hung too close to the floor,
And demon dog was eating each one that he tore. 

The twins were bouncing off the walls in their rooms,
Just thinking about making their new Mario Kart zoom.
Hubby in holey boxers and I in my nightie,
Had just poured a third glass of wine that was mighty.

When out on the roof came a crazy loud thump;
I told Hubby to check it out and to get off his rump.
He mumbled something about Sportscenter and checking a score,
So away to the window I frustratingly tore.

The moon shined bright on the freshly packed snow;
The dog poop had been covered, I could see in the glow.
When what to my intoxicated eyes should appear,
But a big ass sleigh and eight smelly reindeer.

A festively plump driver who was anything but quick,
Was a loud and clear signal that this was St. Nick.
Slower than molasses, his antlered slaves came,
And he bitched and he moaned and he called them by name:

“Damnit Dasher!  Damnit Dancer!
Damnit Prancer and Vixen!
S.O.B. Comet!  S.O.B. Cupid!
S.O.B. Donner and Blitzen!
Get your asses up here
And you better make it snappy!
Do I look like I’m kidding?
Do I look like your Pappy?”

As a football team likes to huddle pre-game,
They banded together and argued about fame.
Then up to the roof-top those crazy deer flew,
With that shit-ton of toys and St. Nicholas too.

I wanted to scream as they stomped on our roof,
Just imagine all the damage from those damn reindeer hooves.
I pounded my fists and tried counting to ten,
But St. Nick squeezed his ass down the chimney just then.

He was huffing and puffing from the hot fur of his suit,
And it smelled like he’d stepped in some poop with his boot. 
A backpack of toys really weighed down his rear,
And he looked like he could use a really cold beer.

His eyes – how they drooped.  His unibrow, how scary!
And with the hair on his lip, he looked like Aunt Mary.
The scowl on his mouth said he would sure like to quit,
And you could tell that he really was just sick of this shit. 

When he pulled out that pipe and started to smoke,
Well, I wanted to grab his fat neck and just choke.
He had pink chubby cheeks and a rounded booze belly,
That rumbled around like a HUGE vat of jelly. 

He was an overweight mess, this tired old dude,
How did Mrs. Claus stand his bad attitude?
He flipped me off and told me to get lost,
He was in a huge hurry and might have been sauced. 

He didn’t say much more as he got down to biz,
Shoving crap in our stockings and even taking a whiz.
Then burping three times and doing a jig,
He rose up the chimney with a beer and a swig.  

He hopped in his ride and called to his posse,
And away they all flew with their bearded old bossy.
But I heard him exclaim just before out of reach, 

“Happy Christmas assholes! I’m hittin’ the beach!”

 

MAY ALL YOUR HOLIDAYS BE HAPPY & FULL OF GOOD DRINKS!  CHEERS!

Candy Bar Pie

     

Want a quick & easy dessert idea for the holidays?  I have a tried and true winner that is easier than making microwave popcorn.  It’s quick, it’s yummy, and it’ll look like you could give Martha Stewart a run for her money.  Here’s the nitty gritty:

• 1 ginormous candy bar (your choice — I usually use a Hershey’s milk chocolate bar)
• 1 graham cracker pie crust
• 1 tub of Cool Whip

        ** Heat candy bar in microwave till it melts (approximately 1 minute).  Stir into Cool Whip and spread into pie crust.  Garnish with crushed candy canes, shaved chocolate, etc.

And there you have it!  Easy as 1-2-3, literally!  Happy holidays & bon appetit!  :-)

The Christmas Brick

     The day my kids stop believing in Santa will be a day that physically hurts my heart because I know that little by little from that point on, their innocence will be slowly fading away.  I can remember exactly when I stopped believing as a little girl.  Thanks to some punk-ass blabber mouths at school and a Santa with his head up his jolly old keister, my childhood faith in the magic of Christmas was crushed like a candy cane.

     Growing up, I always LOVED Christmas.  I absolutely loved the idea of Santa and all the wonder surrounding him.  So, when some of the kids at school really started talking trash about the big man, I tried like hell to block out all their comments.  I didn’t want to buy into this whole idea that it was really just our parents buying all that crap for us.  As much as I tried, though, some of these accusations were sinking in, and I, too, started to question whether this one guy could really deliver ALL those presents to ALL those kids in just one flipping night.  My suspicions were finally confirmed when a Santa hired by my parents made a pre-Christmas stop at our house that year.

