Thursday, December 30, 2010

Holy Shit, I'm Awesome: A Year In Review

Another year of blogging has passed and we're about to move into a new one. Thank you Baby Jesus. I cannot wait to get 2010 over and done with. It's been a rough year for me in a lot of ways...I'm ready for a new one.

But before we ring in the new year, I need to wrap things up here with my annual Best of Yo Mama's Blog post. This year, the blog saw the Kiddo graduate from high school, go off to college and leave Captain Carl and me here all alone. With Renty. Always with Renty. Forever and ever with Renty. Til death do us part with Renty.


So here you favorite blog post from each month of 2010. Enjoy, suckas.

OCTOBER (I picked two from this month because I couldn't decide on a favorite)

So that's year in review. I blogged a total of 93 times in 2010. Much less than I did in 2009, mainly because 2010 was a crazy busy and emotionally exhausting year for me. I'm looking forward to a much more prosperous and peaceful 2011. But first? I'm getting my drink on tomorrow night. I predict a blog post in early January involving me, karaoke and a hangover.

Hey, thanks to everyone who became a new follower this year. And to all you loyal followers from before 2010, I salute you for hanging in there. I haven't made this easy for you. Here's to you, mo fo's!

Happy New Year from Yo Mama's house...we loves ya.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Here's To You, Blow Job Fans

My mother-in-law is now reading my blog and has told me that I have "a really wonderful writing style". I think the title of this post proves she is indeed correct.

Some of you might think that I would start cleaning things up a little on the blog once Captain Carl's family started reading. You would be wrong, my friend. The wiener jokes will continue to fly fast and furious up in here. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.

Speaking of wieners, I am guest blogging over at Wait In The Van today as part of her "Twelve Bloggers of Christmas". I talk about blow jobs and rubbing my lady parts on Captain Carl's goatee. You know, your typical holiday stuff.

Go! Click Here! Read! Leave a Comment! Give someone a hand job! Whatever!

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Tis The Season Fa La La La Or Whatever

Three days until Christmas. I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get this shit over with already. Okay, not really. I love this time of year. We had the Captain’s family Christmas last weekend and it was big awesomes. And I get both Fridays and Mondays this weekend and next weekend off from work, which is supercalifragilisticexpealifuckingtatstic.

But I do this really bad thing every year during the holidays that kind of make them sort of suck. I think about the future. I think about how after New Year’s weekend, I won’t have another paid holiday off until May. I think about the things that aren’t going so great in my life. I think about how we’re going to pay the property taxes next month. I think about if I should go along with Captain Carl and take in another renter, even though I hate them and it sucks, because having two renters like before means the mortgage is paid in full each month. I think about how the Kiddo has to get student loans and help pay his way through college because we can’t do it for him. I think about all the people who don’t have to sweat their finances and have no credit problems and can buy whatever they want for their kids at Christmas and then I think a little bit about undeservedly punching them in the face.

You get the idea. I’m a big Debbie Downer. I’m working on it. It’s a long process.

But hurray! Christmas!

We opened all our presents early because of course we did. Captain Carl got me the greatest gift of all, which was the perfume that I tore the ad out of the magazine for and held in front of his face while saying “This. Buy this. This one. This is what I want this year. THIS.”. You thought I was going to say something like “his eternal love” or some lame shit like that, didn’t you? Ha. Loser.

I got him a kick ass GPS for the jeepster and I was all “Do you like it? Do you really? I mean do you REALLY like it or are you just SAYING you like it? Are you sure? Because you can totally return it for something else if you want. No? You’re sure? Yes? Okay cool.” Because I suck at gift giving. I really do. All year long, I think of these really great ideas for birthday and Christmas presents. Then I promptly forget them and end up buying something the person won’t like and will never use. Like the scarf that I got for my mom. Who never wears scarves. Or a computer video game for my dad. Who doesn’t even know how to turn on the computer.

I don’t know what happens. It’s like I’m out there shopping, filled to the brim with wonderful gift ideas. And two hours later, I’m standing in that cologne gift pack aisle in Wal-Mart trying to figure out how I got there. Usually I’m sweating. Always I’m panicked. Because holy shit, will they like this???? Is it lame???? Is it offensive????

My son has been the recipient of some of my worst gifts. Every year he opens at least two things from us that are disappointing and confusing. And then Captain Carl whispers to me “Did we get him that? Why?” and all I can do is shrug and whisper back “It seemed like a good idea?”.

This year? I got him this t-shirt.

Abraham Lincoln with a “Party in the USA” talk bubble.


I have no explanation, except that I thought it was hilarious.

The Kiddo?

Puzzled would be the word I would use to describe his facial expression after he opened it. Then he looked over at me and saw what was probably the pathetically hopeful look on my face, promptly took off the shirt he was wearing and pulled my lame gift over his head. And he wore it all day. And the next day until I made him change out of it because he got barbecue sauce on Abe’s upper lip. How awesome is my kid? Very, that’s how.

This will most likely be my last post before Christmas, so everyone have a happy holiday or whatever and leave me comments while you’re here, huh?

Monday, December 13, 2010

I’m Like A Walking Public Service Announcement For Drunk Morons

Saturday night was my office Christmas party. Guess what happened?

I got drunk.

You're totally shocked, right?

I got a lot of drunk.

I got a way lot of drunk. So drunk, I prompted Captain Carl to say “Wow, I haven’t seen you like this in a really long time.” And the worst part is that I can remember everything. My luck sucks, I can’t even be a blackout drunk and forget all the embarrassing parts of the night.

But I figure I can turn my office party mistakes into a helpful blog post for all of you that maybe haven’t had your office parties yet. Consider it a holiday gift from me to you. I’m like the Jesus Christ of holiday gifts, except instead of eternal life in heaven, I’m giving you tips on how to keep your shitty job that you hate but can’t afford to quit. If my mother ever reads this blog, I am in so. much. trouble. for that last sentence.

Tip #1: Think about your clothing choices carefully before leaving for the party. Are your dressy pants too big for you now and could they possible fall off while dancing later? Is your top so low cut that your boobs will probably pop out at least three times? If yes, you might consider changing.

Tip #2: When introducing your spouse to the President of your company, it is not advisable to tell him that you drank half a bottle of Boone’s Farm out of a plastic cup on the drive over because you heard his cheap-ass only allowed for two drink tickets per person.

Tip #3: When your co-worker asks you in the bathroom if she looks prettier than the wife of Sales Director, a simple “yes” will suffice. Do not elaborate your answer with “I mean, she’s more of an obvious kind of pretty and who wants to be that, right?” and “Plus, you are probably way more interesting than her anyways.” Also, do not steal the lotion from the bathroom on your way out. It is in a container as big as a wine bottle, people will notice it under your shirt.

Tip #4: Do not lick any of the serving spoons at the buffet table because you want to sample everything first. This is not considered proper buffet etiquette.

Tip #5: Whatever you do, do not sign up for the karaoke contest if you plan on drinking more than one glass of wine.

Tip #6: If you ignored tip #5, do not storm the stage when it’s your turn and yell “I say Merry, you say Christmas! Merry! What? Merry! What?” at everyone in the room.

Tip #7: Upon discovering that you have been paired up with the CFO of the company for the karaoke contest, do not tell him that you want to sing George Michael’s Faith in his honor because “Frankly sir, everyone is shocked that you brought a wife and not a life partner."

Tip #8: When the winner of the contest is announced and it is not you, do not pound your fist on the table and scream “I was fucking robbed!”.

Tip #9: Do not request that the dj play T-Pain and then insist everyone on the dance floor give your big booty a slap while you try to move your body into your version of "low" (aka, bending slightly at the waist until your calves start to burn).

Tip #10: Do not approach the door prize table and ask the office manager what you need to do to win that 42” flat screen tv while pantomiming a blow job and waggling your eyebrows at him.

So there you go, my top ten tips for office holiday parties. You're welcome.

Everyone who thinks I’m totally getting a Christmas bonus this year, raise your hand!

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Jogging Limply Towards A Destiny Vaguely Involving Something To Do With Smaller Clothing Maybe

So I’m trying to do this running thing with Captain Carl. It’s going so-so. It really depends what day you ask me, actually. Because ask me today, when Captain Carl is running with his brother and therefore not with me, and I will say it’s going awesome. Ask me on Monday night when I go running with him in the dark after work and I will say it sucks donkey teat. Because ouchy, that’s why.

