Barking Mad

I'm Not Angry...I'm Just a Bitch

 

The last several days have been a monumental clusterfuck of attitude, ignorance, lack of respect, lack of internet (thanks Comcast! You are on my SUCKIT list too!), shit (both literal and figurative - Geronimo had a rotten tummy - crapped all over himself and got a bath; as a result of said bath, I am now sporting some nifty slices and dices along my arms.), and yelling and screaming with a few threats to kick a certain teenager out of the asylum...it all adds up to one big heaping plate of stress. All of this with only 6 days left until Meg leaves for boot camp.

I'd really love nothing more than to just flush the last six or seven days down the toilet!

Oh and did I mention that I stopped taking my anti-depressant?  No? Well, guess what, I did.  I was beginning to feel better, emotionally anyhow, and I thought to myself, "Self, lets stop taking this expensive little pill, because you're feeling better and we don't need it any more!"  My head-shrinker was on holiday and I'd mention it to her when she got back...surely it wouldn't be that big a deal?  So, voila, just like that I stopped taking them and away went my feelings of well being and with it, the last remaining shards of my sanity.  Oh wait, one of the resident teenagers ran off with some of that as well.

Then we come to The Pumpkin.  How can a pumpkin possibly be construed as something stressful?  It is, after all, just a pumpkin.

After you read this, you're going to think I've completely lost it.  Maybe.

So, when is a pumpkin, carved into a Jack O' Lantern and given to a three-year-old, much more than just a nice gesture?  When it's given to said three year old by a person whom the three year old's mother wants nothing to do with and wants her influence clearly out of reach of the three year old.   Did that make any sense?

Remember this post?  Yeah the same one that's now made me one of the most hated mom's in Maine? The one that's gotten one of our cars vandalized, been the impetus for numerous threatening and harassing phone calls as well as emails (some of you imbeciles out there need to learn how to use an onion router and not try and cover your IP with hidemyass.com!), and caused me to laugh hysterically as teenagers drive by my house and flip me off...Well, the "Young Lady" I referred to in that post, carved a Jack O' Lantern for Gaby yesterday and Meg brought it home with her when "Young Lady" dropped her off after spending some time with her in order to say goodbye before Meg leaves for boot camp.  Before I had a chance to protest, Meg had whisked Gaby outside to show it to her and make sure she knew exactly who it was from. 

Needless to say, Gareth was pissed.   He expressed his displeasure with Meg who, in reply told him that the Young Lady was probably pulled over crying somewhere because she couldn't say hello to Gaby and give it to her personally.  My own reply to that is something along the lines of, "Because your mother is a big fat bitch and wants to limit your little sister's exposure to people she has issues with, a fact you are well aware of, I really don't care if the Young Lady was parked at the end of our street crying her eyes out!"  Yes gentle readers, I am as heartless and cruel as it appears and ya know what, I don't give a shit what anyone thinks.  The gesture was completely inappropriate and Gareth and I will not have Gaby used as a pawn in anyone's game. 

If you are sitting there with your mouth agape and in shock that I could be pissed off over something as innocent as a Jack O'Lantern, well, that's OK.  You might be cool with a gesture like that, to your toddler, from someone who you want your child to have absolutely nothing to do with.  Me?  Not so much.  If the shoes were switched, I'd have steered clear of doing anything like that, especially knowing how the toddler's mother feels.  What's the point in doing it, other than to play games and try and ingratiate yourself in the eyes of a three year old? Whilst I don't begrudge Meg her friends, especially those she is very close to, as she is to the Young Lady; Meg is an adult and will do what she will do. However I still have say in who comes and goes, in any manner, in the life of my three year old.

Of course, Meg made it painfully clear to Gaby who the pumpkin was from and now I've got a three year old who is upset with me that she can't see the Young Lady and say thank you.

Now, this little issue of not acknowledging a gift has, I admit, rankled me since last night.  I have always impressed upon my kids that you say thank you...period.  Despite the intent behind the pumpkin, it was still, in the end, a gift, and should be acknowledged.  Gareth and I disagree on this one point. He believes that the intent negates acknowledgment.   We've discussed the issue back and forth and whilst there is still some residual anger over the gesture and aforementioned intent, we have come to an agreement of sorts.  It's more important for us to encourage Gaby to express gratitude over any gift, large or small and to attempt to let go of the anger at the purpose surrounding it.  And, Gaby genuinely loves the pumpkin.  She knows that her mumma hates to gut the damn things and had been planning on bedazzling one this year and calling it good.  Oh yes I was!

