Unlucky Streak


     Sometimes I honestly think my life is an on-going audition for “Survivor”.  And last week would have undoubtedly sealed the deal for me to be a shoe-in cast member on that show.  It was as if someone was playing a cruel joke on me to see if I’d finally shatter into a billion tiny pieces.  Did I break a mirror I don’t know about or did a black cat run in front of me?  Cause clearly, bad luck is totally trying to get the best of me.  But, miracles DO happen, cause I’m still standing on two intact legs with two intact arms to hold my Advil and my Chardonnay.

     It was bad enough that the week started off with my son being ridiculously ill.  But then the damn dog had to give me yet another reason to campaign against getting a dog for a pet.  On Friday I took him to the vet for his pre-ball chopping bloodwork and happened to mention to the technician that his eyes looked red to me. Upon further investigation, she informed me that the jackass had pink eye — yes, pink eye!  Who the hell knew that a freaking dog could get pink eye?!  After struggling to keep him from jumping on the other dogs while she retrieved his $45 eyedrops, she told me that I’d have to put the drops into each eye twice a day for five days (because I don’t have anything else going on in my life but to try and pin down a fifty pound beast twice a day).  I left the office with a massive headache, a leash burn on my palm, and a strong desire to hitchhike down to Mexico.

**Did I mention that my husband had been out of town all friggin’ week??!!**

     But the fun didn’t end there.  Oh, no sir-ee Bob, it most certainly did not!  On Saturday night, I dropped my daughter off at a “sleep under” party at her friend’s house where they do all the fun things of a slumber party without the actual “slumber” part.  When I went to pick her up, I could instantly tell by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong.  She was pale as a ghost and covered with sweat and immediately started saying that she wanted to go home.  She began crying as she put on her coat, and my motherly instinct told me that puke was in my imminent future.  

     I talked her into going into the half bath as all the other moms were coming to retrieve their children, and the instant I shut the door, she hurled all over the place.  And the force of the hurl was so great that it caused her to pee her pants as well.  The poor kid was so humiliated to have this happen in the presence of her friends, so I was trying my very best to comfort her and tell her that this happens to the best of us.  I couldn’t help but notice, however, that my options for cleaning up this ginormous mess were limited to a half roll of toilet paper.  I. Was. Totally. Screwed. 

     I could hear all the hustle and bustle of moms and kids outside the door and didn’t want my daughter to be further embarrassed, so I casually poked my head out to look for the birthday girl’s mom.  I was able to quietly request some paper towels and any other cleaning supplies she might be able to provide without shining a massive spotlight on the unbelievable shit that had just gone down behind that door.  I scrubbed like a madwoman as fast as I could since my daughter desperately (and justifiably) just wanted to get the hell out of dodge.  I have no doubt that I probably left a splatter or two behind, but I did the best I could under the circumstances.

**By the way, you DO remember that my husband had been out of town ALL stinkin’ week, don’t you?** 

     So, if my thong is on backwards, my hair’s a dead ringer for Medusa, or I’m driving in the wrong lane, you’ll either sympathize with me or you can bite me.  It’s been yet another week from HELL, and my limit’s been reached.  I believe I’ve more than earned a trip to the spa as well as a sushi dinner, so listen up, hubby!  When you finally return, you better hike up your skirt and hop in the ring cause this bad luck’s goin’ down, baby.  


Just Left Of Lost


     You know how some people just have an inherently good sense of direction?  And you know how other people get lost four doors down from their own freaking house on their own freaking street?  Well I happen to fall into the latter category.  I swear I could fall off course even if I had a whole fleet of crossing guards pointing me in the right direction with huge neon flashing arrows.  And even with the GPS system in my car, I often end up driving in circles. Call it one of my many flaws, but I truly suck ass at navigation.