Captain Carl is excelling at the running. He’s running 3 minute stretches straight now and leaving me in the dust. Literally. I am literally running in the dust on the side of the road about a block and a half behind him. And I’m not really running. I’m more jogging slowly than anything. And my jog gives me a vague resemblance to a wounded animal, limping to the curb after being hit by a car. A wounded animal chanting "fuck. this. shit." with each step it takes. But I like to think that I look like I know what I’m doing, on account of how I pump my arms back and forth vigorously. My feet are barely moving, but my arms are like violent tornadoes churning madly across the country. Check it out, everybody! It took me 30 seconds to get from one side of your driveway to the other, but look how fast I appear to be moving from the waist up! Crazy arms crazy arms crazy arms!


And then there is the issue with my knees. Apparently I have old lady creaky knees. I had no idea until the running started. Now I wake up a dozen times in the night after I turn onto my stomach and my knees push into the mattress, causing searing pain to shoot through them. They crunch like gravel with every step I take up the stairs. And then Captain Carl is all “You should take a joint supplement.” and I’m all “Your mom takes a joint supplement!” and he’s all “I’m serious.” and I’m all “So am I. She really does take one.” and he’s all “So?” and I’m all “She’s 60.” and he’s all “Well maybe you should borrow her AARP magazine to see if they have any tips for you.” and then I punch him in the face.

But I am losing some weight. And apparently it’s starting to show, because the runner lady at my office who I find equal parts inspiring and annoying with all her Go-for-it!'s and Keep-it-up!'s and I-wouldn't-eat-that-if-I-were-you!'s told me yesterday she could see the weight loss in my clothes. Hurrah! I’m awesome! *air punch!*

Also, I've been posting on facebook about my adventures in running and weight loss. Which seemed like a good idea at the time because now I will totally keep up with this new lifestyle on account of all my facebook friends knowing about it. Except that what if I don't? And then when people are all "How's the running going?" on my wall, I'll have to block them so that I don't have to make up excuses for quitting, like maybe I went all Jehovah's Witness and it's taking up all my time with all the ummmm, witnessing?

But hey...right now I'm down 6 lbs, bitches! So I totally put that little fact on my wall.

And then I had Mexican food for dinner last night. And also a donut that morning. And also birthday cake in the afternoon. And also maybe a candy bar.

I didn’t put that part on facebook.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Neighborhood Etiquette: Dry Humping In The Front Yard Is A No-No

We put up the Christmas tree Friday night. I never seem to get into the spirit of the season until the tree is up, and this year was no exception. It just wasn't the same without the Kiddo here. He's usually my go-to man for all things up high on the tree. Which is why I usually end up with about 20 ornaments right underneath the angel. He loves to rub it in that Captain Carl and I are shorter than him, so he's always "Wellll, guess I'll put another one right up here seeing that y'all can't reach. Heh heh." I don't have the heart to tell him that being 5'8" isn't really all that tall, except in our house.

Last year, we invited Renty to decorate the tree with us and it was fun, despite my urge to move every single thing he and Captain Carl put up into a more appropriate location on the tree. What? Every good tree decorator knows you can't put two gold stars next to each other. I'm not controlling and obsessive, that's just basic tree trimming knowledge. Shut up.

This year, Renty was working late so it was just the Captain and I and it was awesome. We had a little wine, we listened to classic Christmas music, we pulled 50 million fucking Christmas decorations out of the closet under the stairs, I put up the nativity scene (yes I used the words "fucking" and "Christmas" and "nativity" in the same sentence. I'm aware that I am going to hell.) Then we admired our handy work and I put 49 million fucking Christmas decorations back in the closet under the stairs because I must have been a crazy person to put up all this shit every year because who needs eight animated Santa Clauses seriously?

In other news, apparently it's cold enough here to put on the heat in the house. This is according to my husband, with whom I vehemently disagree.

Me: Why is the heat on upstairs?
Him: Because it's cold outside.
Me: It's going to be 68 degrees today!
Him: But right now it's 43 degrees.
Me: That's because it's 7am.
Him: So?
Me: It's colder because of being night time.
Him: Really genius?
Me: There is no reason to have the heat on.
Him: You mean besides that it's fucking cold?
Me: You are such a baby, this is not cold. *opens front door. steps out in bare feet* This is called "perfectly comfortable" where I'm from.
Him: Listen, are in Texas now and 43 degrees is called "fucking cold" now.
Me: What a bunch of pansies.
Him: Renty lives upstairs. The heat stays on.
Me: I'm turning it off and if he complains, I will tell him to buy another comforter unless he wants to pay the gas bill.
Him: I knew this was about money.
Me: What? No! This is totally not about money. In fact, this is so not about money it's ridiculous.
Him: What's it about then?
Me: It's know...ummm...acclimating to your environment and...ummm...something something saving the ozone layer.
Him: *stare*
Me: Totally not about money.
Him: *stare*
Me: What?
Him: *blink*
Me: Well, do you want to pay a $200 gas bill???? Huh???
Him: Sometimes you are so much like your mother, it scares me.
Me: I'm taking that as a compliment.
Him: Your mother is cheap.
Me: My mother is frugal.
Him: And last winter you kept it so cold in here that the Kiddo wore gloves and a ski mask around the house.
Me: He's just a drama queen like his father. I was trying to toughen him up and get him ready for the world! Unlike you, who wanted to coddle and keep him soft.
Him: Just go to work, you're going to be late if you keep arguing with me.
Me: *walking out the door muttering* Fucking 43 degrees and you turn the heat on? Give me a break. You think this is cold? Cold is when the temperature doesn't get above zero and your nostrils freeze shut. *yelling back at house* We don't turn our heat on up north until the lakes freeze over! Because we're tough! And don't like to waste money!
Neighbor: Is everything okay?
Me: Oh sorry, I wasn't yelling at you. I'm yelling at my husband WHO APPARENTLY LOVES TO THROW MONEY OUT THE WINDOW BECAUSE IT IS TOTALLY NOT COLD OUT HERE!
Him: *opens front door* Shut up and go to work already!

This is probably why our neighbors never talk to us. This and the fact that Captain Carl tried to dry hump me doggy-style yesterday in the front yard while I was bent over watering the flowers and when I yelled at him to stop it he whispered "Let them watch" and then spanked me. True story.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Probably The Most Interesting Interview Ever Involving A Song By Bonnie Tyler

I made it through my family Thanksgiving celebration, y'all. Somehow no one got murdered this year. Hooray for murderless holidays!

So I finally got a featured interview over at Studio30+, courtesy of my awesome fly-eyed friend Vic. It's pretty much amazing awesomes. We talk about diahrrea and Carlos Spicy Weiner and my new theme song "Total Eclipse Of The Heart". It's as confusing as it sounds.

Please go read it, and then become a member. But only if you are over 30. If you are under 30, then shut up and go listen to some Justin Bieber or whatever you stupid kids are into to these days.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

I’m Either The Best Sister Ever Or Really Stupid. Probably Both.

I’m going home for Thanksgiving. Home to Minnesota to my parents house. I haven’t been home for the holidays (Yes, I really just typed that. I'll just go ahead and punch myself in the face now.) in 11 years. That was my first Christmas after moving to Texas and no way was I staying down here where it was 75 degrees and sunny when I could be back home where there was snow. I mean, what’s Christmas without the snow? And as it turned out, the temperatures never got above zero degrees. Yeah, I was really happy to come back to the warm weather after that last visit.

But the last couple of years I’ve been longing to be up north for Christmas again. Last year, the Dallas area got a huge (by southern standards) winter storm on Christmas Eve. It would have been perfect, except that we went to New Orleans for Christmas and missed it. Not that I’m complaining. I was drinking hurricanes and eating gumbo, who the hell cares about snow? But still, my northern roots are calling to me.

My parents are usually in Arizona by this time of year. They are retired snowbirds and can hardly wait to get to Mesa by the end of October. But my dad has been sick this year. He has leukemia and needed to stay close to his doctor in MN for chemo, so they aren’t heading to AZ until after Thanksgiving (he's doing great, by the way. This post isn't about that, but I didn't want to leave you hanging). So I was all “This year is my chance! I should totally go home for Thanksgiving so my parents won’t be alone on the holiday! I’m booking a flight right now!” to Captain Carl. And all three of my sisters agreed with me and booked tickets too.

So I’m flying up on Thursday morning. Because we are poor white trash, we could only afford one ticket so the Captain is staying home to host his side of the family’s Thanksgiving at our house. Which is weird, but whatever because there is already snow on the ground up there! Hooray! It’ll be almost like Christmas! I’m totally building a snowman and making snow angels!

And then I checked the weather channel. The high temp on Thursday up there is going to be 15 degrees. 15 DEGREES. My sister that still lives up there emailed to tell me it’s going to be the coldest Thanksgiving in 20 years.