So this is our compromise. 

Given that Gaby is learning French in Montessori, we have been asked by her teachers at school to encourage her to use it here at home...so we did.

P.S.  Gareth says this comes across as very angry.  Whilst I'm not as angry as I was last night, I'm still fairly perturbed.  It will pass though.  If I had still been well and truly angry at this point?  Monsieur Pumpkin would have been so much meat for the pumpkin cookies I'm baking tonight.  But now that would have been childish and immature (like a certain segment of you are no doubt thinking this post is...), non?

It's Time to Take a Stand and Demand Some Answers!

For too long now I have been complacent; I've sat back and let things go.  I argued that I didn't want to make waves or rock the boat.  At one point I even thought that someone else might take a stand and demand some answers. 

Well, the questions still remain unanswered and people, the situation is dire! It isn't just time to rock the boat, it's time to blow the damn thing up!

As I began to raise my voice and start asking some vital questions, I knew I'd need a partner.  I knew someone else must take a stand with me, someone who has asked the tough questions before and who wasn't afraid to get ugly and be confrontational in the name of our nation's most valuable assets...our children.  

Parents of America, it's time we demanded to know where the hell are Max and Ruby's parents and...

 

...where is Caillou's hair?

So I sat down and wrote a passionate plea for help to...

Dear Mr. Rivera,

I know your time is valuable so I will get right to the point.

In the past you've not had a great deal of success solving certain mysteries, not that I'm rubbing your nose in it or anything, but I thought that perhaps this sort of "mystery" might be right up your alley. I know that you have the balls to confront the powers that be in the worlds of Max and Ruby and Caillou and demand some answers.  After all, you got in Bill O'Reilly's face, so how much harder can this be? 

Maybe you'll finally get some of the journalistic acclaim you've been seeking, if you put your news-hound nose to work, and help me uncover the bold truths about these parentless bunnies and the bald 4 year old...even if it is only kindergartners lauding you with that acclaim.  Hey, you have to start somewhere! 

I believe that you alone sir, possess the chutzpah to attack the meaty truth behind the scenes of these wayward bunnies before something goes horribly wrong - like Ruby having to resort to selling black market coloring books to support the verbally challenged Max.  Ruby may even go down a far more desperate road and start selling her brother's feet for money.  Rabbit's feet charms still fetch something on the open market!

I wouldn't be surprised if the stress of having such an overbearing, domineering older sister like Ruby, leads Max to never gain full range of his verbal abilities and he ends up becoming a white-trash Rabbit, chain-smoking, living in a single wide trailer, covered in tattoos and doing what bunnies with no direction in life do...screwing like bunnies.  How many offspring of his will become a burden to society because no one bothered to step in and demand some answers when he was still young and able to be saved?  A bunny on the dole is a terrible thing!  

Worse yet, if we don't discover the real truth behind Caillou's lack of hair, he may resort to joining the Hair Club for Men...no good can come from that!  Caillou is 4 years old,  but has not got  a single strand of hair on his lollypop-shaped head.  His little sister Rosie has hair in abundance.  Might he be suffering from alopecia and the folks at PBS aren't quite sure how to address it?  I don't know but I suspect there's something much more sinister at play.  Geraldo, I know you can get to the crux of the matter, and soon, before things in poor whiny Caillou's life go terribly pear-shaped and he joins a violent gang of other wayward bald kids and begins to terrorize small Canadian fishing villages.

Please, won't you help?


Yours in Anarchy,

Dear PBS,

How hard can it be to hook a brother up with some hair?  If I can do it, so can you!

You've Got to be Kidding Me! Twilight Barbies

I have freely admitted to reading all of the books in the Twilight series.  I even went so far as to let Meg drag me to the opening night of the movie here in Maine.   I bought the DVD when it came out and even hosted an awesome (if I do say so myself), Twilight giveaway.   Depending on how I'm feeling (Meg will already be in Houston for Basic training with the USAF), when Twilight: New Moon comes out, I'll probably go and see that.   I daresay, I'll probably even purchase the soundtrack just like I did with the original movie. Meg and I even committed a possible felony all in the spirit of Twilight.  How much more devoted can I get?

However, I absolutely will not be buying either of these freakish looking "Barbie" dolls...

Seriously?  I can't believe they can even get away with calling these things "Barbies."  If I were Barbie, I'd be throwing one hell of a bitchfit over these posers. 

When I first read the article that accompanied the image of the dolls, a few things struck me as odd.  First, why does Edward look so familiar?  Is it the uncanny resemblance to Robert Pattinson?  NO!  Hmmm, what ever could it be?  Oh I know!  He looks a lot like this guy...

