tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42160766277155492442024-03-14T01:18:12.895-05:00Yo Mama's BlogI Don't Make Monkeys, I Just Train 'EmMiss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.comBlogger378125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-9846392250109881552012-06-25T17:13:00.000-05:002012-06-25T17:13:10.799-05:00The Fine Line Between Being Hilarious And Being A GrandmotherTexting with the Kiddo...<br />
<br />
<b>Kiddo:</b> Hey the deposit came through today. Thank you thank you thank you!<br />
<b>Me:</b> G<br />
<b>Me:</b> Damn it, that was supposed say "Good".<br />
<b>Kiddo:</b> I've already made $215 at KFC, but I won't get it until the next paycheck. :-(<br />
<b>Me: </b> When does the next paycheck come?<br />
<b>Kiddo:</b> Not for two more weeks. <br />
<b>Me:</b> Has Bunny found a job yet?<br />
<br />
Side note...I forgot to tell you guys that he got back together with <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2010/06/breaking-up-is-kind-of-not-really-hard.html">Bunny</a> on account of how she followed him and enrolled at his college and I'm not sure what the sequence of events was after that except that I suppose at one point his penis accidentally fell into her vagina and now they are living together over the summer in a house 6 miles from campus with a Mexican guy named Geronimo. I'm not even kidding. And yes, I will go into more detail about Geronimo, but not today. Blogging 101, dudes...always keep them wanting more. <br />
<br />
So. Anyway...<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b> Has Bunny found a job yet?<br />
<b>Kiddo:</b> Yes, she works at KFC too.<br />
<b>Me: </b> So y'all work together. Awwww, so cute.<br />
<b>Kiddo:</b> Yup. Pretty damn lucky and convenient.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Y'all might as well just go ahead and get married and start having babies.<br />
<br />
<i>*phone silence*</i><br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: I'M KIDDING.<br />
<br />
<i>*longer phone silence*</i><br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b> You know, because that would be ridiculous and I'm just being hilarious over here.<br />
<br />
<i>*more phone silence*</i><br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b> Ok, your silence makes me think you already ARE having babies and are just trying to find a way to tell me so that I don't totally freak out and have a panic attack and OMG HOW AM I GOING TO TELL YOUR FATHER I'M TOO YOUNG TO BE A GRANDMOTHER!!!!<br />
<br />
<i>*still more phone silence*</i><br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Stop smoking that bowl/having sex and answer your stepmother before she passes out!<br />
<br />
<i>*more mother fucking phone silence* </i><br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b> I swear to all that is good and holy that if you do not answer me RIGHT NOW I WILL DRIVE DOWN THERE AND CUT YOUR PRIVATE PARTS OFF.<br />
<b>Kiddo: </b> Calm down, I was in the bathroom. And may I just say oh hellllllll no to babies.<br />
<b>Me: </b> Oh. Okay. <br />
<b>Me: </b> That was totally hilarious, right? Me pretending to freak out. heh heh<br />
<b>Kiddo: </b> Right. Pretending.<br />
<br />
So. Guess who's getting a box full of condoms sent to him tomorrow? <br />
<br />
<br />Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-65610987375607215662012-06-13T13:37:00.001-05:002012-06-13T13:37:31.555-05:00Rock Hard HemorrhoidsOkay, I admit it. I read 50 Shades of Grey.<br />
<br />
Okay fine. I read all three of those stupid books.
I say stupid because they are. Very stupid. The writing is terrible, the plot is ridiculous. The characters are borderline unlikeable. But the sex scenes. Oh, the sex scenes make up for all of that.<br />
<br />
Here's a confession that will surprise none of you. I love romance novels. LOVE. They are silly and dumb and totally forgettable once I've finished them. But I love them anyway. ESPECIALLY if the author throws in some good sex scenes. A romance novel without a sex scene is like a fireman without a hose.<br />
<br />
Mmmm...firemen...<br />
<br />
Anyway. So of course I would read the 50 Shades books. Such was my mania to get busy reading them that I did something I never do. I paid full price for them to be downloaded to my Kindle. Then I devoured them. I mean, it's not hard to read them quickly on account of how awful they are. And by awful I mean super naughty hot.<br />
<br />
So you know how when you buy something on Amazon and it gives you recommendations for future purchases? After I bought the 50 Shades books, I was bombarded with smutty book suggestions. I promptly downloaded the free samples and added them to my Amazon wishlist. Every. Single. One.
Then I moved on with my life for a few weeks, blissfully unaware of how this decision could possibly affect me in the very near future.<br />
<br />
Flash forward to today. I'm eating lunch at my desk at work and decide to google myself. This is something my IT husband suggests I do periodically, just to see what people are putting out there about me. So I googled and nothing surprising came up. Then a thought came to me. I've never googled my maiden name. I type it in and start scrolling down.
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Huh. This site knows the day I got married and is telling the world how old I am. How rude. </i><br />
<br />
<i>*scrolling* </i><br />
<br />
<i>Hmmm, garbage garbage garbage...nothing interesting... </i><br />
<br />
<i>*more scrolling* </i><br />
<br />
<i>Oh look! My Amazon wishlist shows up on the first page of google with my maiden name. Weird. </i><br />
<br />
<i>*clicks link to wishlist* </i><br />
<br />
<i>Shit. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Ohmygod. I put all those smutty books on my wishlist. This is public???? How can this be public????? All of my ex-boyfriends could be reading it! They'll know that someday I wish to read "Rock Hard"! Ohmygod WHY DID I PUT THAT ON MY WISHLIST! I mean....Rock Hard??? Could there be a more ridiculous title? </i><br />
<br />
<i>*desperately scrolling through wishlist* </i><br />
<br />
<i>Wait. I put a Chinese hemorrhoid cream on there? How long ago did I do that??? Oh my sweet Lord, I don't even remember that! It must have been on there for anyone to see for years! My ex's think I have hemorrhoids! Jesus!!!!!!</i><br />
<br />
Because of course my ex-boyfriends are googling me. I mean, I googled them once. How else would I know that my high school sweetheart is now a mediocre weight lifter and still wears black heavy metal t-shirts and the guy I almost married is now almost completely bald (yessss....air punch!)? I thought THAT stuff was embarrassing, but it doesn't even come close to the mortification that is ROCK HARD HEMORRHOIDS.<br />
<br />
And now I don't remember any of the smutty books I wanted to download because I deleted them all off my wishlist in a blind panic.<br />
<br />
Damn you, Amazon.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-72381157083410396022012-05-17T12:47:00.000-05:002012-05-17T12:47:55.566-05:00Insta-awesomeY'all, I just realized I've never linked to my instagram account here. If you are already a follower, you know what a travesty of awesomeness that is.
Okay, not really. But! If you follow me, I promise there will be dinosaurs.
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And cats. Lots and lots of cats.
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<iframe src="http://followgram.me/marcyjordan/widget" style="height:27px;" frameborder="0"></iframe>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-88576677380674056102012-04-25T20:48:00.000-05:002012-04-25T20:48:18.375-05:00Whip It Good<i><script src="http://member.clevergirlscollective.com/track/?g=7&u=7332" type="text/javascript">
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Okay so here's the thing. I love to eat. LOVE. I have a beautiful relationship with my meals. That first taste, especially when it's something special or if I'm really hungry, is pure bliss.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I suck at cooking. I have cooking anxiety. I'm always afraid that I'm going to under cook the meat, so I end up drying it out. I have no vision for it. I must have a recipe and I MUST follow it exactly. Lucky for me, I have a husband who, if allowed, would spend all day, every day in the kitchen making up new dishes. In other words, I never have to make a meal. Unless, like this week, he is gone on a business trip and then I eat nothing but cereal and sandwiches.<br />
<br />
But I can bake. I can bake like the wind. For some reason, the fear that plagues me with dinner planning disappears when it comes to desserts.
I am not an elaborate baker. I prefer to use a mix as a base for brownies and cakes. My cookies are from simple recipes. But it's always good. Probably because I've always had a powerful sweet tooth. One of my most vivid memories from my early years is visiting my Grandma and figuring out that if I called anything sweet my "medicine" she would think it was adorable and give it to me. And that's how my love affair with COOL WHIP Whipped Topping started. Every visit to my Grandma resulted in 4-5 spoonfuls of my medicine.
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>*sigh*</i> I still love that stuff. I figured out early on when raising my kiddos that a little COOL WHIP on top of their fruit at meals made the whining go away and quick. OMG, the whining. I wasn't prepared for it. They're all "I hate strawberriesssssssss!" and I'm all "You told me you loved them last week" and they're all "They make me barfffffff!" and I'm all "Just eat them" and they're all <i>*choke gag*</i> and I'm all "Oh for Pete's sake, here" and then the COOL WHIP comes out and everyone is happy and smiling and suddenly we're in a Disney movie. And then they finish their strawberries and I tell them to take out the trash and then we're in that horror movie with the little kid who crawls out of the well and then I don't sleep for a week.<br />
<br />
My kiddos are all grown up now (if you call being 20 years old in college and still not remembering to brush your teeth every day) but that's totally fine with me because it means when I make stuff like this I get to eat all of it myself.<br />
<br />
This? Is a whoopie pie.<br />
<br />
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<i>And the angels sang in the heavens.</i></div>
<br />
So I have a friend who mentioned I should try making my own whoopie pies out of cake mix. So I started googling and found so many recipes that looked amazing. But I'm not really a heavy frosting fan, so I thought maybe exchanging the more traditional filling with COOL WHIP would be fun to try.