I mean, I want snow. Snow. Not freezing nostrils. Not temps too cold for my wimpy southern version of a winter jacket to handle. And certainly not so cold that, holy hell, my whole family has to stay inside for 4 days straight. My whole two parent, four sisters and two nieces in a 3 bedroom house family. We’ll kill each other. You may think I’m exaggerating. Rest assured, I am not. Not even a little bit. This is how it will go down:

Me: Hey, let’s go outside!
Sister #1: It’s too cold.
Me: Oh come on! It’ll be fun! We can build a snow fort!
Sister #2: No way.
Sister #3: Let’s play a game.
Sisters #1 and #2: Yeah, let’s!
Me: Oh shit.

Because that is how the murders always start in my family. With a game.

A massacre.
Trivial Pursuit?
Crime scene.
Total slaughter.

It always starts out with optimism. This time will be different. This time we’ll have fun. This time we’ll all get along. This time no one will accuse anyone else of cheating. This time no one will overturn the table in a fit of rage over coming in second place. But the conclusion is almost always the same. Everyone not talking to everyone. At least one sister crying. At least one other sister calling their husband/boyfriend to tell them she is coming home early. My mom shutting herself up in her room for the rest of the day. And my dad reading the paper, pretending he can’t hear what is happening.

But I’ve decided to be optimistic. This will be a good visit. Only 3.5 days. Just long enough for everyone to stop missing each other and just short enough to keep everyone from getting on each other’s nerves.

Unfortunately, I’ve been recruited by one of my sisters. To go Black Friday shopping. At 4am. In 15 degree weather. I mean, I just….I don’t even……

The thing is, I could have just said no, as the Captain pointed out last night. I could have said no and slept until 10am on my air mattress on the living room floor and pretended not to notice my sister's hurt feelings. But I said yes. Because I know how much it will mean to her. And I’ll play every game anyone wants to play. Because it’s family. And it’s going to be awesome and it’s going to be a blood bath and it’s going to be exhausting and I’m going to love every minute of it.

Because there’s no place like home.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Become A Follower And See Semi-Naked Pictures Of My Husband

So the time has come for me to pimp out someone else’s blog. I’m not really good at doing that, even though I should be better on account of all the bloggers who pimped me out back when I was just getting started. I would probably be way closer to my current follower goal of 1,000 if I did this more often. But, meh.

But this blog is different. I’m pretty much required by my wedding vows to pimp this blog. It belongs to Captain Carl. He started a blog to chronicle his efforts to lose weight, get fit and run a 5K in March. I know, right??? I mean, a 5K is pretty much my version of hell. It’s a nightmare filled with running shoes, short shorts and wheezing. But I totally support it, because he’s awesome and it’s something he’s wanted to do for a long time and I’m so very very proud of him for doing this.

So I’m here, asking my readers to go over there and read and become a follower and maybe leave a comment or two. But only nice, supportive comments because I am not afraid to cut a bitch, okay?

I am amazed by this man. He’s determined and focused and I’m freaking out because omg I’m totally going to be fatter than my husband if I don’t keep up. So his determination has got me determined to keep up as best I can. This is new territory for me. I try to eat better and maybe exercise sometimes but if anyone pushes me to do more? Hells no. You think I'm killing myself slowly by eating badly? You think I'd feel better if I pushed my workout to a higher level? Oh yeah? Well...

But this time seems different for him, so I’m trying to make it different for me. This includes sharing his blog with everyone I know and all the bloggers that are awesome enough to come here and hang out with me. He’s using real names. He’s honest and completely factual. He’s told his whole family about his goal and his blog. All things I do not do here. And! He blog rolled me, which means I’m about to be discovered by my family. Not only am I running because of him (Have you ever seen a fat girl run? Boobs everywhere, people.) but my secret blog identity is about to be revealed.

Well, shit.

But! I’m totally getting back at him for it.

Pssst. Come closer so I can tell y’all a secret.

He’s got pictures of himself over there without a shirt. He says it’s kind of humiliating and scary to do it, but it is keeping him motivated. I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit and he’s just trying to attract gay men who are into bears. Whichever. Just go follow him. His goal is to get 5 followers by the end of this month. Do me a favor and blow up his follower list. Leave an encouraging comment, like how sexy you think his man boobs are.

Click here to read FatDad5K

I feel like I should explain what is going on in this picture. I'm not gonna though.

p.s. I love you, Chad. You are totally gonna bend that 5K over and take it to brown town.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Being A Hero Is Exhausting

On the phone with Captain Carl:

Me: Uh oh.
Him: What?
Me: The lady across the parking lot is taking her clothes into the dry cleaners and she dropped a shirt behind her car.
Him: That sucks.
Me: *knocking on window* Hey! Lady! Your shirt!
Him: Aren’t you on the second floor?
Me: Yes.
Him: And like, 50 yards away from the other side of the parking lot?
Me: So? Maybe she’d hear me banging and look back and notice her shirt.
Him: Did she?
Me: No.
Him: Bummer.


Me: I hope she sees it when she comes out.
Him: She probably won’t if it’s behind her car.
Me: I suppose I could walk down there and take it into the dry cleaners if she doesn’t see it.
Him: That would be a very nice thing to do.


Me: *sigh* That’s a really long way to walk.
Him: Annnddd there we go.
Me: What?
Him: I was just waiting for that last part.
Me: What? It’s all the way across the parking lot!
Him: But you’d do it. Because it’s the right thing to do. Right?
Me: *sigh* Yeah. Stupid lady and her stupid shirt, making me help her.


Me: Ooh, here she comes. Come onnnn. Come onnnn! Look behind your car. Look! It’s right there! Don’t make me come down there! Oh thank God, she saw it.
Him: Yes, praise Jesus you didn’t have to walk across the parking lot to help someone.
Me: I know right? That was a close one. That lady didn’t even know how close she came to having me save her.
Him: Wow.
Me: No need to be in awe of me. I’m no hero or anything.
Him: You got that right.
Me: Shut up! I am sooo a hero!
Him: I’m pretty sure telling people that you’re hero doesn’t automatically make you one.
Me: Oh yeah? Well….your mom makes you one.

Boo ya. I showed him. I'm the queen of come backs. That's what she said.

Monday, November 8, 2010

This Guy Is The Reason My Life Will Never Be Exciting

So I heard a review on the radio about a movie called “127 hours”. It’s about that guy who went hiking alone and didn’t tell anyone where he was going and then he fell or something and got his arm caught under a rock and 5 days later he cut his own arm off to get free.


So hiking is out for me. For, like, ever. Because I don’t know about you but fuck that shit. And the worst part is, it happened while he was walking. He wasn’t parachuting, he wasn’t bungee jumping, he wasn’t wrestling tigers. He was doing something fairly common that millions of people do. Maybe a more advanced type of walking, sure. But still. Walking. This is what scares me.

I mean, I’ve gone hiking before without incident. Mostly in flat places where the biggest rock is the size of my foot with maybe one or two big enough to stand on. But seriously, y’all. I really don’t like walking around as much as I like keeping my arm. So as of today, hiking is permanently banned from my life. Just the thought of doing something that could result in me having to cut off any of my body parts makes me want to buy a rascal and never walk anywhere again.

Oh shit. What if the rascal hits a rock and throws me off and I get trapped anyway?? It's a lose-lose situation, y'all.

Not to mention that this guy cut off his arm with his pocketknife. I never carry a pocketknife. Or any knife for that matter. Sometimes I carry a spoon in my purse (don’t ask) but no way would that cut through bone. Unless I could spend my 5 days sharpening the spoon on the rock that trapped me to a vicious point and therefore make it possible to cut off my arm. Then I could be all “Ha! Take that rock! How’s that for irony! I used the very thing that which trapped mine self’s arm to free thine self from thy perilous grasp!”. I figure I’d be so delirious by then that I would have slipped into a bad Shakespearean accent for some reason. I mean, I just cut off my own arm for fuck’s sake. Give me a break. You try cutting off your arm and see if whatever you say afterwards makes any sense, you big jerkface.

Honestly, I just don’t think I could do it. I told Captain Carl that very thing and he was all “You totally would if you had no other choice.” and I was all “No way, I’d rather die than cut part of myself off.” and he was all “You’d be surprised what you could do if you were faced with death.” and I was all “You know what I would do? I would call someone with my cell phone like any smart person would.” and he was all “You probably wouldn’t get any reception since you’d be in a remote location, which is why no one could find you in the first place.” and I was all “Since when is the IHOP parking lot a ‘remote location’?” and he was all “What?” and I was all “Because that’s as far as I’m hiking from now on. From our car to the IHOP.” and he was all “Don’t you want to live an adventurous, exciting life? See new places? Push the boundaries?” and I was all “When was the last time you saw someone cut their own arm off at an IHOP?” and he was all *blink* and I was all “I think I’ve made my point.”

I figure finally trying one of those weird fruit syrups they have at IHOP is adventure enough for me. Suck it, excitement.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

The Secret To Getting Your Husband To Vacuum? Cat Poop.