If you're missing the Michael Myers doll for your Halloween Doll House, have no fear, the Edward Cullen Barbie can act as an impromptu stand-in!  All you have to do is purchase a miniature butcher knife and a Jamie Lee Curtis doll and you're ready to rock-n-roll!

Next up is Bella.  Bella is just all wrong.  The Barbie isn't anywhere near as emo as our belovedly annoying Bella is.  The Bella Barbie is smiling.  Sure, Bella smiles, but it's never a real smile.  It's a pained and anguished grin.  

The Bella Barbie not only looks as if she's smiling, but like she's had a touch too much Botox.  Again, it's just all wrong.   And her hair?  The Barbie hair is shiny...Edward's love would never have shiny hair.  I suggest, if you buy the Bella Barbie that you put a dash of olive oil in her hair, or maybe rub some sand in it.  Either way, she'll look a touch more like the actual Hollywood portrayal of Bella Swan.

Can you imagine, once these hit the shelves in November, all the tweens who will immediately dump their blonde and buxom Barbies for this bizarre duo?  I can just see them having little fanpire playdates with other little girls who have Edward or Bella.  Can you imagine the texts?

Ashley:     Can u brng Edward ovr 2 play w/ Bella?
Taylor:      OK! Let me find a wolf from my brths GI Joe set so we can have a Jacob 2!

Gone are the days of Barbie and Ken riding around in their Malibu cruiser.  They have been replaced by Edward and Bella and angst and longing and forbidden love.

Ashley:     "Bite me Edward, please I want to be like you and live forever."
Taylor:     "No, I can not. I will not.  I will not turn you into one of us...one of the monsters."
Dane:       *Ashley's older brother, who grabs the plastic wolf that Taylor brought over*
                "You both suck! Ha ha Edward, get it!  I'm going to turn you both into Alpo!"

What next?  Cabbage Patch kids with fangs?  My Little Pony that turns into a demon stallion from Hell?  Baby Alive that can either drink milk from a bottle or suckle blood from a fawn? 

Say What?

Sometimes I forget that Gaby is only three years old.  Her vocabulary is better suited to an almost five year old versus that of a little girl who won't be four until  late December.  I'm not bragging, it is what it is.  When you have parents and an older sister who do little else than talk all the time and who love to read and you're a toddler who loves being read to, well, your vocabulary is going to benefit.  To top it off, she has great annunciation for a three year old.  Most of the time. 

I was in the kitchen washing dishes yesterday and in runs Gaby who excitedly asks me, "Mumma, mumma, guess what I saw on TV?"  I turn around to see her blonde curls bouncing up and down, brown eyes sparkling with excitement and a smile that could bedazzle the crankiest of old geezers. 

"What did you see?" I asked her.

"Oh mumma, is was really cool, on da TV I saw a pygmy mama shit! And den I saw anoder pygmy mama shit!"

The bottle of Dawn dish soap that I had been holding slipped from my hands, hit the counter with a thud then bounced and landed on the floor.  The open bottle of dish soap was now spilling thick blue liquid all over my kitchen floor as I stood there, jaw hanging down to my knees, looking at my three year old who was bubbling over with excitement over what she'd just seen on TV.

"Gaby, what did you see on TV.  Say it real slowly 'cause mumma doesn't think she heard what you said."

Even louder, as if trying to explain it to a deaf older relative, she stands on her tiptoes and nearly shouts at me, "Mumma, I saw a cute little pygmy mama shit on da TV!"

"Gaby, say it real slowly again for mumma, the birdies outside are being very noisy and mumma thinks she missed part of what you said."

Gaby places her hands on her hips and is clearly getting frustrated with her partially deaf mumma and says, "Mumma, put your listening ears on you head!"  Very slowly and with a fair amount of exasperation she says, "I SAW A PYGMY MAMA SHIT."

I could not imagine what sort of channel would be airing something like this, let alone why on earth it would be on at toddler-o'clock in the morning.  My first thought was, "Brilliant, now I'm going to have to block the National Geographic Channel!"  Before I could grab the phone book to look up the number for Comcast so that one of their UNcustomer Service Reps could walk me through the process for blocking a cable channel, Gaby grabs my hand and starts pulling me towards my bedroom where she had been watching TV.  As I walked down the hall, I was absolutely astounded that not only was there a little pygmy woman taking a dump on TV, but that my daughter even knew what a pygmy was.  Just what the hell are they teaching her at that Montessori anyhow?