     So you can probably understand then why I had an extremely strong desire a couple of days ago to call up the jackass of a genius who decided to put the nearest Pump It Up in the middle of freaking nowhere.  (If you’re not familiar with Pump It Up, it’s basically an inflatable version of HELL where kids hold birthday parties.)  Even though I’ve been to the damn place fifteen thousand times, I can never ever remember how to get there.  And it doesn’t help that the stupid address apparently doesn’t even exist on my car’s GPS.  I guess it doesn’t recognize BFE locations.  Somehow, though, by the grace of God, I was able to deliver my son to his friend’s birthday party Tuesday afternoon on time and without any unwanted detours.  However, when it was time to pick him up from the party, it was a whole different story.

     My daughter and I decided to run over to Target while the party was going on, so I made sure that I paid very close attention to exactly how I got from Pump It Up to Target.  It’s a very industrial area so I looked at landmarks, I looked at street signs, and I was certain that I’d be able to retrace my route without any problem.  Boy was I ever wrong.  Every building looked the exact same, and I’m convinced that some little shit went and switched all the street signs on me.  I ended up on the road to nowhere, putting me a good fifteen minutes late to pick up my son and one of his friends.  In a panic, I called 411 Info on my phone hoping to be immediately connected to Pump It Up.  As I waited for the transfer, I could just picture my little guy and his friend standing there all by themselves gasping for air in that cesspool of germs.  

     When I was finally connected to Pump It Up, I was then subjected to the world’s longest automated system.  I kept pressing “0” to speak to an actual human being, only to be taken all the way back to the beginning of the damn system.  I wanted to scream at the bitchhole on the recording who kept telling me over and over about all the fun I could have by planning my next party at their facility.  Did she not give a shit that my son was drowning in a sea of bacteria?  After three attempts at trying to get a person on the line, I figured out that I actually had to press “9” instead of “0” — seriously, WTF? Everybody knows that “0” means “operator.”  I quickly explained to the receptionist that I was running late since their building was IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND, and when I eventually got there, my son and his friend were sure enough the last guests to leave.  I apologized up and down and all around to the mom of the birthday boy and whisked the boys into the fresh, clean air as quickly as possible.

     I absolutely dread the next time I see a Pump It Up party invitation in the mail, and, in fact, I may just accidentally throw the flipping thing away.  I am not a big fan of driving around aimlessly and getting absolutely nowhere.  So, in the future, if you want to give me directions to your next shindig, you might just want to attach a personal escort who can walk right next to my car and talk me through the whole thing.  Otherwise, you can bet your ass that I’ll be more than just a little casually late.

My Big Fat Russian Wedding Experience


     Have you ever driven by a particular building in your town fifty bazillion times and wondered what on earth goes on in there?  Well, there’s a Russian restaurant/banquet hall not more than two or three miles from my house that has baffled me for years.  I’ve never seen a single soul going in or out of there, yet the parking lot is always jam-packed with cars.  So about a month ago, some friends of ours decided that we should get a big group together and plan a January outing to go and check it out.  And holy vodka shots, was it ever an experience!

     When we checked into the reception desk on Saturday night, we were escorted through the deceptively large restaurant all the way to the back of the building, where we found yet another massively-sized room.  The woman lifted back the red velvet curtain covering the door to unveil one of the most elegantly gaudy dining halls I think I’ve ever seen in my life.  There were chandeliers and disco balls and flaming candles and murals and floral arrangements everywhere.  A whole fleet of waiters shuffled here and there with silver trays and crystal glassware.  A large dance floor stood smack dab in the middle of the large room with a curtained platform as its backdrop.  I found myself wondering if the wizard was hiding behind that curtain because I truly felt like I’d just entered a secret underground society.  Every table was filled with people who were dressed in their very finest duds — we’re talking high heels and sequins and prom dresses galore.  And they all seemed to know each other too!  They were hugging and cheek kissing and laughing up a storm.  It was definitely a party-like atmosphere, and I knew we were in for a good time.    