Me: *picks up office phone* Hello?

Him: Open your email.

Me: Ummm, okay…..what did you send me?

Him: Just read it.

Me: *reading* “Your cat is growling in her sleep”. Oh look, a picture!

Him: Its hard to tell, but she’s doing that creepy inner-eylid-half-open-sleeping thing. I hate that thing. And she was growling.

Me: Awwww, sleep growling! Cute!!

Him: Yeah well, you’re cute cat left a skid mark on the living room rug this morning.

Me: It’s not a skid mark, it’s vomit. I heard one of them puking this morning but I couldn’t find it before I left for work.

Him: Oh there was puke. On the right side of the rug. On the left side there's a giant skid mark.

Me: Oooh, that’s not good.

Him: No. No it’s not.

Me: Did you clean it up?

Him: I picked up the clump because I thought it was puke.

Me: And?

Him: It was not puke.

Me: But did you scrub the rug after?

Him: We’re out of carpet cleaner.

Me: So? You don’t need carpet cleaner. Just get one of the old rags wet with hot, soapy water and scrub it.

Him: I said we’re out of carpet cleaner!

Me: You don’t need carpet cleaner!

Him: Yes I do! I can’t use the plastic scrub brush with the long handle if I don’t have carpet cleaner to squirt on the rug.

Me: Oh come on, you big baby.

Him: I am not putting my hands anywhere near a cat poop skid mark!

Me: I don’t understand how you can clean up the kids vomit without gagging once, but you can’t even scrub up a little cat poop.

Him: Because cats are nasty.

Me: You could use gloves. I have those yellow ones in the laundry room.

Him: Not happening.

Me: Well did you at least clean up the hairball?

Him: I picked up most of it but left whatever was soaking into the rug.

Me: Seriously???

Him: What part of “we’re out of carpet cleaner” do you not understand?

Me: So you're telling me you won't scrub the rug for me.

Him: No carpet cleaner, no scrubbing.

Me: Fine. If I clean it up, will you at least vacuum afterwards?

Him: I will vacuum all the rugs every time if it means I never have to clean up cat poop or puke ever again.

....oh how I love cat poop!

Friday, October 22, 2010

Continuing To Make A Great Impression With My Sausage Fingers

How is your job going?

I really hate that question. My parents ask it every time we talk and I hear it at least once a week from either Captain Carl or friends or my sister. I hate that question because I don’t ever know what to say. Sometimes I say “I hate it” but that’s not really true. I don’t hate my job. I don’t anything my job. It’s just there. It’s just my job. It’s what I do during the day to pay the bills each month until I can quit and become a photographer full-time. Okay, some days I really do hate it, but who wants to hear me say that? So I just say “Oh it’s fine” and move on to a different topic.

But there are days at my office that I actually enjoy. Usually it’s the days that we screw around and don’t get any real work done. Someone brings in donuts or candy and it's probably a Friday and we're all happy because we're wearing jeans and things get silly and then someone ends up emailing out a stupid and embarrassing picture of me. Because for some reason when I’m having a good time, I decide someone just has to take my picture. I’m all “Check it out! I’m totally doing this super hilarious thing! Take my picture!” and then we all laugh and I think maybe this job isn’t so bad after all. And then I go home and come back in the morning and see the picture that got emailed around and I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

So this month’s picture?


I thought it was hilarious at the time because hahaa omg this mask is sooo funny!

And then it got emailed to everyone in the office.

And then it went in the monthly newsletter. The newsletter that goes out to not only my office but also the parent company’s office. The parent company, y’all. Thanks to my stupid-ass self getting all hopped up on Halloween candy, me and my sausage fingers are now currently touring the CEO’s computer screen.


At least I’ll have something to tell my parents this weekend in response to their question…

How is your job going?

Great! Last week I ate five mini-Twix bars and then wore a Frankenstein mask around the office and someone took a picture of me making a stupid face with sausage finger claws and they totally put it in the company newsletter!

Is that……good?

I’ll probably get a promotion because of it. Or fired. One of the two.

Oh dear....

Monday, October 18, 2010

Running Towards Something Besides The Buffet

So I’m running now.

I mean, I’m running for reals. For exercise. Not because someone is chasing me with a butcher knife or I’m trying to get to the buffet before that old lady with the walker gets all the red jello.

Okay so technically I’m sprinting. Which I guess is a form of running, but I’m not like, running a marathon or anything. I’m running from the tree on the furthest side of my backyard to the furthest tree on the other side of my backyard. It’s probably 15 yards. But! I’m running there and back. Six times in a row.

I know. I’m pretty amazed myself.

This shit wasn’t my idea though. It was Captain Carl's. On Friday at 4pm he called me at work and was all “Hey, when you get home we’ll kick the soccer ball around for a few minutes and then run sprints and then go for a walk” and I was all “Gah?” and he was all “This is our new exercise program…3 times a week” and I was all “Ummm, okay?” and he was all “Excellent!” and I was all “Well, fuck.”

Yep, all his idea. His brilliant Friday night sprinting idea. My idea was to sit on the couch and watch 5 episodes of Ghost Hunters while eating microwave popcorn and twizzlers. My idea was way more awesome, I think.

So I get home and I’m all “I have a headache” and he was all “Nice try” and I was all “No I really do. In my vagina.” and he was all “Shut up and put your sports bra on and get outside”. So I stomped around my bathroom getting ready for as long as I possibly could because I so did not want to exercise but apparently he doesn’t love me enough to let me do nothing and get fatter. Big jerk.

So we’re in the backyard and mosquitoes are eating me alive and I’m all *kick kick kick* with the soccer ball and he’s all “quit kicking it up towards my face!” and I’m all “It’s called strategy” and he’s all “There is no strategy, we’re just warming up” and I’m all “Oh yeah? Your mom's warming up!” because I'm pretty much the queen of soccer insults.

Then he made me sprint.

A real lot.

So there I am. Running. When I start the first sprint, it’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be. Hey, I’m moving pretty fast…not bad for a fat lady. At the halfway mark, I realize something. I’m running on grass. Ohmygod, what if I twist my ankle? By the time I finish that first sprint, I remember that my sports bra is too small for me. I look down. My left boob has popped out. I have to finish with my hand cupping my chest, much to the delight of my husband. We take a 2 minute rest, as per whatever fitness website he’s been reading that day. The mosquitoes swarm again, but I’m not breathing all that hard. I can do this…five more of these is no problem. By the third sprint, I’m praying for God to hit my husband with a freak bolt of lightning from out of nowhere. I’m panting and probably foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. The Captain has beaten me on every sprint, even with the head start he gives me. “No fair!” I yell every time he passes me. “You don’t have boobs to hold up!” “You have more muscle than me!” “I hate you so hard right now!” And he just laughs and keeps running. At the end of the 5th sprint, my legs are shaking and I’m seriously considering punching him in the face. We are in our 2nd minute of rest before the final sprint when I decide to cheat. I yell “Go!” 30 seconds early and run like a crazy person. The Captain yells after me "It's not a race, moron!" but I don't care. My legs are pumping, my arms are swinging wildly, I’m laughing like a hyena. I’m winning this one! Yes!

And then I stepped in a rabbit hole and fell. I lay there like a slug, flat on my face, waiting for my husband to come pick me up and hold me and tell me he’s sorry and he’ll never ever make me do this ever again and then I'll be all "I could have been seriously injured, but I forgive you. Now go buy me some twizzlers" and he totally would on account of all his exercise guilt.

“Get up!” he yells from a distance. I raise my head and realize he has finished his sprint. “You left me here to die without twizzlers!” I scream at him. “Get up! Now we walk for 30 minutes!” he yells back. I roll over onto my back and stare at the sky. Mosquitoes are flying into my eyeballs. I’m sweating through my shorts and my knees are throbbing. I say nothing. He walks over and stands over me. He’s all “Come on, drama queen” and I’m all “I can’t” and he’s all “Yes you can” and I’m all “No you don’t understand!” and he’s all “I know, you’re tired and sore and don’t feel like it. But you will be so happy that you did.” and I’m all “No, it’s not that. I can’t get my boob back in my bra”.

So there we are, silent and motionless for a few minutes. He is contemplating how to get me up and moving again. I am contemplating how to fashion a shiv from blades of grass and my shoelace so I can take him down and shut him up about this exercise bullshit. He pokes me a couple times with the tip of his shoe. "Come onnnn" he whines. "No" I say and roll over onto my side away from him. He sighs and says "I'll go buy you twizzlers if you walk with me". I look over my shoulder at him and contemplate this offer. "What about my boob?" I ask. “It’s dark, no one will notice” he responds.

And that’s how I ended up walking through my neighborhood at 9pm on a Friday with a limp and my boob hanging out of my bra.