These are the only ingredients I used.
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A devil's food cake mix, 2 eggs and two tubs of COOL WHIP. Instead of the oil called out on the mix box, I used a tub of COOL WHIP instead. Sounds weird? I thought so too.<br />
<br />
You guys.<br />
<br />
They are AH-MAZE-ING. They are light and sweet and oh did I forget to mention that I mixed a tiny bit of the dry cake mix with another tub of COOL WHIP and spread it in between two of the pies and then I passed out from how good they taste?<br />
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This took me all of 45 minutes total, not counting the 30 minutes I let the dough chill in the refrigerator before I baked the pies. 45 minutes. Everyone has 45 minutes in their day to make something this super yum and super easy (I'm looking at you, lady in my office who brags about how she bakes all weekend for her kid's girl scout troop meetings while staring at me and my Twinkie all judge-y faced).<br />
<br />
I figure this post is like my community service to the internet for all the swearing and inappropriate talk I do here. Hey everyone, make this and you'll experience one minute of pure bliss followed by 10 minutes of pure amazement over how kind and generous Miss Yvonne was to share her COOL WHIP whoopie pie recipe with you. You're welcome.<br />
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Now I'm off for my last dose of medicine.<br />
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<i>Sponsored posts are purely editorial content that we are pleased to have presented by a participating sponsor. Advertisers do not produce the content. I was compensated for this post as a member of <a href="http://clevergirlscollective.com/">Clever Girls Collective</a>, but the content is all my own.</i>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-23629896926946847672012-04-19T11:44:00.004-05:002012-04-19T12:07:15.261-05:00My Dad, A Snake & A Burning BushMy parents are here for a week long visit. I am beyond thrilled. We live in different states and so I usually only see them once or twice a year. Plus my dad is super handy and hates to sit still, which means I'm totally getting a bunch of little projects done for me while they are here. <br /><br />My approach when my dad visits goes something like this:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">You know, I've always wanted to have a screen door on the back of the house. How much do you think that would cost, dad? Is it hard to install? I suppose we could try it sometime this summer. Thinking about that makes me remember how badly I need to sand and paint the front door. It looks terrible. *sigh* I guess I'll just add it to the list of things we need to get done.</span><br /><br />I know I should feel ashamed of myself on account of my dad being 75 years old and all, but I totally don't. My mom says he likes to feel needed, so I'm helping HIM out. Or something.<br /><br />So this visit, I casually mentioned that the four pampas grass plants we have in the backyard are super overgrown and need to be chopped down but holy cow, it is hard work. The very next day, my dad got at it.<br /><br />I came home from work that day and was all "What did you guys do today?" and my mom was all "Tell her, Donald" to my dad. And so my dad proceeds to tell me this story...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span>I went outside to look at your fence that is falling down (I forgot to mention the fence I told him really needed fixing) and when I lifted up one of the panels, there was a huge snake under it. I mean, that sucker was about 8 feet long (!!!!). So I went inside and Captain Carl grabbed his shot gun (WTF with the guns, Texas????) and we went looking for it but couldn't find it. So a few hours later I decided to chop down that pampas grass and when I started, that damn snake was slithering around in it. So I grabbed the matches out of my pocket and threw a match into the grass and that sucker went up in a huge fireball.<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />This was the point in the story where I questioned my dad why he had matches in his pocket. He never did give me a straight answer, but I suspect he intended to burn the grass from the beginning and didn't want to tell me ON ACCOUNT OF THE BURN BAN WE ARE UNDER.<br /><br />For reference, this is a fully grown pampas grass.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOyf_o2qWuCM33yAloSzj3I3t55vSFQCXJYG0RSLbsxmSid57AxmKlVY9FSC6GPB3QnDbqRcD2ZoLKylW2x7qfORMit8FSiDj_i9X3IEsL-mf7N6Ylvdbi7KbgJA2BEJBgWYb8XkTYz8e/s1600/pampas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOyf_o2qWuCM33yAloSzj3I3t55vSFQCXJYG0RSLbsxmSid57AxmKlVY9FSC6GPB3QnDbqRcD2ZoLKylW2x7qfORMit8FSiDj_i9X3IEsL-mf7N6Ylvdbi7KbgJA2BEJBgWYb8XkTYz8e/s400/pampas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733156744483709394" /></a><br /><br />That is what my dad set on fire. Apparently it threw a fireball high enough into the sky that a passing motorist saw it and called 911. <br /><br />Fast forward 5 minutes. My dad, who has put out the fire quickly (it only burned for a minute apparently), has now retreated upstairs to work on a different project. He neglected to inform my mom and the Captain about what happened. So imagine their surprise when eight firemen storm into the backyard while the ARSON INVESTIGATOR knocked on the front door and asked them if they knew about a fire. <br /><br />My mom, knowing my dad so well, had her suspicions about who was to blame and yelled upstairs to my dad "Get your ass down here, the fire dept. is here!" to which my dad replied "Oh shit."<br /><br />Luckily, the arson investigator did not give him a citation. They found a shedded snake skin (OMG I hate this state sometimes) and figured he was telling the truth about the snake and asked him to maybe not light anything else on fire. My mom is still pissed though. As for me, it gave me a good story to tell and the only thing left of the plant is a about a foot of blackened grass. The snake is nowhere to be seen. I call that a successful project.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-59350007082712598212012-04-09T13:02:00.004-05:002012-04-09T13:18:32.370-05:00Jesus FailI really do believe in God. I do. Believe it or not, I was raised by extremely spiritual and religious parents. I went to church every. single. sunday. I played the Virgin Mary in the Christmas play (stop snickering, asshole). I taught Bible School, Sunday School, and accompanied the children's choir on the piano. <br /><br />Fast forward 20 years and there I was...not going to church on Easter, the most important Christian holiday ever. Sleeping in on Easter. HAVING SEX ON EASTER. I'm pretty sure that's some kind of sin somewhere in the bible. So Jesus is all "Dudes, I'm rising. Check out my tomb. What? It's empty? Holla!" and I'm all <span style="font-style:italic;">*snore*</span>. <br /><br />Of course, I totally lied to my parents and told them we went to church. Because I totally was going to and intention is like, almost as good as actually doing something. So Saturday night I was all "I don't want to go to church" and Captain Carl was all "Fine by me" because Captain Carl is a heathen who doesn't believe in Jesus. Oh, he does believe in a higher power of some kind but he can't wrap his brain around the Jesus thing, I guess. Whatever. I'll wave at him down there in hell when I go to heaven. <span style="font-style:italic;">*pious face*</span> My point is that I had no one to talk me out of talking myself out of going to church. So basically it was totally not my fault that I didn't go.<br /><br />And then my parents called and were all "Happy Easter!" and I was all "Yeah, happy Easblah..." and then I was all "What did you do today?" and they were all "Oh we went to church with your older, better sister and she sang in the choir for THREE services so she got saved like, 3x more than you did probably. What did you do?" and I was all "Oh you know, stuff and eating and easter stuff mumble mumble."<br /><br />Oh well. The Easter Bunny still managed to find our house, despite our being fresh out of moral compasses. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5uOhpofK9MscjRQc34im2mqOFAPsRmZf7daWK92gRd2modntvUOG2ZIEhN3KcIzYS-J2qLus8i5cXiz7FFmaJt1H6bGjJgIlumjkmR4YZj-E-oZmlDEGiParHC4Narr9I3BbBasRkTTv/s1600/easterbunny.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5uOhpofK9MscjRQc34im2mqOFAPsRmZf7daWK92gRd2modntvUOG2ZIEhN3KcIzYS-J2qLus8i5cXiz7FFmaJt1H6bGjJgIlumjkmR4YZj-E-oZmlDEGiParHC4Narr9I3BbBasRkTTv/s400/easterbunny.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729465939321026898" /></a><br /><br />No, he did not wear the ears in bed.<br /><br />Yes, I kind of wish he had.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-9669734659272831852012-03-10T14:51:00.003-06:002012-03-10T15:30:16.865-06:00Don't Ya Wish Your Girlfriend Was More Modest Than Me?Things I am not proud of:<br /><ol><li>I have no inner monologue</li><li>I have no problem humiliating myself in public</li><li>I will sing on command at any time</li><li>I am super drunk in these videos</li></ol><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/pPFHUZL-r2A" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe><br /><br />Yes, that is a wireless mic I'm wearing. My brother-in-law, <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/12/mother-fing-ravioli-night.html">Mailman Mike</a>, gave it to me for Christmas, proving yet again how much Captain Carl's family gets me.<br /><br />This next one is long, but also pure genius on account of my amazing Bee Gees impression.<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lGGEkdX4G5s" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />We are having another karaoke party tonight. Watch out, living room. It's about to get all kinds of stupid up in here.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-46257021285265980262012-02-22T08:51:00.004-06:002012-02-22T08:59:11.874-06:00And That's How Eric Stoltz And 70's Porno Music Got Me Fired<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Hello?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Hey baby.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*70’s porno music playing</span>*<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> What the hell is that?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Oh that? Just a little baby makin’ music to start your day off right.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Ummmm…..what?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Okay, so I was on YouTube searching for Eric Stoltz in Back To The Future and…<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Wait, Eric Stoltz was in Back To The Future?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> No, he was the original Marty and they filmed for like 5 weeks or something and then they replaced him with Michael J. Fox.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> No way. How do you know that?