Then it occurred to me to ask Gaby a vital question. "Gaby, sweetie, just how do you know that what you saw was a cute little pygmy mama shit?

Once again she placed her hands on her hips and said, "Mumma dats a bad word. You not 'sposed to say dat!  I saw dem on "Go, Diego, GO!" Diego has lots of pygmy mama shits on his show." 

Lovely.  Just freakin' lovely.  Now I'm going to have to block Nick Jr. from our cable as well.  Wait a minute!  There's no way, as annoying as Diego is, that he'd show little pygmy women, pooping.  

I sat down on the bed and asked Gaby to sit next to me, wondering just how I was going to explain what she'd seen when the show she had been watching returned from a commercial break.   Once again she was all smiles and pointed to the TV exclaiming, "Look look, right der mumma! Awwwwww, can we please get a pygmy mama shit?  Dey so cute!"  I glanced up at the TV, remote in hand, ready to change the channel the moment I see a pygmy woman squat.  What greeted my apprehensive gaze was not a crouching human, about to relieve herself, but this...

Pygmy Marmoset

 

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...and not this...

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The immediate sigh of relief I uttered was probably audible all the way to New Hampshire. 

For the record, Gaby can now clearly tell me that she'd like to have a Pygmy Marmoset.   She'll never get one, but at least she can pronounce it correctly. 

Oh and Dawn dish soap is apparently fun to slip and slide around in, all over the kitchen floor, if you're a kitten.  And can I just tell you that it's a pain in the ass to clean up?

Another Mystery Solved

When I woke up this morning under gloomy skies and the plap plap plap of rain drops, I had an inkling it might be another interesting day here at the asylum.  I just wasn't sure whether it would be interesting in a good way or interesting in a frustrating way.  Turns out, so far anyhow - as it's only 11:45AM, that it's been a bit of both.

I sat down to enjoy a bowl of crispy hay shredded wheat and was immediately jolted away from my breakfast by screams of outrage from the Little Imp. I thought to myself, "Dear Lord, what now?"  Another scream from the Little Imp followed by, "Godiva, gimme it back, right now or you hafta haf a time out!" made me move a little faster.  

I need to backtrack here for a minute to explain a bit of this story that, if you don't have, the rest won't make any sense. 

Usually around mid-morning here at the asylum, the Little Imp has a snack which typically consists of either fruit and cheese or fruit and a little baggie of goldfish crackers.  Lately we have really been going through a lot of goldfish.  It's almost as if Imp inhales them before I even hand her the baggie.  Several times in the last few weeks she's come running to me, telling me that her crackers are all gone but that she didn't eat them.  I've asked her, "If you didn't eat them, where did they go?"  Sometimes she says she doesn't know, other times she blames the missing crackers on her imaginary BFF, Ali. The thing is, when I ask her to bring me the plastic baggie so I can give her a few more goldfish, she always says that she can't find it.  Searches for the wayward baggies have proved futile on my part.  I made Imp promise me she wasn't eating the baggies too, to which she replied, "Mumma, don't be silly!"  Eventually I'd just chalked the mystery of the missing plastic baggies right up there with that of the socks that go missing whilst doing laundry.

As I was running down the hall to see what all the commotion was about, Godiva shot between my legs and had something in her mouth that she was trying to abscond with and not a moment later I almost ran smack dab into the Little Imp, chasing after the kitten.   I stopped the Little Imp in her tracks and asked her to tell me what on earth was going on?

"Mumma, G'diva gots my goldfish.  I gotta get 'em back! 'Scuse me please."

I turned around and sure enough, our littlest feline inmate here at the asylum was high-tailing it (pun completely intended!),  down the hallway and into the kitchen with stolen goldfish.  "Get her!" I yelled towards the Little Imp. 

Picture if you will, a 40 year old woman and a 3 year old little girl chasing after a 3lb kitten.  Godiva was bound and determined to keep her stolen loot! Someone was going to get hurt in this bizarre feline/human chase so I gave up. Once she darted underneath the coffee table I grabbed the nearest camera that was ready to shoot, which happened to be the point and shoot.  In other words, a camera not nearly fast enough to capture the feline pirate with her booty.  I did my best to try and get a couple of shots.

 

 

Trying to evade capture by jumping into a nearby paper bag...

 

Bound and determined to not give up her catch!