     We started off our meal with a vodka shot cause when in Rome… (or in this case, Russia).  We had just started to dig into our hors devours when the curtained backdrop behind the dance floor opened up to reveal a live band that spoke nothing but Russian.  Now, granted, not a single one of us speaks a lick of Russian, but from what we could gather, there were numerous birthday celebrations in the house.  Several huge parties of people were called to the dance floor, while multiple bouquets of roses were rushed out to pose with them for a group photo.  Then everyone cheered wildly as a ginormous teddy bear was placed front and center of the group.  (Cue the Twilight Zone music.)

 I honestly had no flipping clue what the hell was going on, but I clapped right along with the rest of them since it seemed to be the thing to do.  Everyone was then invited to cut a rug, and the dance floor was suddenly packed with shaking booties.  Song after song was played by the band, and the only one I even remotely recognized was “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga.  Nevertheless, we danced our Grey Gooses off the rest of the night.  My husband found himself a sixty year old honey who was decked out in turquoise sequins to twirl all over the floor, and I made my way into some kind of alternative-looking conga line.  It was like a Russian version of The Wedding Singer, and we had an absolute ball.  

     By the end of the night, I had red lipstick marks on my cheeks from my new Russian dance partner, my husband was so drenched with sweat that he’d stuffed his undershirt in his coat pocket, and our whole group was three sheets to the wind from one too many tilts of the old bottle.  It was definitely unlike most of my normal Saturday night activities.  Who knew that this whole other world existed just a mere distance from my house?

Halloween Party Pics

I had some requests for photographic evidence of the good times had at our big Halloween bash over the weekend, so here ya go….

P1010316Competing prom queens


DSC03013Dumb & Dumber (my hubby’s the dumber one in the orange)


DSC03151Reno 911 cop


DSC03023Hippy chick, Paul Stanley (KISS), & moi


DSC03039Hippy dude busy earning his grand prize doll


P1010405Big Bertha comes to life


I’d post more pictures, but then I’d have to kill you.  Sometimes, what happens at the party, stays at the party.  But what a fun night it was….  






Halloween Recap


     Phew!  What a whirlwind of a weekend.  Between our adults-only Halloween party on Friday night and trick-or-treating on Saturday night, I am absolutely zapped.  There was dancing, there was drinking, there was tricking, and there was treating.  So, I thought I’d give you a recap of all the fun-filled festivities.

     The Halloween party was a total blast with a lively group of people who were ready to let loose.  Throw a DJ into a room full of stressed out parents, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a dance party!  And their costumes were A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!  The prize winners of the “Best Couple” costume had literally turned themselves into Fed Ex packages from head to toe.  I’m sure they’ve been celebrating their victory in their edible underwear all weekend long.  The “Best Male” costume prize went to a guy who was dressed as the cop from Reno 911.  He had the super tight short shorts, the mustache and everything.  The “Best Female” prize went to a girl who was dressed as Princess Leia (every guy’s secret fantasy).  The “Most Inappropriate Couple” were hilarious — the wife was dressed as a margarita and the husband was a breathalizer with a “Blow Here” tube placed ever so conveniently in his crotch area.  And the grand prize of the night (the blow-up doll named Big Bertha) went to a guy dressed like a hippy who must’ve dirty danced with every wife there.  He worked that room like it was his job, even busting out into the splits in the middle of the dance floor. And when he was awarded the top prize of the night, he most certainly didn’t disappoint.  He blew Bertha up right there on the spot and posed for all the cameras that were flashing. His wife just stood back and rolled her eyes and laughed at his “acceptance speech”, but I’m sure she will be thrilled to have a stand-in for those nights when she’s “got a headache.”