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Everyone knows that.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> No they don’t.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Everyone but you knows that.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Ohmygod, I’m trying to picture him in that movie and it’s kind of freaking me out.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Why?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> There’s no way Eric Stoltz can pull off a puffy vest. <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Well anyway, so that’s what I was searching for and you know how it goes on YouTube. You click a link and then watch that video and then click on another link and then watch that video and then click on another link and boom! You find a band that does remakes of 70’s porn soundtracks.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Are you sure you’re not just watching porn?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Not yet.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*more 70’s porno music playing*</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Huh. That could be either 70’s porn or<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>70’s cop show. <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Just call me Ponch.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> I never realized how versatile that music is. You can chase bad guys or fuck bad guys to that music. <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Awesome, right?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> All you need is the right moustache and some bell bottoms and you’re good to go for either.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Hell, all I have to do is shave off my goatee and I’ll have the moustache.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> I wonder if they make bell bottoms in your size.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him: </span><span style="font-style: italic;">*giggling*</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> What?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Oh, nothing. <span style="font-style: italic;">*more giggling*</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">*yelling*</span> YOU BETTER NOT HAVE A PORN MOUSTACHE WHEN I GET HOME TONIGHT!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Every Co-worker in my office:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">*awkward silence*</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">*whispering*</span> Damn it.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Him:</span> Well, my work here is done.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-52907399445828353482012-01-24T12:30:00.000-06:002012-01-24T12:42:15.042-06:00Maxine Has Left The BuildingRemember last summer when we had to put my cat,<a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/goodbye-to-my-boo-boo.html"> Boo Boo</a>, to sleep and I was super sad face about it and it totally sucked? Yeah, I had to do it again in November.<br /><br />After Boo died, my other cat went downhill fast. My Maxine. She was my baby. I adopted her when she was a kitten. I was fresh out of college and had just gotten my first grown up job and rented my first apartment. She was the runt of a litter of farm cats and I could not resist her. She saw me through a lot of difficult times: A broken engagement one month before the wedding, a move to another state where I knew no one, the death of grandparents, the adjustment to married life and a ready-made family.<br /><br />She was special, is what I'm trying to say.<br /><br />She was also extremely awful. She peed on the carpet. A lot. So much that the Captain and I had to have it ripped out and replaced with hardwood. She was grumpy. She hated most everyone but me, but insisted on sitting right in their faces in order to fool them into thinking she liked them so she could bite them when they tried to pet her. She chewed up all the ribbons on Christmas presents and then pooped them out for months afterwards. She puked EVERYWHERE.<br /><br />But I loved her so much.<br /><br />So when Boo died and she began wandering around the house crying pitifully for hours and then began to eat less, the Captain knew what was coming. I kept myself in denial. Sure, she was 15 years old and was obviously in mourning for Boo. But she would come out of it. I just knew it.<br /><br />Still, when no one was looking, I would whisper in her ear "Please don't die on me. Not now. Please. I need another year first. I can't take it right now." And Max would look right at my face and it seemed like she understood.<br /><br />And maybe she did, but she just couldn't do it. Soon it became obvious to even me that she was sick. She was drinking large amounts of water and urinating constantly. Exactly what Boo did at the end. So we took her to the vet and got the same diagnosis when we took Boo. Diabetes.<br /><br />That was on a Monday. We told the vet we were taking the week to decide if we wanted to treat her or put her down. By Friday, Max had made the decision for me. She could barely walk. She spent hours sitting in front of her water bowl with her head hanging in it. She had lost so much weight in a 5 day period that you could see her hip bones jutting out.<br /><br />I took the weekend to say goodbye. I held her on my shoulder the way she always loved. She would purr and sleep while I walked around the house talking softly to her for hours. I cried a lot. I had moments when I thought maybe she'd get better, but by Sunday morning I knew it was time.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglqG6ELRsxO4mvolRR2rBO8XIogaeopt2AC7EmCNZHqSFaYtIjV-MRixldH_wfjMB0zFRbwClAiz5eSh_VUHV9E3fABzNdCN-CXCCiJ0CDEEcp4NFXvRcOqaXSMDEmIn1-8fOp7SkofgA/s1600/max.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 317px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglqG6ELRsxO4mvolRR2rBO8XIogaeopt2AC7EmCNZHqSFaYtIjV-MRixldH_wfjMB0zFRbwClAiz5eSh_VUHV9E3fABzNdCN-CXCCiJ0CDEEcp4NFXvRcOqaXSMDEmIn1-8fOp7SkofgA/s400/max.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691955778232284226" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Max and me in healthier times<br /></span></div><br />So on Monday, almost exactly four months from when Boo died, we took her to the vet. I couldn't bring myself to do it with Boo, but I knew I had to be there for Max. I was her person, her favorite. I couldn't leave her alone at the end.<br /><br />It was hard. It was probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do so far in my life. Even now, months later, I still think about those last few minutes. I hate that she was terrified and hurting and I could do nothing but talk to her and tell her I loved her until she was gone.<br /><br />But it was fast. Just like everyone says, it was over in seconds. One second she was there, staring at my face, and the next she was gone. I was somehow able to not cry until she died, because I didn't want her to see me upset. So at the very end of her life, I was the last face Max saw and my voice was the last she heard. And that brings me comfort every time I think about her.<br /><br />I got to spend awhile with her afterwards, but it was so hard to walk out without her. The Captain, who had been there with me the whole time, held my hand and took me home. I went straight to bed for the rest of the day.<br /><br />And I miss her still. I know some people will read this and roll their eyes and say "It was just a cat, not a person". And that is okay, I don't expect everyone to understand. I know it's not the same thing. I've lost family members, I know that pain. This is a different kind of pain, but still just as real. Max was my buddy for 15 years, my entire adult life up until this point, and I will always miss her.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8u0M3ZvSBwXoSTQrHQGK5pk8nOupKlBStLokNxG-Cb1dL3sey_dLFPr0IqgzsEEEHUsUJuNDICqikf6HOf1UB8lFrWtAI66eBr_jWYDk_W6hPiMifKDxHf8yU9fZR53CjyqG_FckcWxte/s1600/max2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8u0M3ZvSBwXoSTQrHQGK5pk8nOupKlBStLokNxG-Cb1dL3sey_dLFPr0IqgzsEEEHUsUJuNDICqikf6HOf1UB8lFrWtAI66eBr_jWYDk_W6hPiMifKDxHf8yU9fZR53CjyqG_FckcWxte/s400/max2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691956018392567970" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Love you, old lady.</span><br /><br /><br /></div>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-68798407743704533042012-01-17T20:54:00.005-06:002012-01-18T08:42:37.535-06:00And That's How I Ended Up With My Fingers Glued Together On A Tuesday NightSo I found this new website. It's called Pinterest. Heard of it? Probably not, on account of how I tend to catch these trends way before everyone else does. I'm pretty sure it was just created in the last couple of months, since that is when I found it. And now I'm telling you guys about it because that's how much I care. You're welcome.<br /><br />Pinterest is this site where people "pin" pictures of things they like or want. It's basically like a virtual bedroom wall or something. Maybe a bulletin board? Ohmygod...<span style="font-style:italic;">pin</span>. I just got that. <br /><br />Huh.<br /><br />So when I first found Pinterest, I didn't get what the big deal was. Sure, it's kind of a good resource if you're looking for a new recipe or a craft to do with your kid or whatever. I pinned a few things and then left the site for weeks. <br /><br />Then I came back to search for some photography that would inspire me on an upcoming shoot I had scheduled. <br /><br />It was all downhill from there. <br /><br />This place. It's like crack for women who secretly want to make their own soap and dress like a bohemian and redecorate their home and do crafts that make their friends hate them for how creative they are and make teeny tiny cakes in recycled tin cans (for real...it's out there). <br /><br />I couldn't stop. Because if I did, I might miss an adorable kitten photo. Or a gorgeous dress that I could never ever fit into. <br /><br />Suddenly I realized that I hated every paint color in my house and I <span style="font-style:italic;">must redo everything immediately</span>. I became enamored of chalk paint. What the fuck is chalk paint anyway? I have no fucking idea, but I want that shit. I want to slap it on every goddamn dresser I own. And then I want to distress the shit out of those dressers. Then I want to wrap every single present I ever give ever with lace doilies. And then I want to make all my own household cleaners by simply combining 13 other products that I have to go out and buy but who cares because <span style="font-style:italic;">look! homemade fucking cleaner</span>. And then I want to paint my fingernails with every fucking OPI color on the planet and then take a picture of my hand holding the goddamn bottle of polish. <br /><br />And then just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I discovered the coffee filter crafts. Oh. Dear. God. <br /><br />If you haven't seen the coffee filter pins out there, go search for them and prepare to be astounded. You can make wreaths. You can make flowers. You can make wrapping paper. There is no end to the usefulness of the wonder that is the dollar store coffee filter. <br /><br />Some of the projects looked a little hard for an entry level crafter like me. But I found one that looked to be simple. <br /><br />The coffee filter lamp shade.