 

Eventually, after being swiped at when trying to take the goldfish away, the Little Imp agreed to just let Godiva have her goldfish.  Of course, once we'd stopped chasing her, Godiva gave up.  Of course she did!  It was no longer fun if the fat lady and the little girl weren't willing to make fools of themselves trying to run after a kitten the size of a shampoo bottle. 

Don't let her utter adorableness fool you...

 

 

...beneath that coco powder, fluffy beige fur, and blue-eyed exterior lies the heart of a thief!

So much for my bowl of shredded hay wheat!  Once the Little Imp had been given a fresh baggie of goldfish with implicit instruction to NOT SET IT DOWN ANYWHERE, I decided to return to my breakfast and was greeted by not so much a bowl of cereal as I was by a bowl of something that resembled mush. Did I mention I had poured the last of the milk over my breakfast?  

I wonder if the Little Imp would be willing to share her goldfish with me?

Ouch! That Damned Cat - Part II

It's almost summer-time here in Maine and along with that come fresh Maine strawberries.  Whilst I would much rather be blogging about these...

...and what happens when you leave them sitting in the colander on the counter, unnattended; namely this...

...alas, I can not.

Why?

Well, it's really quite simple. 

You see, I recently bought a pair of pants that have dangly tassels on the sides of the leg openings at the bottom.  They're cute.  Yes indeed, fat girl pants can be cute and these are the cat's meow...literally.  Little did I know that they not only are they cute, but would lead me to yell obscenities at the top of my lungs and shed tears of pain whilst trying to find something to stop the profuse bleeding from several tiny puncture wounds on my legs.

It seems Geronimo thinks that I am choosing my clothing with him in mind, and being that I am a huge idiot at times, I'd have to agree...although I bought these without giving any mind to the prowling, fur-covered-blue-eyed-5lb Ninja who lurks among us.

Ouch dammit!



Would you just look that those dangly bits of skin as the beast sinks his teeth into my meaty ham hocks legs!



Look at the dagger-like claws of the evil little shit, covered in fur and rolled in cuteness.



Don't be fooled or sucked in by those blue eyes. Oh no.  For behind those blue eyes lurks the heart of a killer...a killer sinking his claws into my legs, with a mind for destruction and blood!

Lots of blood.

My legs are now sporting no less than 22 tiny pieces of loo-roll stuck to them in an attempt to stave off the flow of blood from the puncture wounds.  I look like I tried to shave my legs with a 50 year old rusty razor.

Sure, I'd love to be regaling you all with tales of the Little Imp filching strawberries whilst she thought her mommy wasn't looking (alas, I was, and the camera has the evidence of her deeds!), or even tattling on her new penchant for telling people she's going to "skateboard to hell."  Don't ask me where she picked that up from because I have no idea...the same way I have no idea how on earth, after only hearing the theme song from HBO's True Blood, ONCE, she now knows it by heart and takes great joy in watching the blood drain from my face as she belts out the last line of the tune that goes, "....I wanna do bad things with youuuuuuu." 

But I can't, all because of that damned cat!
 

You Want a Reality Show That's REAL? Try This on for Size!

Take 6 women of varying ages (21 to 50) and put them in a 3-bedroom house for 30 days.  Two women to each bedroom.

Let them pack their own bags.

When they arrive at the designated "reality house" take their bags away from them and go through them removing the following:

• All cosmetics (with the exception of deodorant and soap)
• Razors and other shaving implements (What? Put a bunch of women together with no chocolate, caffeine or alcohol and someone is gonna get hurt!)
• Anything with caffeine in it
• All sources of chocolate and yes that includes laxatives and calcium supplements!
• All credit cards
• Any and all snack foods
• All sources of alcohol including cough syrup

Once you've done that and the cameras are rolling, go through the house and make sure that none of the above are anywhere to be found and then also remove all of the following from the cupboards and fridge:

• White sugar
• White bread
• potatoes
• Any and all processed food
• Ice cream
• White rice
• Pasta
• Any and all soda or carbonated beverages

Stock the home with only organic and natural food products and then for shits and giggles, put the most basic of organic bathroom tissue (also known as organic cardboard!) in the loos.

That right there is about as real as you're going to get. 

You don't need to put a bunch of bikini bodies in the tropics with a cup of rice and a knife in order to have a decent reality show.  Nope, all you've gotta do is put a bunch of women together without any caffeine, booze or chocolate and then sit back and watch the sparks fly!

How long could you last in a house like that? 

Well I can tell you how long I'd last.  About 12 hours before I went completely stark raving fucking mad!  I'd lose it at the 12 hour mark when the caffeine withdrawal headache hit (like it did this morning.) and then I'd start looking for some white bread to toast and slather with butter.  When I wasn't able to find that, I'd move on to potatoes or some sort of cereal or other starch high in carbohydrates.  When those searches proved futile I'd resort to violence and get voted off the island!