Monday, October 11, 2010

And The Award For Best Actress Eating A Hamburger Goes To…

I just realized this morning it’s been almost two weeks since I’ve posted something here. So sorry, little people, but I’ve been very busy becoming a movie star. After I sent my resume to the production assistant for the movie they are filming here by my office, I figured it wouldn’t be long before I’d find myself on the casting couch. And I wasn’t wrong, although technically I haven’t yet physically sat on the couch. Or met anyone associated with the movie in person. Or ummmm, acted in anything. Yet! Because this? Is totally happening.

See, I got an email response to my resume submittal. From the producer, y’all. Yeah, big time. This lady. Right here.

Producer Email: Received your contact information re: becoming an extra for the movie. Need your availability please.

Response: My availability is limited during the day, but I work right here in the office building you are shooting near so I could do it during lunch breaks or after 5pm. Also, that’s what she said.

Producer Email: I need extras mostly on Saturdays.

Response: I can do Saturdays like nobody’s business. I do Saturdays long time. Speaking of being an extra, some people say that I’m a natural when it comes to standing around in the background. Plus I have a really big head which I’m told translates well on film. Also, I am plus size and I know you want this film to be diverse, so there you go.

Producer Email: I have to ask this so we have complete information – what is your age?

Response: I’m 36, but could probably pass for 35. Oh and I’ve been rehearsing several characters that I think would be great for the movie. My “Lady Eating Hamburger In Crowd” is especially good. “Lady Drinking Something From Taco Bell Cup While Leaning Seductively On Car Hood” is also noteworthy but I'm not quite sure about it. Too Tawny Kitaen perhaps?

Producer Email: Also need your phone number. Keep in mind this is a children's movie.

Response: Gotcha...children's movie. Duly noted. My phone number is 1-800-HOT-CHUB. Heh heh, I kid.

So far I haven’t heard back from him. It’s been a week. I figure he’s busy deciding what role he’s going to give me. Probably the hilarious cougar neighbor lady that always brings burnt stuff to the neighborhood potlucks but hahaaa! who cares because dude, that fat chick is smokin’!

I’m thinking of getting my teeth capped in preparation for my role. And maybe getting my second chin sucked out too. I don’t know. It depends on how much volunteer extras get paid.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Finally, Peeing My Pants Has Paid Off

Someone is filming a movie right outside the building I work in. I’m not really sure why here and I’m only partially sure what it’s about. A coming of age story about a little boy who find mischief and fun in his neighborhood blah blah blah Mr. Wilson blah blah blah rip off blah blah blah Dennis the Menace. Something like that.

But that’s not the important part. The important part is that I. AM. ABOUT. TO. BE. FAMOUS. The director has put out a casting call in my building for extras. Which means you are about to see me on the big screen. Or the tv screen. Or ummmm, online. I’m not really sure how big this movie is going to be. Today the director is walking around in the parking lot pointing at businesses and gesturing wildly with a crowd of 15 people and they’re all wearing sunglasses which kind of seems Hollywood-ish, but only one of them is hot and young and the rest are basically boring and kind of overweight and older so maybe this is only going to be a made for tv movie. But who cares because I am all over this shit.

So I went to the production website and it’s all “We will need 300-400 extras for a July 4th celebration scene” and “if interested, please send your name, age, email and general availability”. I worked all night on my resume. I mean, it doesn’t specifically ask for a resume but I figure it’s implied for those with previous acting experience such as myself. So I was all *type type type* and Captain Carl was all “Whatcha doing?” and I was all “Writing my acting resume” and he was all “Gah?” and I was all “For the movie they are filming by my office” and he was all “You’ve never been in a movie” and I was all “I have plenty of acting experience” and he was all “What role are you trying out for?” and I was all “An extra” and he was all “You have to audition to be an extra?” and I was all “Probably. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter because once they see my resume? Blam!” and he was all “Blam?” and I was all “Blam! Front of the crowd extra”.

I think you'll all agree that I'm a shoe in....


Resume for Miss Yvonne – Actress Not Appreciated In Her Own Time

1977 – Peter Rabbit
Martin Luther Elementary School
Played role of Mother Rabbit in Mrs. Vandervolt’s morning kindergarten class production.
Noteworthy – Managed to completed both lines of dialogue despite having a crush on boy playing Peter Rabbit and peeing pants minutes before the curtain rose.

1986 – America The Prosperous
Roosevelt Middle School
Co-starring role in video on American Capitalism for Mr. Benson’s 6th grade economics lesson.
Noteworthy – Let Nathan Johnson grab boob under costume without anyone noticing.

1991 – Pop Singers
Buffalo Gap High School
Co-starring role in year long production of 50’s and 60’s inspired song and dance routines.
Noteworthy – Totally rocked mall bangs and a spiral perm. Managed to make a tuxedo shirt and ankle length skirt look sexy while pretend surfing to a Beach Boy’s song.

1992 – Santa Lucia Festival
First Lutheran Church
Starring role of Santa Lucia in Christmas pageant.
Noteworthy – Wore a crown of burning candles on head. For reals.

Special skills:
Can kind of play the piano.
Know sweet dance moves such as the Roger Rabbit and the Sprinkler.

Good at reciting hip slang phrases, such as "Oh no you didn't!", "You go girl!" and "Bitch please".
Went to a taping of Charles in Charge once. Waved at Willie Aames. Pretty sure he saw me.
In possession of a blonde 70’s afro wig. Willing to wear it whenever.

Can do that cool Bollywood dancing hand move thingy.
Giant man hands. See above.
Can recite any line from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure upon command.
Strong background in character acting. See below for examples of my work:


Drunk Pirate


See you on the big/small screen, bitches.

Friday, September 24, 2010

14 Hour Super Manic Crazy Arms Energy Drink

I was dragging yesterday at work. I’m having a hard time getting back in the swing of things after being on vacation for a week. I decided to try an energy drink for the first time in my life because I had shit to get done. So I walked over to the gas station across the street and found something called Seven Hour Revitalizer. I’ve heard of 5 Hour Energy but never tried it. I figured an extra two hours would be even better.

Yeah, probably wasn't a good idea.

2:00pm: Drink entire mango flavored energy beverage.
2:01pm: Chug a Diet Coke to get rid of rancid mango flavor in mouth.
2:20pm: Walk to bathroom. Realize I have weird tingly sensation in upper arms.
2:25pm: Stare at self in bathroom mirror while shaking arms. Tingling intensifies. Weird.
2:45pm: Left leg seems to be twitching a lot.
2:50pm: Decide twirling around and around in my chair is a great idea.
3:00pm: Notice hands are shaking.
3:15pm: Think about how weird belly buttons are.
3:30pm: Cotton mouth. Chug another Diet Coke.
3:39pm: Stare at McDonald’s cup until words begin to blur. Become convinced there’s a hidden message.
3:45pm: Get sweaty armpits.
3:50pm: Get heartburn.
4:00pm: Contemplate if sitting in office cube is really happening or is just a figment of someone else’s imagination.
4:02pm: Become convinced someone is standing right behind me. Look quickly over shoulder multiple times in attempt to catch them.
4:10pm: Seem to have developed some kind of facial tic.
4:15pm: Realize I can see new colors behind my eyelids.
4:16pm: Dig empty bottle of energy beverage out of garbage. Attempt to read ingredients.
4:17pm: Search for glasses on desk, in purse, under desk, in office plant. Freak out and yell “OHMYGOD, I LOST MY GLASSES!”
4:18pm: Realize glasses are on face. Attempt to read ingredients again.
4:19pm: Bottle says “Contains 2 Servings”. Get a little nervous.
4:20pm: Directions on bottle say “Always begin with ¼ bottle to assess tolerance. Never exceed more than ½ bottle per 7 hours.”
4:21pm: Realize that I have ingested 14 hours of energy. Contemplate panicking.
4:22pm: Decide best solution is to lay on back on cubicle floor.
4:23pm: Ask cube mates if they can see my heart beating through my shirt.
4:24pm: Yell at cube mates “What? I can’t hear you over this rushing sound in my ears! Can y’all hear that? Ohmygod! The ocean is IN. MY. EARS.”.
4:30pm: Walk to bathroom. Try not to tip over. Decide splashing water on face will help.
4:40pm: Walk back to cube. Cube mates ask why right side of hair and front of shirt is soaking wet. Pretend to have no idea what they are talking about.
4:41pm: Take off shoes because toenails feel funny.
4:45pm: Field phone call from vendor. Ask vendor “Is it weird that I can’t feel my tongue?”.
4:55pm: Stare at own reflection in window. Flare nostrils. Laugh hysterically.
4:58pm: Pack up and leave office. Wonder why all the building lights are flickering.
5:00pm: Try three times to fit key into ignition with shaking hands.
5:01pm: Begin drive home.
5:05pm: See Dunkin’ Donuts.
5:20pm: See Jack in the Box.
5:40pm: See Sonic.
5:50pm: Pull into driveway.
6:30pm: On sofa. Have no recollection of how I got there. Wonder why I am surrounded by two dozen donuts, 12 tacos and three chocolate shakes.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

My Family Went To Minnesota And All I Got Was Bieber Fever

So I'm back from vacation. I didn't tell y'all about it (again) because Captain Carl is convinced that somehow one of you crazies figured out my real name and where I live and are just waiting for me to announce an extended time away so you can break into my house, eat my food, molest my cats and sniff my panties. But ha! Jokes on you because I never leave dirty panties when I go on vacation.