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3dl0RJFjW1CZ51IDqES63zRHsjpmYq8_f2mFnBQLu5QHfP01eATtty5VghwsmFmJNkipGgr5HbFQ3p1Baa8FvklCIArqJ3DUfQdZEVWV_a1lawLvmKfeDqIhKDlf15aNnbwmuOpFXx8V/s1600/diy-coffee-filter-lamp-shade-1206021.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3dl0RJFjW1CZ51IDqES63zRHsjpmYq8_f2mFnBQLu5QHfP01eATtty5VghwsmFmJNkipGgr5HbFQ3p1Baa8FvklCIArqJ3DUfQdZEVWV_a1lawLvmKfeDqIhKDlf15aNnbwmuOpFXx8V/s400/diy-coffee-filter-lamp-shade-1206021.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698806610886469138" /></a><br /><br />All you have to do is scrunch up a filter, dab a little hot glue on the end and stick it to the lamp shade. Do it over and over until the entire shade is covered and looky there...you got yourself a cute little lamp. <br /><br />I rushed right out to the dollar store and bought the filters. I grabbed an old lamp that I wasn't using anymore, ripped off the shade and set to work. I was giddy with excitement. In a mere 30 minutes or so, my very first Pinterest craft would be completed! I would take pictures and post them here and give a tutorial for everyone asking me how I did it and I'd be all brag facey and It. Would. Be. Awesome.<br /><br />Ten minutes and six filters later, I had lost feeling in my fingertips on account of the hot glue gun burns. My filters looked more like wilted lettuce than perky flowers. I realized that at this rate, it would take me three hours to finish the shade. I began to think about the fire hazard that is a lamp shade covered in paper and mere inches from a light bulb. I decided that my lamp base would now need to be painted a cute robins egg blue in order to compliment the frivolity of the shade, which would require another trip to the store and more crafty effort. <br /><br />I got tired. I sat back in my chair and stared into space. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Fucking Pinterest</span>, I thought.<br /><br />It was then that I realized I had left the hot glue gun sitting on the bare wood of my office desk. It was leaking glue all over the surface, so I frantically wiped at it with my bare hand. Then the screaming began, followed closely by me yelling "My fingers are stuck together! Help me!". I received nohttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif sympathy from Captain Carl.<br /><br />"I told you to just buy a new lamp." <br /><br />And now I am searching Pinterest for ways to resurface a desktop. I'm pretty sure this can only end well. <br /><br />p.s. You can follow my boards on Pinterest by clicking <a href="http://pinterest.com/marcyjordan">here</a>. But you don't have to or anything. I mean, whatever. I don't even care.<br /><br />p.p.s. I'm guest posting over at <a href="http://www.mouthyhousewives.com/sex/my-boyfriend-prefers-his-hand-over-me">The Mouthy Housewives</a> today! I'm giving advice to a woman who's upset about how much her husband likes to masturbate. Among other things, I suggested she dress up like Princess Leia in the gold bikini. So yeah, I'm practically a psychologist now.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-6430408325277398052012-01-13T11:22:00.003-06:002012-01-13T11:36:26.580-06:00The Best Goddamn Birthday Present EverSo my birthday was this week. I turned 38. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">*silent scream*</span><br /><br />Let's move on, shall we?<br /><br />I didn't really do anything exciting to celebrate this year, besides get laid. Holla! The Captain, whose birthday is 4 days before mine because apparently <span style="font-style:italic;">someone</span> just <span style="font-style:italic;">has</span> to hog the spotlight <span style="font-style:italic;">every fucking year</span>, and I decided not to exchange gifts this year. Which is good news and bad news for me. Good news because I suck at gift giving. He probably would have gotten a book about pirate ships. Again. But bad news because I love receiving presents. Luckily, his parents came through for me and got me a kindle and ohmygod I am reading <span style="font-style:italic;">the shit</span> out of that thing. <br /><br />Anyway, so it's two days after my birthday and I'm getting kind of frowny face because now I'm 38 and all I have to look forward to is turning 39 and then...well, you know. Get ready for a blog post two years from now about how I did nothing but sob and eat two whole birthday cakes, is what I'm saying. <br /><br />And then? Something amazing happened this morning. I received a totally unexpected and awesome birthday gift from my good friend Kristine at <a href="http://www.waitinthevan.com/">Wait In The Van</a>. <br /><br />Was it Ugg boots? A new iPhone? A toaster? Shut up, I love toast. <br /><br />NO.<br /><br />It was a blog post Kristine put up featuring herself and her best friend singing "Somewhere Out There" in 1989. This thing is so much genius that I assumed she posted it specifically for me and my birthday week. Yes, I get a whole week. I call it every year, so it totally counts. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.waitinthevan.com/2012/01/american-tale-scrunchie-edition.html">Click here to go watch it</a>. Maybe save it for later tonight, because once you see it, the rest of your day will seem dull and not nearly as fun. <br /><br />p.s. Kristine, your vibrato is the stuff legends are made of.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-81063434089082157422012-01-02T09:00:00.000-06:002012-01-02T09:00:07.255-06:00Vindication Is Mine, BitchesI made it through another New Year's Eve without a hangover. First resolution achieved!http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif<br /><br />I forgot to tell you guys about my company Christmas party. To make a long story short, it was pretty much an exact replica of <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2010/12/im-like-walking-public-service.html">last year's party</a>. I got drunk. I was obnoxious. I danced. I was practically carried to the car afterwards by Captain Carl. <br /><br />Except this year? I TOTALLY WON THE KARAOKE CONTEST. <br /><br />I might have stacked the decks in my favor by begging the president of the company to let me pick my singing partners this year (last year it was a random drawing). And because he apparently adores me, he said yes. So about a month before the party, I asked two of the most fun girls in the office to sing with me. We picked our song and practiced it my cubicle a few times. <br /><br />What? Don't judge me. I was totally robbed last year and I decided that night that I would do anything in my power to make sure I won the next year. <br /><br />AND IT TOTALLY WORKED. <br /><br />We got up there and we sang our little hearts out. We were loud and enthusiastic, which is really the only requirement to be good at karaoke in my opinion. People were clapping and singing along. There was even some audience participation, thanks to the song we picked. There was even a standing ovation at the end. I wanted to yell "That's how it's done, bitches!" into the mic and then drop it on the floor afterwards, but I figured that was going a bit too far.<br /><br />And then the president came up to announce the winners and I swear to God, y'all, the exact words he said were "I don't think we even have to consult the judges on this one because there is a clear cut winner tonight." <br /><br />Yep, I did it. I won. Even got a $100 gift card out of the deal. AND! I won a prize in the random drawing giveaway too. Which proves that you can achieve anything you want if you just set your mind to it. And pick the right song.<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/82dDnv9zeLs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-73720080087020179732011-12-30T09:43:00.000-06:002011-12-30T09:44:02.773-06:0012 Reasons Why I'm Awesome: 2011 In ReviewTomorrow is the last day of 2011 and frankly, I cannot wait for this shitty year to be over. Let's just say it's been a rough one and I'm looking forward to a hopefully better, more prosperous and happy 2012.<br /><br />And now we move on to my annual year end tradition of listing my favorite posts from each month because yes, I am just that self-involved. I didn't write as much this year (see the above paragraph for my reason), so the pickings were a bit thin. BUT STILL AWESOME.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfg5hrfCRdX1I0qvqH1ri2q6li6nv17eUIIRE6f6WA6yWsiAUZiO54B5X837m6zi0ndf2Zg7JFO4L1cz2L-WdE6m3mKxJvkad5B-MdD6vEnF02Eofs4GNWqb19lziOxCl5Khrae9y2RNm/s1600/me2011.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfg5hrfCRdX1I0qvqH1ri2q6li6nv17eUIIRE6f6WA6yWsiAUZiO54B5X837m6zi0ndf2Zg7JFO4L1cz2L-WdE6m3mKxJvkad5B-MdD6vEnF02Eofs4GNWqb19lziOxCl5Khrae9y2RNm/s400/me2011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691939458807499122" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">JANUARY<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/01/why-cant-my-office-ever-get-dead-body.html">The one with the dead body</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">FEBRUARY<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/02/how-my-husband-locked-in-sexual-favors.html">The one where I continue to stalk Harry Connick Jr.</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">MARCH<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/03/delicious-snack-or-vicious-weapon-you.html">The one with the frozen grapes</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">APRIL<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/04/i-have-my-very-own-shoe-song-whatever.html">The one with the shoe song</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">MAY<a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/turns-out-best-motel-room-forty-bucks.html"><br /></a></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/turns-out-best-motel-room-forty-bucks.html">The one with the broken motel toilet</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">JUNE<a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-call-it-thrifty-my-husband-calls-it.html"><br /></a></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-call-it-thrifty-my-husband-calls-it.html">The one with my crazy coupon face</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">JULY<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/goodbye-to-my-boo-boo.html">The one with my Boo Boo</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUGUST<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/08/i-can-turn-anything-into-conversation.html">The one with all the dicks</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">SEPTEMBER<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-name-is-miss-yvonne-you-deleted-my.html">The one with the deleted talk show</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">OCTOBER<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/10/snatch-attack-13-this-time-mattresses.html">The one with the Snatch Attack</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">NOVEMBER<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/11/pass-crab-legs-and-irresponsibility.html">The one with the crab legs</a></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">DECEMBER<br /></span><ul><li><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/12/mother-fing-ravioli-night.html">The one with mother fucking ravioli night</a></li></ul><br />Well, that's it for this year. Happy New Year to all you bad asses. Here's to a better year to come and me finally meeting Harry Connick Jr. It's like the man is purposely avoiding me or something, for Christ's sake.