     I was so excited when I answered the door that night to find a red-suited dude with a beard standing right there on our very own porch.  I breathed a sigh of relief that maybe all those yahoos at school really were just messing with me.  He ho-ho-ho’d his way into our living room with his big bag full of gifts and made himself right at home on our loveseat.  As he reached into his bag of tricks, my heart skipped a beat in anticipation of what he’d pull outta there for little ’ol me.  But what he pulled out only caused my brain to wonder just what in the hell this North-Poled nitwit had been smoking before he flew into town.

     The merry old fool had mistakingly thought that the wrapped boxes my mom had displayed on the front porch FOR DECORATION were presents that he was supposed to bring inside for me.  The jackass had the audacity to try to pass off one of these said boxes to me! I instantly recognized the wrapping paper and the bow and knew that the only thing inside that box was a brick to weigh it down.  Was this moron actually trying to give me a concrete slab as a gift?  I looked first at my mom and then at my dad for some sort of reassurance that this was all just a great big joke.  Their horrified looks weren’t doing much to ease my anxiety, though.  Either this man had lost his damn mind, I had been a really really naughty girl, or my parents really were Santa Claus after all. 

     After he left our house, my parents scrambled for some sort of an explanation and simply told me that Santa had sent one of his helpers since he was so swamped with toy orders, and that this guy had obviously gotten confused about the gifts.  I didn’t really buy it though and never truly believed in the legend much more after that night.  And now that I’m a parent myself, I can’t stand the thought of this same scenario playing out with my own kids.  I think I’ll start bribing all their friends now to keep their little traps shut about the real deal.  So what if I’ve got the only sixteen year old twins who still listen for reindeer hooves on the roof and wait for a fat man to pop out of the chimney?  Aren’t the holidays a whole lot happier if you at least have faith in something?

Busted!

     Since I’m flying down to help my mom out with my dad again today and don’t have time to write a full-on blog post, I thought I’d share a little video with you instead.  My kids must’ve done some snooping around in my drawers last night, and well, let’s just say they may have found a little more than they were hoping for:

A REAL Holiday Newsletter

     I gotta admit that I am not a big fan of those holiday newsletters that people send in lieu of cards at this time of the year.  Now, granted, some people can diplomatically give an in-depth year-end review of their family without sounding like they’re boasting, but in my experience, many people tend to use this as an opportunity to toot their own horns about all of the WONDERFULLY AMAZING & AWESOME things that have happened to them throughout the year. There’s often no tact whatsoever and absolutely no holding back. It’s just sentence after sentence of brag, brag, brag.  

     There’s nothing worse than having a really shitty day and going to the mailbox to find one of these flaunt fests sitting in there staring back at you.  I mean, come on, who really wants to hear about how little nine month old Johnny’s already potty-trained himself or how two year old Susie’s already translating Spanish novels or how Mr. X. bought you a brand new Mercedes for your birthday or how many times you went to the Caribbean throughout the year or how many square feet make up your newly built home or how many carats are in your new Tiffany set earrings.  Puke, puke and more puke.  News flash: NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR THAT!

     What I think would be awesome is to send those type of show-off people a REAL holiday newsletter, chocked full of all the ugly, nitty gritty details that have consumed the last never-ending year.  It could read something like this:

Dear Friends & Family,

Hallelujah & smack my ass cause this shitstorm of a year is finally coming to an end!  I never thought I’d get my bowels to regulate again, but they seem to be on the up and up after getting on a steady regimen of prunes and Milk of Magnesia.  Ted’s wearing a hole in our family room sofa after being laid off from the plant back in August. He’s decided to become a full-time couch potato, so I’ve been working the corner downtown on the weekends.  It’s definitely not my dream job, but somebody’s gotta bring home the bacon. I’m getting lots of exercise too.  Since they impounded our car last month, I have to walk everywhere to run errands.  I think I’ve finally talked little Bobby’s school into allowing him back into class after peeing in his locker and farting on his music teacher.  Little Judy’s still being home-schooled though, because apparently, mooning the principal is a pretty big offense.  And it looks like Uncle Joe’s gonna be coming out of rehab just in time for Christmas Eve.  He can take Grandma Betty’s place at the dinner table because she got thrown in the slammer once again for shoplifting down at the dollar store.  We’re praying the electric company turns our power back on by then so we can actually see our food.  At any rate, I’m sure 2010′s gonna be a MUCH better year for all of us, because really, it can’t get much worse, can it?

Happy Holidays to all & to all a good night!
The Nucking Futs Family