What prompted all this? 

Well I'll tell you what started this rant.  It was my desire to detox my own system...COLD FUCKING TURKEY!   I started by stopping all sources of caffeine.   EPIC FAILURE loomed ahead as I woke up this morning with the mother of all caffeine withdrawal headaches.  I crawled out of bed, squinting in pain at the pale blue light reflected off of the television, into the loo and clawed my way up the side of the cabinet and into a bottle of EXTRA MOTHERFUCKING STRENGTH TYLENOL and then waddled into the kitchen, got myself a glass of crushed ice (OMG the noise from the ice maker just about sent me careening over the edge!), yelled at the little shit we call Geronimo to get out of my way, and then covered the crushed ice in waves of deep dark brown fizzy Cola Cola goodness, tossed the Tylenol in my mouth and moaned in ecstasy as the carbonated goodness that is Coca Cola, rushed down my throat and flooded my system with all of it's sweetened, caffinated awesomeness.

Twenty minutes later I was finally able to stand completely upright and turn on a light without screaming out in pain about some unknown fiend trying to blind me.  I was once again able to move from room to room without looking like some hunched over neanderthal and grunting at everything and everyone I came into contact with.   Three hours later and I am feeling almost totally human again and able to tolerate the adorable fluffy little kitty cat winding itself between my legs in either an attempt to kill me or show affection towards me, without wanting to drop kick it into next century.

The moral of this story is twofold. One, I would never ever make a good contestant on the kind of reallity show I outlined above and would quite possibly land myself in jail and two, Coca Cola is my master and I am its bitch.

That Damned Cat!

It's been roughly six weeks since we brought home the newest inmate to the Barking Mad Asylum.  Geronimo is most assuredly cute and cuddly, of that fact you'll get no argument from me.  

Oh sure, we had a lot to relearn about having a new kitten around the house in those first few weeks after bringing the little shit gorgeous darling home.  But what we had forgotten from our youths (both the hubby and I were raised around kittens and cats.  Our homes were never without a feline presence.), we soon recalled and we made certain adjustments to our day to day lives in those first few weeks...adjustments like looking under the furniture before walking past it to avoid having our ankles and feet attacked by sharp claws and teeth which necessitated a trip to the Emergency Room, or wearing clothing to bed to avoid having certain dangly bits being made into cat toys in the middle of the night, which also might necessitate a trip to the Emergency Room followed by visits to a plastic surgeon.

When people have asked me what it's like having a new kitten in the house I have taken to replying, "It's a lot like having a toddler with claws who has delusions of being a sniper, or a ninja, or maybe even both!"

However, it's incredibly hard to stay annoyed with such utter cuteness...

...That is, until he pulled this brilliant stunt late one night whilst the hubby was away on business.

When I wasn't paying any attention, he somehow managed to get his furry ass stuck up on top of the damned pot rack.   This was a problem.  It was after my bedtime.  And, I am not tall.  Not even close.  I'm all of 5'5".  The ladder was out in a locked shed, a shed to which I had no clue where the key was and I was not going to get up on my BRAND NEW GRANITE COUNTERS in order to get the damned cat off of the pot rack. 

So what did I do?

I tweeted the entire thing.  Oh yes I did!  If you follow me on Twitter you can go back and look through my updates and read the entire saga for yourself, unless you weren't already out there laughing your virtual asses off at me over the entire melodrama.

It took an hour and a can of tuna, but he eventually jumped down and we all lived happily ever after.

Except, this isn't a Disney fairy tale and my life doesn't roll like that.

Monday I was getting dressed and I assumed (first mistake) that the damned cat  Geronimo was asleep on my bed.  So I grabbed a bra and began the chore of putting it on.  If you are asking yourself why putting a bra on is a "chore", let me explain.  

When the breast fairy visited me whilst I was a pre-teen she packed a bag and intended on staying for a while.  She took a holiday when visiting me and as a result of that, I am overly well-endowed in the breast department.  Add several years, 5 breast-feeding kids, severe weight gains and losses and now I am endowed with two breasts that resemble deflating weather balloons rather than symbols of womanhood and sexiness.  They tend to point to the polar south at all times so having a bra of the industrial type is important.  You don't just slap these kinds of bras on.  There is a process involved.  You bend over and wiggle the girls into the cups then wiggle some more for optimal placement.  Then, when you think your nipples are pointing in the direction they should be and not towards your toes, then and only then you can stand up and fasten that sucker.