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-7324981717248724592011-12-29T09:24:00.002-06:002011-12-29T09:31:10.238-06:00I'm Pretty Sure I Had This Doll. Which Explains A Lot About Me.I found this 1970's commercial on YouTube today. I'm almost positive someone gave me this doll for Christmas one year because I vaguely remember being terrified of it and refusing to sleep in my room until my mom got rid of it. <br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qlK1U3xE72o" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />I don't know what scares me more...the doll or the creepy Exorcist head turns those kids are making. The only way this toy could have been worse is if they painted a clown face on it.<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/P2ZsnEw9gkE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />Oh shit.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-66373504524867594752011-12-22T12:22:00.004-06:002011-12-22T21:59:37.307-06:00Mother F’ing Ravioli NightSince I haven’t been in much of a festive mood this year, I decided to force myself into holiday joviality by drinking. A lot. A real lot. Basically, I’ve been bombed two weekends in a row, with plans to make it a trifecta of drunkenness this weekend.<br /><br />Two weekends ago, Captain Carl decided to have a ravioli dinner party at the house. His cool aunt was here along with her son, his girlfriend, my brother-in-law, <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/12/no-one-wants-to-play-murder-victim-with.html">Mailman Mike</a>, and his girlfriend. If you knew this family, then you would know this was a recipe for insane amounts of alcoholic beverages and amazing food.<br /><br />The Captain began preparations Saturday morning by MAKING HIS OWN RAVIOLI DOUGH. Oh yes…homemade pasta. It is as fantastic as it sounds, but let me tell you the downside of homemade pasta. The mess. Ohmygod the mess. See the Captain doesn’t just cook. He explodes. The kitchen is torn apart for even a simple meal for just the two of us. It puts me on edge to watch him. He says I’m<a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/12/its-beginning-to-look-lot-like.html"> too obsessive about things being neat and tidy</a>. He is probably right. But still…gah.<br /><br />Imagine the kind of mess making your own dough creates. Now multiple that by 50 and you’ll get the state of my kitchen that Saturday. Luckily for everyone involved, I had an appointment to get my hair cut that morning. So the Captain made his dough while I was gone. His aunt tried to keep up with the clean up so that I wouldn’t have a coronary when I got home. Have I mentioned how much I love her? So it wasn’t too bad when I got back. A little messy, but nothing I couldn’t handle.<br /><br />Since I know my husband, I knew the mess was going to get worse before it got better. I decided to start drinking. It was 2:30 in the afternoon.<br /><br />Best. Idea. Ever.<br /><br />His aunt made us pomegranate martinis. Have I mentioned how much I love her? By this time, Mailman Mike and his girlfriend had arrived and they joined in on the drinking.<br /><br />I forgot to mention that I had agreed to judge Christmas lights in our neighborhood for our HOA contest that night. For some reason, the Captain decided he should not drink because something something the only sober person in the house blah blah blah a bunch of drunk asses.<br /><br />Flash forward to 5:30 and I’ve had six martinis, aka 9.5 shots of vodka, and I’m completed smashed. Mailman Mike has drank who the hell knows how many glasses of wine/rum/whiskey. The Captain's aunt and Mike's girlfriend look to be quite tipsy. It was a loud, obnoxious get-together. Every 10 minutes, one of us would get mad at someone for whatever drunk people get mad about and I would yell “Mother fucking ravioli night!!” for some reason. I have no idea why. <br /><br />But because I was so sloshed, I had not been paying any attention to what was going on in the kitchen. The Captain had been busy working in there all afternoon making sauce, rolling out the little ravioli’s, etc. By about 6:00, I wandered into the kitchen and saw through my drunken haze what appeared to be every single mixing bowl, pot and pan strewn around the counters. This would normally give me a mild panic attack and I would have to get in there and start cleaning. But instead I just yelled “OMG I have to take a picture of this! Mother fucking ravioli night!”.<br /><br />So we ate and it was amazing and totally worth the mess. Then we cleaned up the kitchen and headed out to judge Christmas lights. All 7 of us in one SUV. This meant the Captain's cousin and his girlfriend had to half sit, half lay down in the back cargo area of the vehicle. I sat in the backseat with Mailman Mike and his girlfriend. Mailman Mike and I were still completely drunk.<br /><br />So. Imagine how awesome the Christmas light judging went. Especially for everyone else in the car who had to listen to the two drunk asses yelling out their windows “Not good enough!” and “Seriously, a giant snow globe? How unoriginal!” and “It’s like you’re not even TRYING!” at the houses that were lit up. <br /><br />I had a fucking great time. The Captain, however, did not. He was tired from cooking all day and completely sober. So I guess he didn’t find it as funny as I did when Mailman Mike started singing Carol of the Bells in a falsetto with his own lyrics.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Here come the bells</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Gay silver bells</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />See all the bells</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Gay silver bells</span><br /><br />And I guess he especially didn’t find it funny when Mailman Mike suggested that he could play the baby Jesus in the nativity scene on one person’s lawn and I yelled “Do it! Get out! Take off your clothes!”. Captain Carl was all “Knock it off, Marcy” and I was all “What? We’re having fun.” and he was all “Just STOP.”<br /><br />Party pooper.<br /><br />I found out later that he drove around the rest of the neighborhood with his finger on the door lock button.<br /><br />Needless to say, I had a hangover the next morning. But hot damn did I have a good time.<br /><br />Mother fucking ravioli night!<br /><br />p.s. Merry Christmas, y'all. I won't be writing again before the 25th on account of celebrating with the Captain's family and most likely getting drunk again. A lot. A whole lot.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-53636643663008536932011-12-13T12:01:00.006-06:002011-12-13T21:53:23.357-06:00Here's To Less Zingers And More BirthdaysI don't write much here about my family, except for my husband and my kid. I like this blog to mainly be about stupid stuff. Things to hopefully make you laugh and probably to make you think I'm super weird. <span style="font-style: italic;">*cough* <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/03/delicious-snack-or-vicious-weapon-you.html">the frozen grapes post</a> *cough*</span> I like it that way. I don't like being all serious about shit. But lately I've been feeling pretty down in the dumps and serious faced.<br /><br />But I've been thinking a lot about my Grandma this month. She loved Christmas. Every year when I was a kid, we would go to her house to celebrate. When I was little, I loved it. I had cousins to play with and presents to open and Hy-Vee brand grape soda to drink. When I was a teenager, I dreaded it. Because I was an asshole, just like every other teenager. I wanted to stay home and have sex with my boyfriend in the rumpus room. I did not want to hang out with all my old relatives and my stupid cousins that I had nothing in common with and drink stupid off-brand soda.<br /><br />I wasted too many years with that attitude. Because now my Grandma is gone and I would do anything to get another Christmas with her. Granted, I lost the attitude long before she passed away and I had a very close relationship with her. In fact, I was probably closer to her than any of her other grandchildren (In your face, <span style="font-style:italic;">Mitchell</span>).<br /><br />But it still hurts when I pull out her recipe for Christmas cookies, or remember how she always sent me a Christmas card with $20 in it and signed it "Love you, honey". I miss her so much.<br /><br />My Grandma had breast cancer. Twice. The first time, she beat it into remission with sheer willpower and faith in God. She had a mastectomy and then had radiation. She called her radiation treatments her "zingers". She would tell me not to worry because if it was her time, she was ready. She had an amazing attitude.<br /><br />And then a couple years later, the cancer came back. But this time she was older and other problems with her aging body made it more difficult for her to fight. But she did fight. She fought for her husband, my Grandpa, who was terrified to be without her. She fought for her sons, who cried like little boys when they had to put her back in the hospital.<br /><br />But in the end, breast cancer was just too much for a 92 year old woman to fight. And even though I was grateful for her long, beautiful life and her precious spirit and the gift of faith she gave all of us, I was angry. Angry that she had to spend so many years fighting a disease that ravaged her body. Her cancer was not a tragedy in the way that it is for the young men and women who have lost their own fights with the disease. She was able to see her children, her grandchildren and even some great-grandchildren grow up. But she did suffer. And that is reason enough for me to hope for a cure.<br /><br />So Merry Christmas to my Grandma, who I absolutely know is an angel up there somewhere. And here's to less "zingers" and more birthdays for everyone.<br /><br /><script src="http://video.unrulymedia.com/wildfire_60826218.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">This post is sponsored by American Cancer Society.