     We ended up staying at the bar so late that we were hanging out with the bartenders by the end of the night.  We finally decided to walk home with me wearing my husband’s stupid neon orange tuxedo jacket (he and another husband dressed as Dumb and Dumber).  I’m sure we looked ridiculous as hell to anyone who happened to be out at that hour.  I’d lost my corsage, my crown and the flowers in my hair and had somehow acquired someone’s mustache in my purse.   We didn’t care though cause we’d had an unbelievable amount of fun dancing our asses off with all our friends.  And it seemed that the other party-goers shared that same sentiment when I saw them out and about trick-or-treating the next night. Let’s just say that there were a LOT of hungover parents tagging behind their little ones in the neighborhood on Saturday.

     Regardless of how bad we felt on the inside, we had to just put on a happy face and try to forget about that jackhammer pounding away in our heads cause our kids were on a mission for candy.  It was hard to dwell on a hangover too, since our neighborhood is so much fun on Halloween. Spooky music was blaring on nearly every block, and kids were running everywhere.  Many houses were passing out wine and beer (including ours) to the adults, although I chose to stay away from all things alcohol that night.  My kids got so much candy that they had to stop by home and pick up another empty bucket.  When my husband took them out to their last block, they ran into some rather strange give-aways.  One lady was handing out scarves, neck ties and bracelets, which totally blew my kids’ minds. Then another lady was apparently handing out 2-liter bottles of pop.  What the hell?!  I don’t know if they ran out of candy or what, but if you ask me, they were totally asking to get egged. When it was all said and done, we had four buckets full of sugar and two very happy trick-or-treaters.  

     I ate so many KitKats and Twix bars over the next two days that I now feel sick.  And the kids have already started in with asking me for candy before breakfast. I’ll allow this madness to continue for a couple more days, and then I’m shipping it all off with my husband to work.  The Halloween frenzy has come to an end, and I’m already counting down the days till next year when I can justifiably dress up like an idiot once again.

Costume Party


     I absolutely L-O-V-E Halloween.  Sure it’s great to take the kids out trick-or-treating and all that jazz, but it’s not just all about the kids. It’s the one night a year when even adults can dress up like idiots and make complete fools out of themselves. So, I was beyond excited last year when we were invited to the costume party of all costume parties in the city.

     These people have a reputation for being unbelievable costume creators.  They work for weeks and weeks to come up with some seriously killer getups. Since I knew we were running with the big dogs, I spent hours looking online for unique ideas for my husband and me.  I wanted something different than the typical boring old couples costumes.  We finally decided on a devil and an angel, with a twist, of course.  My husband wore a red velvet smoking jacket with a devil’s tail attached to the back of it. I got him some sparkly gold sunglasses, a big gold chain, and a fat cigar that said “Big Daddy.”  A drawn-on black mustache that screamed 80’s porn king completed the ensemble.  I wore a teensy tiny white dress and stuffed a pillow underneath to form my baby bump.  I had feathery wings and a tattoo on my chest that said, “Love Stinks.” The final touch was a sash that I wore across one shoulder that read, “The Devil Made Me Do It.” Surprisingly, we were a big hit at the party, but we definitely had some stiff competition.

     One girl turned herself into a Jesus candle.  Another transformed herself into Humpty Dumpty, complete with brick wall and everything. Then there was the guy who made himself half Max and half Wild Thing from “Where the Wild Things Are.”  And another group of people posed as polygamists with each wife wearing a sign on their backs that said, “Wife #1“, “Wife #2” and so on. One of my favorites, though, was a guy who had on blue scrubs with white clumps of cotton attached all over them.  I stared and stared at him all night trying to figure out just what in the hell he was supposed to be. Finally, I decided to walk over and ask him.  He said, “Here, hold this,” and reached into his pocket to grab a tiny little purple drink umbrella.  He then pulled out a water bottle, spritzed my face with water, and said he was “Partly Cloudy With a Chance of Showers.” Freaking genius!