We spent a week with my parents in Minnesota. I was inebriated approximately 75% of the time, courtesy of my mom's brandy slush. Ever had a brandy slush? No? Get me up to 500 followers and I'll give you the recipe. You gotta work for it, bitch.

My dad has leukemia and was on a week long break from chemo while we were there. My mom is diabetic and found out the day before we left that she has to start on insulin shots. Sounds like a non-stop party, right?

Okay, so it wasn't exactly the most relaxing of vacations. But I adore my parents and miss them terribly when we are apart. So I did my best to savor every moment and then sobbed myself to sleep on our last night there. I do it every time we go and all Captain Carl can do is lay there and pat my back until I'm done.

And then we drove 18 hours straight to get home the next day. Awesome. I slept until noon today and have the worst travel/brandy slush hangover known to mankind. And tomorrow I get to go back to my job.

Well, fuck.

I had what was probably the most meaningful conversation I've ever had with my 13 year old niece, let's call her Red, while I was up there.

Me: How's school, Red?
Red: It's okay. We have, like, only 4 minutes of passing time between classes this year.
Me: Is that bad?
Red: Yes, we had 5 minutes last year.
Me: Well that sucks.
Red: I know! We have to, like, run to our classes.
Me: You should run for student council and then you could change that.
Red: We voted for student council last week and the teacher told us we should tell whoever gets voted on about what we don't like and they can, like, say something to, like, the principal or something.
Me: You better track down your councilman and bitch about the 4 minutes.
Red: And also they play really stupid music during passing time.
Me: Like what?
Red: Like some kind of old stuff.
Me: They should play Justin Bieber.
Red: Ohmygod yeah!
Me: I heard you love him.
Red: Ohmygod yeah! I am, like, his biggest fan.
Me: Maybe you should suggest that your school have a Justin Bieber class.
Red: I could totally teach that class.
Me: Hmmm..I don't know if you know enough about him.
Red: He's 16 years old, his favorite color is purple, his favorite meal is spaghetti and his favorite type of food is Italian...
Me: What's his favorite breakfast?
Red: I don't know.
Me: You better find out or they'll never let you teach that class.
Red: He won't let anyone touch his hair...
Me: Well I can see why. It's so, ummmm, Bieber-y?
Red: Only his hairstylist can touch it.
Me: Probably because he'd lose his powers if it got cut too short.
Red: Maybe...
Me: He's like the modern Samson.
Red: What?
Me: Except instead of strength, his power is his beautiful girlish voice.
Red: He's not girlish!
Me: Listen, don't waste your time on Justin Bieber. He'll only break your heart when he comes out in a few years...
Red: What are you talking about?
Me: Two words. George. Michael.
Red: You are so weird.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Today I’d Like To Punch All Teenage Girls In Their Collective Faces

Only because they are so stupid. Oh so so so stupid. Still. I was really hoping they would have evolved a bit since I was one 20 years ago. But no. Nope. They are exactly the same, except with less rolling of the jeans and mall bangs.

Bunny is still moping over my boy. It’s been 3 months since he broke up with her. I remember what it’s like to get dumped when you are that age and I know it sometimes takes longer than 3 months to get over it. But seriously. The girl needs to stop, because my son? Not really thinking about her. I want to grab her by her cute little arms and shake her and yell “snap out of it!".

I have tried to talking to her several times over the summer. I’ve told her in the nicest way possible that he’s not ready to be the young man she wants him to be. And she nods her head and says she gets it, but girlfriend is lying because she keeps posting shit like this on her facebook wall.

9-8-10…the day that should have been but never was.

Yesterday would have been their 1st dating anniversary if they had stayed together.

Yeah. It’s just that pathetic, y’all.

The girl is in her senior year. The boy she is hung up on is now in college and has moved on. Way way on. So I’m thinking about sending her another email with all the for reals true reasons why she needs to get over it.

Here's what I've got so far...

1. The boy has already been with at least two girls at college. I know this because for some reason, he feels the need to share this information with his father.

2. See number 1 above. See it a lot. Lots and lots of times. Burn it into your brain. The boy is a man whore. He will be until at least the age of 23. I cannot stress this enough. He asked us for two things before he left for college: A laptop and a monthly supply of condoms. This is not a joke. I wish it were, but it srsly is so not a joke.

3. I love him, but damn the boy is gross. I mean, I am seriously concerned for his dental hygiene while he is away at college. Because I was still reminding him the week before he moved to brush his teeth every day. So basically he's walking around with fuzzy stink teeth. You don't want nay part of that, my dear.

4. Did I mention he’s gross? Because he’ll wear dirty socks and underwear if he’s out of clean ones. Several times.

5. Let’s play a game, shall we? I’ll ask you a question and you say the first thing that comes to your mind. Okay, here we go. Apushoversayswhat?

6. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Please please please…I beg you to stop perpetuating that delusion.

7. Did I mention the dirty underwear thing?

8. He's an uninformed voter and will probably vote straight Republican like his great-grandfather. Save yourself before it's too late. I bring you this message from the inside. It's not pretty here. There are guns and Newt Gingrich biographies. Run.

9. He loves Buckethead.

10. He's 18 years old. Therefore, he is a jerkface. To you. Not to me. To me he is my sweet, loving baby. To you he is a jerkface. This is something you already know but seem to be willing to forget. Need I remind you of the time he dumped a water bottle on you because "it would be freakin' hilarious"? Yeah. Jerkface.

And then I'm going to wrap it up with this little bit of advice...

You’re a sweet girl, but seriously…you need to grow a set and stop posting that shit on facebook. You are not helping your cause here. Boys don’t want to read that…it makes them run faster and further away. Not only will you never hear from my boy again, all the other boys will avoid you too. What you need to do is post something like “So glad I’m single! Having the best time porking all your loser friends that didn’t go to college and are still living at home!” Then say you’re thinking about becoming bisexual.

p.s. I apologize for that last one. Totally inappropriate for me to say that. But it would totally work if you are looking for a date on Friday night. Just sayin’. You didn’t hear it from me.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

All I Need Is This Teapot. And This Wind Chime. And This Candle. That’s It. That’s All I Need. And This Cookie Jar.

There is a place that most know about but seldom speak of in polite society. A place where men fear to tread. A place that turns a normal adult woman into a crazy lunatic the minute she walks through the doors. A place filled with objects that can strike terror in the hearts of even the bravest of souls.

That place?

The Cracker Barrel.


Never has there existed a restaurant that makes me behave in such a terrible manner such as this one. I don’t really understand what happens. I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of evil tchochke vortex located directly in the middle of their “country store” that sucks me in. We only visit Cracker Barrel when we’re on road trips. Usually it is the place we stop on our annual drive to Minnesota to see my family. I think it’s the biscuits that lure us in. Captain Carl is always the first to suggest it.

Me: Where should we eat?
Captain: I think there’s a Cracker Barrel about 30 minutes up the road.
Me: Are you sure you want to go there?
Captain: Why not?
Me: Oh, I don’t know…
Captain: I love their food.
Me: Me too.
Captain: Okay, let’s stop there then.

And then we walk in. And then he remembers why he should never, ever take me to the Cracker Barrel.