</span>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-37894749146124049902011-12-07T08:21:00.004-06:002011-12-07T08:31:44.997-06:00Wendy's Be Bawlin', YoYou know how when you're having a really shitty week and feeling like life just general sucks and then your friend emails you something completely random and totally awesome and it makes you laugh so hard that a little pee comes out?<br /><br />Yeah, that was me yesterday. After reading some of the comments on <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/12/tis-season-to-be-those-relatives.html">my last post</a> that a lot of you need a little pick me up too.<br /><br />I present to you...the best restaurant review of all time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0lG9stHM-TC7OiCO69uAS5_4WKzJL2P8WifN3-7baHVzdCWE7mbkLTlctEc-QZjgKaa7d9z8jEMFnv3yL966kPqKzgO92f1tMIL_Vv6lmS-kzjMPAKG49OhypF62ozsbhtDfAjgBJ_UFd/s1600/wendys.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 430px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0lG9stHM-TC7OiCO69uAS5_4WKzJL2P8WifN3-7baHVzdCWE7mbkLTlctEc-QZjgKaa7d9z8jEMFnv3yL966kPqKzgO92f1tMIL_Vv6lmS-kzjMPAKG49OhypF62ozsbhtDfAjgBJ_UFd/s400/wendys.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683393382888136098" border="0" /></a><br />You're welcome.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-1282621057337624412011-12-05T09:31:00.003-06:002011-12-05T09:37:18.475-06:00‘Tis The Season To Be Those RelativesIf you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you know that Captain Carl and I are pretty strapped for cash these days. I don’t care what the politicians and polls say, the economy in our world is not recovering yet. I have a good job and the Captain is doing okay with his business, but we are just barely making ends meet. So he continues to job search and I continue to kick ass at work in the hopes of getting another pay raise and a promotion. And of course we still have <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/08/my-feet-have-been-sticky-for-two.html">Huey</a>, who basically pays the Kiddo’s allowance with his rent each month.<br /><br />I’m not going to complain about having less than other people. Mainly because we used to be the “other people” and we completely fucked it up by being arrogant and dumb about jobs and money. We’ve learned our lesson and now we’re just trying to hang on until we can pad the savings account again. <br /><br />But in the meantime, the Christmas season has arrived. And damn, but it came faster this year than other years for some reason. I wasn’t prepared for it like I was last year. Last year I set aside a fair amount of cash for presents early on. I had most of my shopping done by the end of October. But not this year. This year, I completely put it off and now I’m paying for it. Well, our families are paying for it actually. <br /><br />See, we just don’t have enough money to buy everyone nice presents. It’s just not possible. We now live credit card free, so we must have the money up front for everything we need. It’s a hard lifestyle when you are on a budget, especially after using credit for everything under the sun like we used to do. Sometimes we have to get creative, but so far we’ve made it work and I’m pretty proud of that.<br /><br />Except it leaves very little for gifts. So we had to tell our families that gifts will be small. They understood, of course, but we still feel bad. I’ve shopped sales, something I’m really good at anyway, and have managed to find something for everyone. And we are making homemade candy to supplement our paltry offerings. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It’s not about how much you spend. It’s the thought that counts. Remember the real reason for the season.</span><br /><br />That’s what I keep telling myself. And I’ve been quite proud of us, actually. Everyone will get something nice and it will be a heartfelt gift.<br /><br />But then I talk to other people and hear about all the things they’ve bought over the weekend for their relatives. A laptop, a wool coat, a flat screen tv, an iPad 2...<br /><br />And I start to feel like an asshole. <br /><br />My stupid little gifts…a scarf, some lotion, a book…are now super lame and sad. They scream “Merry Christmas. We can’t afford to buy you anything awesome.” And now I want to call everyone and beg them to please please please not buy us anything expensive. Not because I don’t think they can afford it, but because it will make me feel bad when I open their gifts. I don’t want anyone to spend $100 on me when I can only spend $10 on them. <br /><br />But it’s hard to tell your family that. Especially when you know they’ll just say “Oh, don’t worry! It makes me feel good to buy you things!”. And there’s just no Christmas-y way to say “Well it makes me feel like shit when you do.” <br /><br />We’re tired of being “those relatives”. The ones that everyone knows are broke and can’t go on trips and can’t go out to eat every weekend and can’t buy the things they really want to give their family at Christmas. Not that it really matters. Because what’s most important is that our family is healthy and happy and blah blah blah.<br /><br />Whatever. Maybe next year we will get rich and buy everyone an iPad3 and a 3D tv and then we can be all “Jesus is the reason for the season, but who cares because I’m totally wearing 3D glasses!”.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-53206499246065972492011-11-29T18:59:00.003-06:002011-11-29T19:12:20.503-06:00Nothing Says "Happy Holidays" Like A Dead Deer Singing Low RiderThere are many reasons why I love Captain Carl's family.<br /><br />They are an open, warm and loving group. I've felt welcome from the very first day I met his parents. I could not love his brother, <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/12/no-one-wants-to-play-murder-victim-with.html">Mailman Mike</a>, anymore than <span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class=" down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="img/blank.gif" alt="Link" class="gl_link" border="0" /></span></span>if he was my own blood. And his extended family is awesome too.<br /><br />Also, I can always count on them for shit like this.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WXv7le-Pzxs" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe><br /><br />Yep. <br /><br />That right there is a dead deer strapped to the roof of a jeep while singing Low Rider toy. <br /><br />Exactly what I needed to get into the holiday spirit. I fucking love Texas.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-45060966244915870212011-11-22T13:30:00.003-06:002011-11-22T13:43:49.371-06:00Probably The Best Version Of "Sister Christian" You'll Ever Hear. Which Isn't Saying Much.Fact #1: I love to sing in the car.<br /><br />Fact #2: I have the <span style="font-style: italic;">I Am T-Pain</span> auto-tune app on my phone.<br /><br />Enough said.<br /><br /><a href="http://iamtpain.smule.com/trackid/1684666">Click here to listen</a> and have your mind blown by my musical stylings.<br /><br />Consider it my contribution to your Thanksgiving holiday. Kind of like turkey, except with less falling asleep and more eardrum bursting. You're welcome.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4KT3yMRjW2XSOVhRw_XregJthzEFctMOt7Di2O_2oYppp2SUMJlHMDdejlXmJmihi1KmeBZoKzIJ6DR5rHl-3ELRT1vIXIcQw-3uipQ6y8mD7DR-5XFNAFqQTqwovfMTnUk-160_BrT8b/s1600/Night-Ranger.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 292px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4KT3yMRjW2XSOVhRw_XregJthzEFctMOt7Di2O_2oYppp2SUMJlHMDdejlXmJmihi1KmeBZoKzIJ6DR5rHl-3ELRT1vIXIcQw-3uipQ6y8mD7DR-5XFNAFqQTqwovfMTnUk-160_BrT8b/s400/Night-Ranger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677908002465666930" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Eat your heart out, boys.</span><br /></div>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-91261479028392969812011-11-08T14:51:00.003-06:002011-11-08T15:05:20.558-06:00Pass The Crab Legs And Irresponsibility, PleaseSo my company sent out the annual medical and life insurance benefits enrollment email today. Which means I spent exactly 30 seconds reading it before I broke out in a sweat and wailed “Too hard!”.<br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">that’s what she said.<br /><br /></span></em>I suck at being an adult. Anything involving bills, paperwork, taxes or medical issues gets handed directly to my husband. I’m all “Here.” and he’s all “What is it?” and I’m all “I don’t know, something from the insurance company.” and he’s all “What does it say?” and I’m all “Something about a deductable and limits and percentages.” and he’s all “This is dated three weeks ago.” and I’m all <em>*blank stare*</em> and he’s all “You’re just now opening it?” and I’m all “Well, I thought you would open it so I left it there for you.” and he’s all “You left it under a bag of Skittles?” and I’m all “What? You love Skittles.” and he’s all “Why didn’t you just open it right away?” and I’m all “Why doesn’t your mom just open it right away?”. Because I’m awesome at grown-up conversations.<br /><br />I can’t stand thinking about adult stuff. Or talking about it. Or being anywhere near it. I just want to know how much money is in my free checking account every month so I know if I can afford to buy new boots or not. Yes, my checking account is one of the free ones that doesn’t earn any interest, <em>mom</em>. I shouldn’t be given control of any important financial decisions, is what I’m saying here. Not because I’ll do stupid things. Because I won’t do anything <em>at all</em>. I’ll set the matter aside because <em>ohmygodscary</em> and then promptly forget about it until it’s almost too late.<br /><br />I’m pretty sure I have a 401k left over from my last job somewhere. I can’t remember the name of the place where it’s at. I don’t know how much is in it. The Captain keeps asking me about it and my response every time is “Oh yeah, we need to figure out what to do with that…maybe, ummm, roll it over?”. I have no idea what “roll it over” means. I think I heard my sister say it once when she was talking about my IRA that I haven't looked at in 7 years. <br /><br />I refuse to go into my bank and talk to a real person because they always ask me why I haven’t switched to an interest earning checking account and I get tired of explaining how I tried to do it online but I got super confused by the options and my husband is a big meany so he won’t help me because “you need to learn how to do these things for yourself, Marcy”.<br /><br />The only time I’ve looked at our mortgage paperwork was when we went in to sign everything and they were all “sign here” 50 billion times. The Captain, who is totally awesome at this kind of shit (thank God), took care of everything. I probably set back women’s rights about 80 years when I told him “whatever you think is best, I don’t understand it”. All I know is that I have to click on the little “pay now” button on the bank website every month when the mortgage payment is due.