As I was bending over and wiggling the girls into place I can only decsribe what happened next like something out of a horror movie.  I was quite certain that Satan himself had reached up through the depths of hell and had attached his evil claws to my boobs and was trying to pull me through the gates of the underworld by my nipples.   The problem was, he wouldn't finish the job.  The devil just hung by my breasts and swung back and forth.  I looked down and discovered it wasn't Satan at all but a fluffy white kitten with big blue eyes and his claws were stuck to my bra and hooked into the breasts behind the thick white industrial fabric. Geronimo apparently thought that my swinging boobs were awesome toys and decided to take a swipe at them.

When I stood up, Geronimo hung on for dear life and came up with me thereby digging his claws in deeper which then caused me to scream louder than fuckall. 

I must have looked insane, standing there in my bra and panties with a kitten stuck to my boobs!  

Every movement caused intense pain and the whole time the damned cat just hung there, stuck on my boobs like some bizarre fur covered parasite.  What was I to do?

I side-stepped towards my bed and leaned over and began the process of unhooking the claws of doom from my flesh and then my bra.   Once that was taken care of, I kid you not, I filled up our lobster boiling pot and soaked my poor, assaulted boobs in ice water in order to stop the bleeding and hopefully halt the swelling that never fails to happen when that damned cat gets his claws into me.   And then I  prayed that no one came home and saw me leaning over the counter, clothed only in panties, with my boobs floating in the lobster pot.


P.S... I apologize for any mental anguish or trauma that the image of me soaking my boobs in the lobster pot may have caused.  But believe me, my pain was greater than anything you may be suffering at the moment. 

Knock knock...Anyone Home?

I'm here. Just barely though. I seem to be having huge internet issues coupled with a serious head-cold and hardcore kitchen remodeling, makes for a really dull blog and a total lack of enthusiasm for just about anything. I can't even upload any of the photos to the blog for some reason. I don't know if it's the wireless router or the road runner that's causing the problems but I'm at the end of my rope with it all.

The granite counters are finally in, and this was on the 2nd try, after the first attempt ended in the counters breaking because I wanted as few seams as possible. I learned once again that you can't always get what you want. Despite the addition of a 2nd seam in the brand new slabs they re-cut for this 2nd go round, we have discovered that our cabinets are not level...no where close to it in fact, so now we have to have someone come in and deal with that.

I will say this though, the counters are gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.

The new appliances (including the new washer and dryer - I've been without a washer for two weeks now as the one we purchased when we bought the house less than two years ago, DIED! Being without a washing machine when you have a teenager and toddler in residence is cruel and inhumane as far as I'm concerned!) will be delivered tomorrow and the plumbing in the kitchen gets hooked back up today! I'm doing a little happy dance about the plumbing. Good thing you can't see it because I look pretty damn stupid in my pajamas, bobbing up and down like an idiot. I imagine the mental image alone is enough to scar you permanently.

With any luck this post will publish.  If not, please send wine or Xanax, or both. But of course if it doesn't publish, unless you're telepathic and able to pick up on my intense need for both, you won't know how dire my need is. So I guess I'm kinda screwed either way, eh?

Piss and Vinegar

Imp's expression sums up my mood pretty succinctly!

Can I vent for just a moment?  Maybe more than a moment.  Make yourself comfy.  You might want to grab a beverage and prop your feet.  Oh and just a warning, I'm going to drop some F-bombs and possibly a few other colourful words too!

When I was in these kinds of moods, my former mother-in-law used to say I was "full of piss and vinegar."  You wanna hear something ironic? As much as I dislike that woman, today she would be right!

Over the weekend my washing machine, a washing machine I might add, that isn't even two fucking years old yet, up and died.  Dead.  Completely and totally non-recoverable-dead. 

It didn't just die though...you see, it died with a FULL LOAD OF CLOTHES AND FULL TUB OF WATER!  Clothes that I had planned on wearing on Sunday when we went to the Maine Wildlife Park.  Clothes that included clean panties.  Thank God I had one last pair in the undie-drawer!   And Thank God I have a hubby who didn't mind draining the tub by hand for over an hour.  We're going to have to get a turkey baster or something to get the last little bits of water out. 

I spent most of Sunday morning walking around the house uttering; "shit shit shit, fuck, shit shit shit" under my breath with the Little Imp tailing me and then yelling downstairs to her daddy; "Daddy, mommy is saying lotsa naughty words, Ima put her in a time out!"