Me: Ooooh look! Yankee candles!
Captain: Shit. I forgot about the country store.
Me: They have cinnamon scented ones!
Captain: You have a million candles already.
Me: But not this one! I have to get it. Ooooooh! Would you just look at those cute teapots!
Captain: Come on, let’s get a table and eat.
Me: Just a sec. I have to see these teapots.
Captain: Fine.
Me: Ooooh!!! Look at this one! *holds teapot up by face*
Captain: You don’t even drink tea.
Me: I know, but look! It has bluebirds on it! Awwwww! And hearts!
Captain: *rubs eyes* Come on…I’m starving.
Me: Okay okay. *squealing* OMG!!!! Wind chimes! *runs off*
Captain: Damn it!
Me: Honey, we don’t have any wind chimes…
Captain: Because I hate them.
Me: Why do you hate them again?
Captain: Because the sound is too random.
Me: Oh but listen! *runs fingers through all 50 wind chimes* See? Beautiful!
Captain: *sighs*
Me: We should get the one with the dogs on the top. Oh no! This one! With the fall leaves! It’s almost fall, we have to get this one!
Captain: I’m getting a table. *walks away*
Me: Okay, order me a Diet Coke. I’ll be there in a minute. *runs to corner of store* 70% off! *yelling* Honey! 70% off!!
Captain: *pretends not to know me*

20 minutes later

Me: You’re eating. You ordered without me?
Captain: I told you I was hungry.
Me: Check it out…I got the best deal ever! *opens shopping bag*
Captain: What the hell is that?
Me: It’s a cookie jar!
Captain: It’s in the shape of a John Deere tractor.
Me: Adorable, right?!!
Captain: I just…why?
Me: It was 70% off! *hand up in the air* High five!
Captain: Which made it….
Me: $29.99. A total steal! Huh? Huh? Come on...high five! *looks at hand*
Captain: *stares at cookie jar* Why is this a necessity in life?
Me: We need somewhere to put the cookies. *gives self high five* Yeah! I'm awesome!
Captain: You hardly ever bake cookies.
Me: I will now that I have this!
Captain: And also it’s a tractor.
Me: It’s decorative. Nevermind, you don’t understand.
Captain: What’s in that other bag?
Me: Oh ummm….just some things.
Captain: Wind chimes?
Me: Maybe.

One hour later…on the road.

Me: *moaning*
Captain: What’s wrong?
Me: Why did you let me buy that junk?
Captain: What? I didn’t LET you do anything…you just did it. Just like you always do.
Me: Well you're the husband. You're in charge. You should have stopped me.
Captain: I haven't been in charge since I met you.
Me: But still....a John Deere cookie jar?? Gah!
Captain: Last year it was those creepy angel statues. The year before that it was all those dry soup mixes. And then there was the Great Santa Mug Debacle of 2005.
Me: Seriously, I don’t know why I do it. I’m like a crazy person in that place.
Captain: Agreed.


Me: We have to pack lighter next year.
Captain: Why?
Me: So I can fit one of those Cracker Barrel rocking chairs in the back.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Damn You, Banana

I know I know. I haven't been around much lately. I have my reasons.

First? Last Saturday I bit into a banana and one of my crowns came off my tooth and I swallowed it before I noticed. A fucking banana, y'all. The softest fruit on the planet ripped a dental crown that is attached with fucking cement right off the remaining nub-of-what-was-once-an-awesome-but-is-now-felled-due-to-a-hairline-fracture tooth. Yes, that sentence just happened.

So I was sitting there, all eating my banana and then I swallowed (just like your mom did last night) and I was all huh, something feels weird and then I stuck my tongue over on the side of my mouth and holy shit, my crown is gone. So of course I start frantically looking around my chair for it, like it somehow walked out of my mouth without my knowledge. Then I realized that I swallowed it (twss). So I looked over at Captain Carl with my hand over my mouth and buggy eyes and he was all "What's the matter?" and I was all *horrified stare* and he was all "What happened?" and I was all "I just swallowed my crown!" and he was all "What?" and I was all "I. JUST. SWALLOWED. MY. CROWN." and he was all "No way" and I was all "Ohmygod" and he was all "Throw up!" and I was all "No!".

And then the pain kicked in. I had a raw, stub of a tooth exposed to the elements. So I cried. And Captain Carl was all "How can you feel anything? Didn't you have a root canal before they crowned it?" and I was all "No, are they supposed to do that?" and he was all "Yes" and I was all "Fucking dentist!". So I found another dentist that was open on Saturday, went to see her with greasy Saturday morning hair and banana breath and she was all "I'll do a root canal and get a temporary crown on there" and I was all "Yes please" and she was all "But not until Monday" and I was all stabbing her in the face. But then she prescribed vicodin for the pain so I totally made out with her.

All this means that sometime this week I literally flushed $500 down the toilet.


We moved the Kiddo to college and into his dorm on Sunday. He was pretty much all jumpy and clappy and excited and I was pretty much all pretend-happy but wearing-my-sunglasses-all-day-even-inside-because-my-eyes-kept-leaking. And now he's there and not here and Captain Carl was all braggy last week about how he was going to be so excited about being alone! like newlyweds! except with a renter living upstairs! And then on Monday he asked me if I'd been in the Kiddo's room yet and I was all "No, I can't go in there yet" and he was all "It looks like a hotel room with all his stuff gone" and then he burst into tears. Heh heh. Told ya.


On Monday morning, I got my root canal done but only half of it because the dentist "didn't have time to do the whole thing since it was an emergency appointment". Which means I get to go back in two weeks for a second root canal. Which is extra special awesome. And! This new dentist is good, but she doesn't use the laughing gas like my old shitty dentist did. Which means instead of laughing and peacefully drifting towards the ceiling during my root canal, I was instead sweating and trying not to cry and/or gag. And then on my way out I got to write a check for $620.


Yesterday I got a sinus infection. And a yeast infection. My body is awesome at infections. I'm oozing from almost every orifice.

And that's why I haven't been around much. Pretty much glad you asked, right?

Friday, August 20, 2010

National Cat Puke Day

Captain Carl loves my cats. But he spends a lot of time pretending that he hates them.

Anyone Who Has Ever Visited Our House: Thanks for having us over!
Captain Carl: It was great! Don’t forget to take your free cat on the way out.
Visitor: What?
Captain Carl: It's your parting gift.
Me: No.
Captain Carl: Yep, pick whichever one you want. We have several to choose from.
Me: We only have two and no.
Captain Carl: We have white and black. The white one is cute but dumb. The black one will probably try to kill you in your sleep.

Captain Carl’s Mom on the phone: When are y’all coming to see us again?
Captain Carl: We’ll be there tomorrow. But just to drop off the cats.
Mom: What?
Captain Carl: You know. So they can live with you and not me.
Mom: I don’t think your wife will let you do that.
Captain Carl: Don’t worry about that…I’ll tell her we’re taking them to a kitty spa. She won’t know until it’s too late.
Me: I’m sitting right here, asshole.
Captain Carl: Abort mission! Enemy has infiltrated base camp! Whoop whoop!

Renty: Well, I’m heading to the pool.
Captain Carl: Don’t forget to let the cats out.
Me: No. The cats don’t ever go out.
Captain Carl: Sure they do. You just forgot.
Me: No.
Captain Carl: Look at them! All sad and shit because they want to go outside.
Me: They are indoor cats. They don’t have any claws or survival skills.
Captain Carl: Even better!
Me: No!
Captain Carl: *looking at Renty* I will lower your rent by $100 if you let the cats out.
Renty: Uhhh, ha ha haaa...
Me: *points at Captain Carl* Don't make me hurt you.
Captain Carl: Who let the cats out? Who who who who!

Me: I’m leaving for work…have a good day.
Captain Carl: You too! Don’t forget to put the trash out and also to put the cats in the trash.
Me: Ha ha...not happening.
Captain Carl: I’m pretty sure today is National Take Your Cat To Work Day.
Me: Nope.
Captain Carl: National Take Your Cats To The Animal Shelter To Be Euthanized Day?
Me: Shut up.
Captain Carl: National Drive Your Cats To The Middle Of Nowhere, Dump Them On The Side Of The Road And Leave Them For Dead Day?

And just when I begin to worry that being stuck in the house all day with two stinky fur balls is getting to be too much for him, something like this happens:

Email From: Captain Carl
Subject: Good Boy

Have I told you lately how much I love your cats? Because today? I really really do.


My cats live to see another day.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Apparently Whitney Houston Is Stalking My Son

I came home on Friday to this message on my garage door.

No matter what, I will always love you!

Obviously Bunny is still not over the boy.

I blurred out the Kiddo's name for the blog, but trust's there. And now our neighbors know my son's middle name is apparently "Sexy".

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Too Much Sexy

Is it just me, or is that dude in the red bandana super hot?

Me: *blow drying hair* Good morning!

Captain Carl: *blinking* Mmmhhmmm...

Me: Still sleepy?

Captain Carl: *yawning*

Me: Come here, you.

Captain Carl: What?

Me: Just get over here. *slaps ass* You're looking sexy this morning.

Captain Carl: Seriously? *peers at self in mirror* I still have cpap mask marks on my face.

Me: I know. Rawr!

Captain Carl: *staring* Are you okay?

Me: Oh yeah, baby. I'm more than okay. *sexy eyebrow waggle*

Captain Carl: Wait, what day is it?

Me: It's Wednesday. And you know what that means...

Captain Carl: Ummm...

Me: It's time for business time.