<br /><br />I’m barely qualified to program our DVR, people. No way should I be in charge of anything as important as my financial future. You should have seen me on the night my husband decided to sit me down and work on a 5 year financial plan. He was all “Let’s make a list of goals” and I was all “Great idea. I think we should have sex on a beach some day, don’t you?” and he was all “I mean financial goals.” and I was all “Oh, right. Hey, who wants a soda? I know I do! Boy am I thirsty!” and he was all “Okay, so I was thinking for next year we should…” and I’m all “OMG you know what would be soooo good right now? Crab legs!” and he’s all “Come on, focus.” and I’m all “I could totally run a train on some crab legs.” and he was all “So basically if we transpond these numbers from your paycheck into the logistical payroll calculationer …” and I’m all <em>*eyes rolling back into head*</em> “I’m dead…I’m dying…it’s too boring…I’m dead from boredom.”<br /><br />The thing is, I was better at all this when I was single. Granted, my life was much less complicated and I had absolutely no assets so that’s probably why. But still. I managed to have both a checking and a savings account, along with a good understanding of my medical and life insurance benefits. Then I got married and inherited two children. Things got complicated and harder. How much life insurance is enough for teenagers? Should we max out our dental insurance this year? Maybe we need to re-evaluate where our 401k investments are going? Should we enroll in the flex account? What the fuck is a flex account???<br /><br />Jesus, just writing about all that makes my armpits sweaty. I hate this shit. I just want someone else to do it for me so I can go play with my new kittens.<br /><br />Did I mention that my old lady cat is probably dying, which is totally not fair because <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/goodbye-to-my-boo-boo.html">I just put my other old cat to sleep in July</a>, but the Captain got me two kittens to make me feel better? I didn’t? Oh...well he totally did and they are cute and adorable and fluffy and <em>boom!</em> I just totally distracted you from all that adult shit up there.<br /><br />I’m a genius at being irresponsible.<br /><br />p.s. the kitten story is true. I’ll have more on that later….<br />p.p.s. Do I know how to keep people coming back for more or what? I'm like the Walt Disney of blogging.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-70685103963500493162011-11-04T14:37:00.003-05:002011-11-04T14:50:32.144-05:00Hungry Like The Middle Aged Couple Two Rows In Front Of Us Making Out Inappropriately<div align="left">This just in: I suck at blogging. Every day I have plans to blog something super awesome and hilarious and then I get to work and I’m all type type type blech. I think my job is sucking my will to live. And then I go home and I’m all “I am totally writing 3 blog posts tonight” and then I look at my cat and she’s all “We both know you aren’t blogging tonight” all judgy-like and so I just give up and sit on the couch for 4 hours and then go to bed.<br /><br />But today. Today! I. Am. Blogging.<br /><br />You’re welcome.<br /><br />All that up there was me trying to explain to you why I’m about to tell you a story about going to a Duran Duran concert three weeks ago.<br /><br />So I went to a Duran Duran concert three weeks ago. Courtesy of my new best friend in the whole wide world, Kristine at <a href="http://www.waitinthevan.com/">Wait In The Van</a>. Are you reading Kristine’s blog? Ohmygod, what a stupid question because OF COURSE YOU ARE.<br /><br />Kristine invited me to go with her to the concert, despite all the creepy stalker comments I’ve left on her blog. So of course I said yes. And then left her a comment about shovels and burying bodies or something. I can't remember exactly, but you know...just trying to show her how funny and totally not murder-y I'm going to be when we meet up in person finally.<br /><br />We decided to meet in front of the venue (how fancy am I? Venue. Ooo la la) and I got there a little early so I spent my extra time checking out everyone walking into the building. Y'all. So many cougars. Mostly my age and older. Many inexplicably wearing halter tops with back fat hanging out of them.<br /><br />Then Kristine texted me that she was there and I got all nervous because <em>ohmygodwhatifshe’scoolerthanmeandthinksI’msuperlame</em>? But of course, that didn’t happen. We were immediately bff’s despite my first sentence being “OMG when did you graduate from high school?”. I don’t know. I do things like that sometimes.<br /><br />So the concert starts and Duran Duran comes out and they look surprisingly well preserved. Simon is wearing tennis shoes, which was weird but whatever. The music was pretty good (the old stuff, not the new stuff. I have no interest in anything this band produced after 1993) and Kristine and I are dancing around and sweating like crazy and having a grand old time.<br /><br /><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671227398295798290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZIs1rPNoC2izk_3mo6Szft2I-8J0qFB4Z-3856OSgGm_K5N3As-SyTv5QYNa2pR0MXpIQQtv6nM9yqye1evD0_8gUjVnszpChav7HtQ9f-QO_ewCalL-j938ZYjJ6U8qLWUzcgCWPvnnk/s400/416958081.jpg" /> <br /><p align="left"><em>See? She's totally not scared of me and that is totally not a fake smile.<br /></em><br />So there we are…jamming out to The Reflex, when we see them. They are two rows in front of us and we have a clear view of them. A couple, maybe in their late 40’s…hard to tell from where we were, but definitely older than us. And definitely too old to be aggressively making out at a Duran Duran concert. But yet there they were, all over each other. She in her one-shouldered tank top and khaki capri pants. He with his balding gray hair and air guitar moves. Groping and slipping each other the tongue in between yelling out lyrics and gyrating against each other.<br /><br />It was horrifying.<br /><br />We could not stop watching.<br /><br />And it only got worse as the concert wore on. He’s kissing her neck. He’s grinding his hips into her butt. He’s grabbing her boobs from behind.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671227146837478770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBH2aNj5R5rvAeoZKttTxkwCN-emsFLzlmxedRZcLH7YeBDS896XXRdWWCSqQNGERZQdJC3zzlzDP4e09_2KJ-DZq4Em7tSljK2FjjnSwHJfITh8g1-Lwpl9VSI1bBA62kxAxxNBwAZ7Fl/s400/duranduran.JPG" /><br /><em>Dear Duran Duran Gods….please for the love of the 80’s, make it stop.<br /><br /></em>And then the concert was over…except it wasn’t. Because of course there was an encore. And it was one of their old ones and it was so great. And Simon had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of old memories and sad regrets. And the couple were all over each other. I think Kristine threw up in her mouth a little.<br /><br />And then the concert was really over. The drummer threw his sticks into the crowd and 40 year old women fought over them like they probably did when they were 18. The gropey couple disappeared and Kristine and I left. It was 11 pm and we were both exhausted. What? It was a Thursday night. We’re old. Shut up.<br /><br />Luckily, I took the next day off from work so I was able to sleep in until 9am. Unfortunately for Kristine, young children never take a day off. So when I got out of bed Friday morning, I knew she had probably already been up several hours. And being the new caring best friend that I am, I sent her a text.<br /><br /><em><strong>Me:</strong> Hey remember that one time that we went to a concert together and then I took the next day off and slept in but you still had to get up early to take care of your kids? Yeah, that was great.</em> <em><br /><strong>Her:</strong> Am. So. Fucking. Tired. And I hate you.</em><br /><br /><br /><br />p.s. I wrote about Rick Perry being super excited about maple syrup and totally not drunk over at Sprocket Ink today. <a href="http://sprocketink.com/rick-perry-not-drunk-just-super-excited-to-be-here/">Click here to check it out.</a>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-27057228144495218582011-10-24T11:58:00.003-05:002011-10-24T12:12:42.222-05:00Snatch Attack 13 – This Time The Mattresses Are Dirty<em><a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2010/07/negotiation-ninja.html">My sister is moving to Chicago </a>(sob!) and gave Captain Carl and me a couple of her nice mattresses to replace the crappy ones we had left over from some of our previous renters. We decided to give the old mattresses away for free on Craigslist. Below is our text conversation regarding the issue of old mattresses…</em><br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> I couldn’t help but notice you forgot to put the mattresses on Craigslist this morning.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> I’m working on it right now. Lay off.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> You forgot, didn’t you.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> <em>*sigh*</em> Yes.<br /><br /><em>15 minutes later<br /></em><br /><strong>Him:</strong> The ad is up. Go look at it. It’s the one that comes with a free cat.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Nice try. I would kill you dead if you gave away my cat.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Looks good…I can’t believe you put your cell number on Craigslist. You’re gonna get creepy sex offenders calling you all day.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Why?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Because they call numbers they find on Craigslist and talk nasty to the people while they whack off.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> And you know this how?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> I saw it on Dateline once. Or in a dream. One of the those.<br /><br /><em>10 minutes later<br /><br /></em><strong>Him:</strong> Mattresses are gone. Picking up @ 8:30 tonight.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> For real? That was fast.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> 15 phone calls and 9 emails in 10 minutes. People are really hurting. It makes my heart sad.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> I know. It is so sad. We should count our blessings.<br /><br /><em>3 minutes later<br /></em><br /><strong>Me:</strong> I bet if you had put “Free Mattress. Formerly belonged to <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-name-is-miss-yvonne-you-deleted-my.html">morbidly obese crazy cat hoarder lady</a>.” you wouldn’t have gotten as many calls.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Why would I do that? Who would want a crazy cat lady’s mattress?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Not many people, maybe no one. Which is exactly my point. This is a situation where truth in advertising would be a bad thing.<br /><br /><em>2 minutes later<br /><br /></em><strong>Me:</strong> Maybe the people that are taking them aren’t actually poor and are just going to use them to film a porno.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> ???