     This year we are helping to host a big Halloween party in the ‘burbs, so the pressure is on once again to get all decked out.  After much pondering, another one of the wives and I have decided to go as competing prom queens.  We dug out our shitastic old prom dresses from high school and are going to attempt to squeeze our more mature, very post high school asses into them once again. We’re gonna use some magic makeup tricks to give ourselves black eyes and bloody lips, tease our hair all out to hell and back with some good ol’ Aquanet hair spray, rip a crown in half for us each to wear, and tear our dresses as if we’ve really been throwing down. We’re even going so far as to get baby’s breath for our hair and gaudy corsages for our wrists — yeah, baby, we’re going all out!  My husband and her husband are going as Dumb and Dumber with the tacky orange and blue tuxedos and top hats.  Should definitely make for some funny pictures.

     I can’t wait to see what other creations people come up with.  I’m hoping they bring their A-game cause there are fantastic prizes to be awarded for superior awesomeness.  It’s Halloween, people, and it’s time to let your hair down and have some fun!  You may be hesitant at first, but that won’t last long, for no mere mortal can resist the evil of the thriller.  Ah ha ha ha ha, ah ha ha ha ha!

***** HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!*****

The “Toy” Store


     This year my husband and I were asked to help co-host a big adults-only Halloween bash with four other couples.  Somehow or another, one of the other wives and I got roped into picking out the prizes to be awarded for best costumes. They were supposed to be funny gag gifts, and after much Googling for stores such as Spencer’s and the like, we realized that our retail options were very limited in our area.  The only place we came up with is a store called “Lover’s Lane.”  You can probably use your imagination to guess what type of merchandise they carry, but let’s just say it’s a lingerie/”toy” store.

     When my friend and I pulled up to the place, we questioned whether it was even open because there were maybe only two other cars in the parking lot.  They were most certainly open, though, and the hours were painted right there on the door along with the words, “You must be 18 years of age to enter.”  When we opened the door, we were surprised at the large selection of Halloween costumes they carried. (Granted, they were all things like slutty referee, slutty maid, slutty Girl Scout, etc.) We mosied on along to the wall that had all the bachelorette party goods on display.

     We were like the blind leading the blind in there.  The vast assortment of penis paraphenalia sort of stopped us in our tracks.  We just stood there in amazement at how many penis products there were from which to choose. There were penis lollipops, penis leis, penis chocolates, penis straws, penis cups, penis pens, a “Pin the Penis on the Stud” game, and so on and so on.  We obviously looked out of place there or something (I can’t imagine why), because the sales clerk, who was modeling one of the slutty Halloween costumes sold in the store, came over to try to help us.  We told her that we needed to buy gag gifts for a Halloween party, but she clearly didn’t understand the concept of “gag.” She proceeded to show us massage oils and feathered ticklers and vibrators and all sorts of things that were WAY more personal than what we had in mind.  We told her we’d just browse.

     We ended up deciding on a penis soda can sipper to go with a boob beer can sipper and a penis inspector badge to go with a boob inspector badge.  But then we were stumped.  The selection of merchandise was clearly more in the penis realm. We needed more boobs.  I called the girl over and said, “Excuse me, but do you have a boob section anywhere?” She looked at me like I was crazy and said that no, they didn’t really have a “boob section.”  Instead, she led us around the corner to a selection of edible underwear and some blow-up dolls.  After a whole lot of should we or shouldn’t we, we finally chose some his & hers edible drawers and even ended up getting a blow-up doll, which will be awarded late night in the party to whoever makes the biggest ass out of themselves (we’re counting on it to be a guy since it’s an inflatable female).  I thought about buying one of the dolls for my husband when I’m just too tired for all that but decided against it in the end.

     All in all, we were pretty happy with what we found.  I hope and pray that we don’t offend any of the prize winners, but if we do, then those people shouldn’t be at the party in the first place.  Halloween is all about having fun and letting your hair down.  And if you happen to come home with a blow-up doll at the end of the night, she’ll last a helluva lot longer than any old piece of candy.