Captain Carl: You're quoting Flight of the Conchords? At 6:30 in the morning?

Me: You know it. Check this out. *jumps up and down* Huh? *looks down at chest* Daddy like?

Captain Carl: You got your period this morning, didn't you.

Me: *stops jumping* No.

Captain Carl: Yes.

Me: Did not!

Captain Carl: You did. I know because you always get horny when it starts.

Me: What? Shut up, I do not.

Captain Carl: *raises eyebrows*

Me: Fine. Whatever. You just killed my sex buzz.

Captain Carl: Every month.

Me: Blah blah blah. Go away, buzz killer.

Captain Carl: I'll make you a smoothie for breakfast.

Me: Could you do it shirtless?

Captain Carl: No.

Me: And maybe wear those jeans I like?

Captain Carl: No.

Me: Come on! I have cramps. Be nice to me!

Captain Carl: No.

Me: Maybe just flash me some nip out the window when I leave for work then?

Captain Carl: Fine, but just one.

And he totally did it, y'all. The man gets me. Kind of scary, huh?

Monday, August 9, 2010

I Spent $382 And All I Got Was This College Tuition Bill

Here's a little math problem in honor of my boy going off to college in less than two weeks.


105 degree heat + 1 hour in Big Lots + 2.5 hours in Wal-Mart + screaming 3 year old in line behind us at checkout = $382 in college supplies


$382 in college supplies = Captain Carl ready to karate chop screaming 3 year old's mother + Miss Yvonne sobbing for 3.5 hours about her baby leaving home


Me: Hey Kiddo, check it out. *sweeping arm gestures towards 5 ft. high pile of plastic crates filled with notebooks and ramen noodles*
Kiddo: That looks like college stuff.
Me: It is! Your dad and I spent all afternoon getting everything for you.
Kiddo: Cool. Hey, I'm going over to Emo's house, okay?

And then I punched him in his ungrateful face. Teenagers are pretty much awesome.


I'm gonna miss that punk. Damn it.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Things You Don't Want To Know About Me But I'm Going To Tell You Anyway

  1. I have been on a new diet and exercise plan with Captain Carl for 5 weeks. I've lost a whole 4 pounds. I'm so skinny now that people don't recognize me. At this rate, I'll be down to my target weight in oh, about 3 years.
  2. In contrast, Captain Carl has lost 15 pounds and is a new man. I thought he was bad before, but I can't keep him off me now. Last night he told me he's drinking pineapple juice because it makes his "you know...stuff" taste better. *sigh* I'm thinking of sabotaging his diet. There's only so many nipple tweaks a wife can take.
  3. I've decided to boycott all reality tv unless it is educational. Jersey Shore offers valuable lessons on tanning and ummm, sexual relations? So I'm still watching that. Stop judging, you don't know me.
  4. I noticed last night that I've been consistently missing a patch of underarm hair for what appears to be several weeks. Instead of getting up and shaving it off, I sat and watched educational tv. Yes, The Fabulous Beekman Boys is educational. They live on a farm, people. All kinds of gay educational shit is happening on that show.
  5. Last weekend I got my brother-in-law, Mailman Mike, drunk and encouraged him to sing the karaoke version of "Single Ladies". Then I taught him the dance. Then I peed my pants from laughing. He denies that it ever happened. Next time? Video camera.
  6. That same night, Mailman Mike and I decided we should form an adult karaoke Glee club. Our trademark song? "Working for the Weekend" by Loverboy. With a cheerleader jump in the air at the end. It's pretty much awesomes. Don't be jealous.
  7. The average temperature in DFW has been hovering around 105 degrees. It was 95 degrees last night at 11pm. My butt cheeks are in a constant state of sweat. Seriously, my ass is glowing like a pregnant woman's face.
  8. Speaking of ass. I had a giant hemorrhoid last week. So yeah. There's you go.

I promise I'll stop writing about hemorroids if I get over 400 followers.



Probably not.

Monday, August 2, 2010

The Most Painfully Relaxing Massage Ever

Captain Carl has been trying to convince me to get a massage for a few years now. I am what some people might call "high strung" and what my mom calls "a little bit stressed out" and what my husband calls "fucking whacked out of your mind". I have no idea why I'm stressing. I mean, my husband is starting his own business, I have two jobs, my son is going to college this month, my electric bill is heading steadily towards $500, and I have a cat molester in superman boxers living upstairs.

For some reason, I'm afraid of getting a massage. I'm nervous about being naked on a table in front of a stranger. I'm worried that I'll get super relaxed and let a fart squeak out. I don't know...I just feel weird about it. I've been trying to ease into the whole massage thing this year. I got a chair massage and that was pretty awesome. Then I had a reflexology massage, which required me to lay on the table but not take any clothes off. But that was it. There's even a massage place right across the parking lot where I work. I could walk over and get rubbed on my lunch hour (twss). But I have never done it.

Then a couple weeks ago I met a lady through my photography business. She's a massage therapist who wanted family portraits taken. I needed a massage. Bada boom, a deal was struck. And I spent every day up until Thursday freaking out about my upcoming massage.

Thursday arrived and I drove to my appointment. I was getting a 90 minute deep tissue massage. Full body. Full on nude. Full on freaking out. So she puts me in the room and there's the big table...

Oh great, I'm sweating. Now I'm gonna be "the fat lady who sweat through 90 minutes of massage". Awesome.

Okay, getting undressed quickly...get on the table before she comes back in!! Hurry! OMG, why is my bra not coming off!! Gah!

Okay, made it to the table. Here she is...quick, stick the sheet under your armpits but be sneaky about it. Need to wipe off the sweat!

Hmmmm, so they really do play Enya during massages. I always wondered about that...

This isn't so bad. Massaging my head first...feels really good.

Okay, this kind of hurts. Is she pushing on my shoulders with her fists? Ow ow ow!

Phew, glad that part is over. Now the arms. Nice...feels good....ahhhh.

Holy shit!!! What the fuck, man?? What is she doing to my arms???? That can't be good for me!

Don't tense up don't tense up don't tense up. Pretend it feels good.

Massage Therapist: How's the pressure? Enough?
Me: Yep! Perfect!

Seriously, lady? How's the pressure? You are literally pushing me off the other side of the table!

Thank God, done with the arms. Oooh, the hand massage is nice. Now that's what I'm talkin' about!

When did my mind start talking in a New York accent?

Gosh, this is great. I can put up with a little pain on my arms for this hand massage.

I never realized how much I love Enya. Hmmmm, la laa laaaaa. Sail away....blah blah yaaaa.

Okay, on to the legs. Not too bad...I can handle this. Wait...oh shit, here come the fists again. Motherfucka!!!!!!!! Ow ow ow owwwwwww....

Keep a straight face...don't let her see how much this hurts. She'll think you're a huge massage pussy.

OMG, this isn't a massage, this is torture. Save me, Obama!

Deep breaths....think of something nice. Like puppies frolicking. Or the ocean! You love the ocean!

Holy mother of all that is good and holy...make her stop!!! Say something! Tell her it's too much pressure!!!

Massage Therapist: Still good on the pressure?
Me: Oh yes, it's wonderful!

I think I'm about to pass out...

Is it normal to see spots during a massage? Enya sounds like she's singing in a tunnel. Weird.

Feet! Ohhhh, this is awesome! Okay, I will forget about the legs. The foot massage is where it's at, baby!

Oh shit, I have to turn onto my stomach? Damn damn damn...I bet she can see my boobs. Thank God it's dark in here.

Ahhhh, shoulder massage...I wish she'd do this the whole time. nipples are getting pinched a little bit here. Should I move? Is that allowed?

Okay, major nipple pinching. Maybe if I just slowly reach my hand under there and move them around, she won't notice....

Crap, I wasn't fast enough...she's massaging my arm again. Oh great, more fisting.

Butt massage? This is kind of weird, but okay. Feels pretty good...oh man, now I have to fart. I KNEW IT! Hold it hold it hold it....

Massage Therapist: Okay, we're all done...I'll just step outside and you can get dressed and come out when you're ready.

Thank God, I thought she'd never leave. *pphhhhttttttt*

Me: Well thank you so much, it was wonderful!
Massage Therapist: I'm glad you liked it! And don't worry, it's normal to pass gas after an intense massage.
Me: Oh ummm...I didn't...I mean...not until after...ummm...
Massage Therapist: Was there enough pressure? I gave you the beginner pressure.
Me: That was beginner pressure?
Massage Therapist: Oh yes. It can get quite a bit more intense.
Me: Oh. Well, I mean there could have been a little bit more pressure...but this was fine.
Massage Therapist: We'll try a bit more next time.
Me: Oh ah....ha hahaa, okay.
Massage Therapist: Namaste
Me: Sure, ummm...right back at ya.