<br /><strong>Me:</strong> And then someday we’ll be watching Snatch Attack 13 and we’ll be all “OMG, that’s our mattress!”<br /><strong>Him:</strong> How would we know it was our mattress?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> By the stain on the bottom corner from that time <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/09/emo-loves-older-women.html">Marian</a> left that sub sandwich on the bed for 4 days straight.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> I gotta go. I need to get caught up on the first 12 Snatch Attacks.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Let me know how they turn out. I’m guessing Snatch Attacks 1-5 are pretty interesting.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Just 1-5?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Probably after 5 there isn’t much creativity left. There are only so many holes in the human body.<br /><br /><em>10 minutes later<br /></em><br /><strong>Him:</strong> Just googled it. There is an actual Snatch Attack porno. Have you seen it?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> No. I just made it up in my head. Go ahead and act surprised.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-20081364510074440702011-09-20T08:15:00.000-05:002011-09-20T08:15:00.725-05:00That Dog Is Running With Purpose<em>While driving home from the movies last weekend...</em><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Look at that dog!<br /><strong>Him:</strong> I see him.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Awww, he’s all white and cute and fluffy.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> <em>*pretending his wife doesn't desperately want to adopt a dog*</em> Looks dirty.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Stop! He has a collar, we need to stop and catch him!<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Why?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Because he’s obviously lost and maybe his owner’s number is on his collar.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Doesn't look lost to me. He looks like he knows where he’s going.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> <em>*stare*</em> What?<br /><strong>Him:</strong> He’s running with purpose. He obviously knows his destination, so we don’t need to stop.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> He looks like he knows where he’s going? How is that even possible? He’s a dog. They all look like that when they run.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> He didn’t look confused at all.<br /><strong>Me</strong>: You mean if he were really lost, he’d look confused?<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Yeah. You know, he’d be stopping every five seconds to look around. Maybe he’d be looking up at the sky thoughtfully. Maybe he'd pretend to talk on his cell phone while he wandered aimlessly.<br /><strong>Me</strong>: That’s what you do when you can’t find our car in the parking lot.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Exactly. That right there was a dog with a good sense of direction.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> <em>*looking out back window*</em> Oh great, I can’t see him anymore. I’m gonna be so mad at you if I see him dead on the side of the road tomorrow.<br /><br />And then this morning I totally got this email from our subdivision HOA communications lady:<br /><br /><em>Subject: Oso loose again<br /><br />Has anyone seen this dog?<br /><br />Forwarded message:<br />Our 2 year old opened our back door around 6pm last night and let out our white Siberian husky again. If anyone has seen him, please call. </em><br /><br />Me: <em>*dialing phone*</em> Great...just great.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Hello?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Yeah hi. Remember that dog that was running with purpose on Saturday night?<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Yep.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Yeah, he was lost. Totally lost. I got an email about him this morning.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> Huh, no kidding.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> His name is Oso and he’s a white Siberian husky and his house is in <em>the exact opposite direction from where he was running</em>.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> That’s weird.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Because you totally thought he knew where he was going.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> No, I meant that’s a weird name for a dog. Oso. No wonder he was running away. I’d run away too if that was my name.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Now I have to call and tell them we saw their dog but we didn’t stop because my husband thought it looked like he knew where he was going.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> You should suggest they think of a better name for their next dog.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> You’re so helpful.<br /><strong>Him:</strong> It’s a gift.<br /><br /><br />p.s. The Captain and I are back on the wagon. We started the Couch to 5K program again this week. Someone help...my thighs are burning with so much purpose right now.Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216076627715549244.post-26095643448392052802011-09-16T09:22:00.002-05:002011-09-16T09:34:22.011-05:00My Name Is Miss Yvonne. You Deleted My Talk Show. Prepare To Die.Sometimes it really sucks having renters in your house. Sometimes they do really annoying and fucking stupid things. Things that 99.9% of the human population would not do. Like if you heard about someone doing those things you would be all “No way is anyone that stupid/rude/inconsiderate". And then? Your fucking renter does them and you feel the sudden urge to gouge their eyeball out with one of those tiny relish forks because it is the exact perfect size for eyeballs and that bastard totally deserves it. <br /><br />Like maybe your renters buy scooters and ride them through the mud and then track the mud through the house and then leave their muddy shoes by the door and then fucking lie when you ask if they walked through your house with muddy shoes on.<br /><br />Or maybe your renters decide to use your pasta strainer to <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/03/how-to-clean-fish-tank-and-piss-off.html">clean their fish tank rocks </a>but don’t plan on telling you they did it and thank you baby Jesus that you noticed it was missing before they returned it and you used it to strain your pasta and now you’re totally eating spaghetti ala fish poop for dinner. And then they giggle like three year olds when you ask them why they did it. <br /><br />Perhaps your renter decides <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/10/reason-37-why-having-renters-in-your.html">while you are out of town </a>for the weekend to go out and get completely wasted and bring an equally wasted couple home from the bar with him that he has never met before in his life, then passes out in his bed while this drunk couple hang out in your house all night totally unsupervised and then your other renter gets up at 3am to pee and sees this strange couple fucking on your couch. Then you have to call your renter and yell at him and when you get home, all of your booze is missing and he “has no idea who took it”. <br /><br />Oh! Here’s a good one. Your renter goes out and gets wasted AGAIN, only this time it’s during a weird Texas snowstorm, and he gets arrested for drunk driving and doesn’t come home for 3 days, so you think he must be dead in a ditch somewhere, and then he shows up and is all “Hey, I got arrested and have to go to court and can you please drive me there because they took my license away? Also, my kids are gonna come live here with me for like, 2 or 3 weeks and maybe they will stay forever. That’s cool, right?”.<br /><br />Could be that your renter turns out to be a <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/09/emo-loves-older-women.html">reclusive hoarder</a> who packs the bedroom she is living in to the ceiling with junk, but you don’t really notice how much she has in there until it’s too late. Also she has a cat. Also she’s morbidly obese and orders a pizza and three sub sandwiches and keeps them in her room to eat on for two days. Also she decides to move to another country and doesn’t start packing until the night before her flight. Also after she’s gone, you realize she’s left 50 (I am not exaggerating, y’all) bags of trash, a bed, a table, an office chair and a dirty litter box in her room for you to dispose of. Also she emails you a week later to ask when you will be sending her deposit back. Also you totally flip out and write back that it will be a cold day in hell when she gets her deposit back and then spend two weeks obsessively cleaning the room while whispering “unclean…unclean…”.<br /><br />And then maybe after all of those morons, you somehow get lucky and your <a href="http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2011/08/my-feet-have-been-sticky-for-two.html">next renter</a> is great. He’s your son’s friend, so you worry at first that maybe this was a bad idea. But he is respectful and sweet and is sad when we are not home because “I miss you guys when you aren’t here”. He pays his rent on time. He is a little scared of making you mad, thanks to some well placed looks and comments about not pissing you off because you’re a fucking genius when it comes to intimidation. But he still says “bye family” when he leaves for work and sits down to tell us all about his day when he gets home. You know, like your own child would do if they weren’t going through a completely selfish and asshole-y phase right now. You have no complaints, things are going wonderfully. <br /><br />And then?<br /><br />The fucker has to go and ruin it by DELETING YOUR DVR RECORDING OF THE DR. PHIL CASEY ANTHONY PARENTS’ INTERVIEW. <br /><br />Yeah.<br /><br />He’s fucking terrified. He knows what he did and now he’s hiding from me. I haven’t seen him since Monday. I hope he’s prepared for when we meet again, because <em>shit is about to go down, yo</em>. You don’t fuck with a woman’s talk show recordings. Never. <em>Never ever.</em> I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. But retribution will be swift and terrible. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NKBg0YG9Vluat1qKdBJfXcd-umRmQ_uKRpGosrUlOXLXapNx5RbtFR0PtS9dTiWf0iNvopYNKzmSKY1hyphenhyphenVBP59q_fdVeC7PLE65s1VZtlQqSuM8ORfeTzD4JrjpXV1p11yn-vzA5Vw3a/s1600/dr_phil.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NKBg0YG9Vluat1qKdBJfXcd-umRmQ_uKRpGosrUlOXLXapNx5RbtFR0PtS9dTiWf0iNvopYNKzmSKY1hyphenhyphenVBP59q_fdVeC7PLE65s1VZtlQqSuM8ORfeTzD4JrjpXV1p11yn-vzA5Vw3a/s400/dr_phil.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652962954442967154" /></a>Miss Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17846050528788481201noreply@blogger.com29