Once I'd cooled off and the tantrum over the washing machine subsided, I decided to finish getting ready to leave for the park.  In lieu of using a traditional flat iron to straighten my hair (and you're wondering where Imp gets her curls from?  Look no further!), I use a huge-barreled curling iron (HBCI) to do it.  Traditional flat irons get too hot and I like the results better with the HBCI. So, I plugged the HBCI in and turn it on.  Nothing.  Unplug it, hit the reset button on the outlet, turn it back on...still nothing.  Unplug it again and then plug it into another outlet entirely, turn it back on and I get a big fat NOTHING!

I flop on top of my bed and let loose a string of expletives into my pillow and flail my arms and legs for added emphasis.  In walks the hubby.  I hadn't exactly expected an audience for this performance but what the hell.   He stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and smirked at me. I was tempted to throw something at him but I was too tired at that point so instead, I got up, stormed past him and into the loo, yanked the HBCI cord out of the wall and waved the offending appliance at him as I walked by again, and then tossed the damned thing into the trash.

The hubby peered into the trash bin and looked at me and said, "Not your day, is it luv?"

Being the saint he is, the hubby wrung out the load of dripping wet clothes, by hand, and put them in the dryer for me.  That was in addition to emptying out the wash tub. 

So what did we do Sunday afternoon after leaving the wildlife park?  Yeah, we went and bought a new washer and dryer. Whilst we didn't need the dryer we decided to get a new set so that we'd have a matching pair.  So not in our budget right now. Oh and yes, we did get a front loader. I'd been tweeting and Facebooking my grumbles and was concerned about the issues with frontloading washers smelling funky. After what we paid for the damned things, they better not smell like anything but roses!   

I guess we're just going to put the dryer that went with the dead washer on Craigslist or out in this imaginery yard sale we keep saying we're going to have, yet never get around to. Well, we'd damned well better have it soon because with the old china cabinet and dining room set in the garage, there is no freaking room for anything else!

Speaking of the garage...we've been here almost 2 years.   It's a huge two-car garage and is packed to the gills with stuff.  I have no idea how we're going to even begin sorting through it.  I'm about ready to just rent a huge dumpster and start throwing shit away.  I mean hell, we haven't used any of it in almost two freaking years, we can't need it that bad can we?

Lets move on shall we?

The kitchen.  I am over, over over not having countertops.  Dammit I am so sick of living with only a partial kitchen right now.  And yeah, I know, there are people out there who are wondering, due to the economy, if they are even going to have a kitchen to cook in next month, and that  makes me feel even worse for bitching about not having any countertops at all.   New countertops come in Friday, new flooring next Wedsneday and the new appliances ALL (washer and dryer, stove and dishwasher) get delivered next Monday....SHIT!  I have no idea how they are supposed to get the appliances in because there is no room to bring them in through the garage.

The toaster.  Yes I said the toaster.  I can't find the damned toaster.  Anywhere.  We moved it when we started to dissasemble the kitchen and now I don't know where the hell it is and right now all I want is a damned piece of toast slathered in butter.   That's all.  Yet the toaster is MIA and I am even more pissed off than I was when I started this rant.

Organic food.  When I discovered I wasn't getting any toast this morning I decided to have a bowl of cereal.  Organic cereal with organic milk.  We've been buying more and more organic food lately but especially milk and other dairy products.  I reached into the fridge to grab the carton of milk and HELLO there's enough milk in there to possibly float a single Cheerio and not a drop more.  FUCK! Didn't we just buy milk?  And dammit, that milk is freaking expensive, just like every other friggin organic thing we buy. Why is that?  I mean hell, they don't give hormones to the cows, or use pesticides, so in my book, it should be CHEAPER!

Eye allergies.  I am once again suffering from the most miserable eye allergies known to mankind.  Nothing is working.  Not even the stuff my doctor Rx'd for me.  Anything I try, works for a few days and then I build up a tolerance to it and spend the rest of the month of May laying in bed with my hands tied behind my back so I won't scratch my eyeballs out of my face! The only thing that's quelled the intense itching and impulse to pull my eyeballs out of their sockets and roll them around on sandpaper is the never-ending rain outside. 

As a matter of fact, it's rained so much lately that I'm almost positive I'm growing moss between my toes...and with my luck, it will probably cause some sort of intense itching that nearly drives me to cut my feet off.  Hmmmm, maybe that green stuff between my toes is actually just the fuzz off the green socks I was wearing last night?  With my luck though, it's probably moss.