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!  🙂

Stretching the Holiday Truth

     I swear I feel like half the crap I try to feed my kids while I’m doing this parenting gig comes right back to bite me in the ass.  And with Christmas and all its many, many far-fetched ideas, it becomes even more difficult to try to explain myself.  Deer that fly, a sleigh that miraculously fits ALL the toys for every kid in the friggin’ universe, a rather large man squeezing himself down the super skinny chimney — it’s all pretty far out there if you really stop and think about it.  So, throughout this holiday season, I’ve found myself on multiple occasions trying to come up with a logical explanation for a highly illogical concept.

     Scenario Number One: two of Santa’s reindeer miraculously showed up at a landscaping/pet shop near us a few weeks back.  My kids must’ve asked me ten thousand questions about these two antlered-eared deer for which I had to REALLY dig deep into my big bag of bullshit to try to answer.  They had a sign up that said “Only Santa’s elves are allowed to feed the reindeer” — so how was I supposed to explain why we saw two of the store’s employees (who most certainly looked NOTHING like elves) feeding the damn deer?! Could they not have at least thrown on some flipping green tights and pointy toed shoes?  And to make matters worse, the stupid asshats at this store took it upon themselves to proudly display the names of these two reindeer who were named anything BUT Comet, Cupid or Donner.  They had names like Sasha and Donald. Seriously, people, WTF?! Would it really have killed these jackbutts to at least fake that these were two of Santa’s real deal sleigh drivers?!  

     Scenario Number Two: for years I have harped on the idea that Santa has magical powers and oversees little elves who can make any and every toy.  Well, someone should’ve told me to put a damn sock in it, because, naturally, this, too, has come back to haunt me. Lately, my kids have decided to try and make last minute additions to their Christmas wishlists, without any concern whatsoever that it might not be enough notice  for poor “Santa” to make these said items happen. When I tried to confront them about this very topic, they simply told me that Santa can make miracles happen and that it wouldn’t be a problem at all for him to hear about a few add-ons.  I just silently kick my ass as I listen to their logic, because I know that I’m the dumbass who filled their little heads with this crap in the first place.  I may need to come up with some concocted story about Santa’s workshop being closed now for gift wrapping.  I’ve already made a whole shit ton of outrageous claims — surely I can come up with some more, right?

     The older they get, the more they’re gonna realize that all of the wonders of Christmas really make them wonder about just what in the hell their mom and dad have really been trying to pull.  With every make-believe idea that comes out of my mouth, I cross my fingers that they don’t call me out.  When they finally do find out the truth, I just hope they don’t think I’m a hypocrite for telling them that lying is bad and then turning around and telling them that yes, a man who’s a bazillion miles away can really see when they draw on the furniture.

Holiday Hanky Panky

     

     Every year at Christmas, my husband always puts panties in my stocking.  Some people get candy; I get thongs.  Now, normally this wouldn’t be any big deal.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been known to turn down a new pair of undies, especially when they’re pretty ones. However, when your father-in-law and your own dad are sitting right there next to you as you pull out these new skivvies, it can be a little uncomfortable, to say the very least.

     I remember one particular year when my twins were about three years old and very curious about anything and everything.  My husband had taken advantage of the five for $25 sale at Victoria’s Secret and had picked out various colors and patterns of thongs to place inside my stocking.  One of these pairs just so happened to be hot pink, which has always been my daughter’s absolute favorite color. I’d gone first in opening the contents of my stocking that Christmas morning, all the while cringing with each pair that I unwrapped alongside my father-in-law and my dad. After I finished, we all turned our attention to my mom as she unwrapped her stocking’s goodies. And at just about that same time, my daughter decided to take it upon herself to pull on that hot freaking pink thong right over the outside of her pajama bottoms and run around the living room like a damn lunatic. We all laughed and tried our best to just shake it off, but you could cut the tension in that room with a butter knife.  I knew that my father-in-law and my dad had absolutely no desire to see that thong being modeled by their daughter-in-law/daughter, much less their three year old granddaughter.

     Then there was the year when my husband tried to buy me a pair of Hanky Panky’s.  If you’re not familiar with the Hanky Panky, it’s supposedly “the world’s most comfortable thong”.  They’re very pretty, made of stretchy lace fabric and are labeled as “one size fits all”. My husband just knew that I’d most certainly want to surround my ass in this type of self-proclaimed comfort.  Somehow or another, though, the lady at Nordstrom’s sent him to the wrong department (completely unbeknownst to him), and he ended up buying me a pair of “plus” size panties.  (Side note: I am 5’2″ and have a petite frame.) When I pulled these panties out of my stocking, I couldn’t help but be confused by their size. As I held them up to scrutinize them, my husband reassured me that these panties were “one size fits all”.  I tried my best to be appreciative and remain optimistic that these “plus” size panties would be able to accomodate every sized ass in America, but deep inside, I really had my doubts.  Once again, I could sense the uneasiness of the older male figures in the room and calmly shoved the thong to the side until I could get to the root of the problem.  Upon further investigation later on, I discovered that they were, in fact, actually “plus” size panties and ended up exchanging them for my appropriate size.  Even though he severely screwed up, I gotta give the man some points for at least trying, although he’s damn lucky I’m so understanding!

     My father-in-law has since passed away, and because of my dad’s cancer treatments, this will be the first year I’ve EVER been without my parents on Christmas morning.  As sad as it will be that we’re not all together, I’m sure my dad will breathe a small sigh of relief to not have to watch me pull out another fancy new thong from my stocking this year.  I guess we’ll just have to videotape the whole event so he doesn’t miss all the holiday Hanky Panky fun.