Post It Note Tuesday

It's time for Post It Note Tuesday - Hosted by SupahMommy.
Click on the yellow stickie above to join the party!

Bringing Sexy (and mad hairy) Back

For those of you that were so supportive and offered such kind words regarding my last post, I am going to reward you with something special. Something so posessed of pure sex and erotic sensuality, that you may need to put on sunglasses to fight the glare of the flaming hotness.

Are you ready for your reward?





Are you tantilized and starting to salivate?





C'mon, keep scrolling for pics of a sizzling fleshpot that reminiscent of a young Briget Bardot. But hotter.





Ummmmmmmmmmmm. That's right. Scroll for me baby. You know you want . . .







THIS!

You know it's lovely weather for a sleighride together with you.

I'll do more for the cigar industry than that Lewinsky bitch ever did.

Got a light?




If you ever wanted to know what sexual confidence looks like. . .this is it!

Let me show you one of my best Victoria's Secret poses.

Hold up on the sexy for a second. . . What is that enticing aroma?

Could it be? Oh Yes! Yes! Yes!

I love the smell of cat poo in the morning. Smells like, victory!



This deeply sexual interlude brought to you courtesy of Brownie the Wonderdog. If you haven't had enough and you are thirsting for more, check out this post, where Spike the Hotness Monster busts out his best and sexiest moves.

Looking back on this I realize, my animals are sluts.

I Can't Get to Your Heart if You Close the Door to Your Mind

Your girl diary rarely gets serious or crosses into topical material that she does not consider to be poilite dinner conversation (ie. religion or politics). But I am really pissed off about something and I need to vent about it or I might not be able to resist the urge to throw down with a certain pair of local parents, next time I bump into them in the supermarket. And since I don't need the jail time and they don't need the mulitple injuries, I am going to use the forum that I have at my disposal to get this off my chest. Lucky you.

I was having dinner with my son the other night and he mentioned to me that he is not welcome at a certain friend's house because of his religious and political views. Nearly choking on my burrito, I asked for a repeat of that - Teenager say what? As he gave me the details, I sat with my mouth hanging open, shaking my head in disbelief. But more than anything else, my heart hurt.

He explained to me that there had been occasions where he had been having dinner over this friend's house around the time of the election and he had shared his hopes for the election outcome and his reasons why. This seemed to visibly agitate his friend's dad and mom. Things got uncomfortable and there was a palpable tension in the air.

On several occasions this family took my son to youth rallies at their religious gathering place. From what I can gather, the purpose of doing this was to pedal their beliefs to all the guests that were brought by the members. True to his nature, my boy held his ground and debated with the "salesmen" at the event and ultimately, had a good time.

You might ask why I even allowed these people to take him to such an event, but I have raised my kids to be open minded, to seek to understand other people's views and to try very hard not to judge them as a result. I certainly would NEVER tolerate shunning anyone because of their religious or political beliefs. Of course there are radical examples where common sense dictates that you should avoid someone, like if they are involved in hate speech or crimes against humanity. But 99.99% of the time, tolerance is the only answer.

The real heartbreaker of this is that my son is a good kid. He's kind, loving and a trusted confidant to his friends. He cares about and nurtures his friendships in a way that makes me very proud. All of his actions make it clear to anyone looking that he values harmony in the world and in his personal relationships.

Even more shocking to me is that he is being shunned by adults. He has always had an incredible ability to talk to adults, ever since he was a little boy. On many occasions I've had parents stop me and tell me how much they like him, how well mannered he is and how pleased they are that their children are friends with him. So this was a bodyblow that I never saw coming.

OK, that's not completely true. I knew that these people were narrow thinkers and on the handful of times that I met the father, I thought he was an ice-cold douchebag. I got a very weird vibe from him, like he was looking down his nose at me. But I chalked that up to my own paranoia and I let it go. I rationalized that he was just one of those people that had a face that looked like someone just waved a fresh turd under their nose. Now I know that my suspicion was dead on. I'm not crazy. Hooray! (at least not about this)

The boy is not without fault here because he ignored my advice to keep his views on these things to himself. While I want him to be tolerant of others, I also do not want him shouting his beliefs from the rooftops or worse, hard selling them to others. On more than one occasion, I have had to pull him out of a conversation by his ear and correct him. He may be open to spirited debate about these topics, but he can't count on the openmindedness of his audience. I have warned him that people often have deep and heartfelt opinions on these topics and it can be difficult for them to separate their emotions from the discussion.

I am hoping that this all blows over at some point, but I need to prepare myself and my son for the possibility that it wont. This is a heartbreaking life lesson for him, but it's a lesson just the same. Hopefully he will think twice about discussing these topics in the future and will preserve the harmony while he is just a neighborhood kid.

Once he gets to college, I plan to load him with all the philosophy, theologly and political science that his little brain can hold. He was born to talk about this stuff, but like the great Johnny Carson once said - "Know your audience . . .". The assholes in this sleepy little 'burb ain't it.

As for me, I will resist the urge to kick this kid's dad in the junk the next time I see him. And I won't dig out the "see you next tuesday" when I see his mom, though I will REEEEAAALLLLY want to. I will let the universe give them theirs. It always does. At least that's my belief.

Look What Fell Off my Family Tree - Destined For A Gas Explosion...

Hey everyone! It's time for my first guest post under "Look What Fell Off My Family Tree".

I am so thrilled to have Amy from Good Bye 20's, Hello Botox as my first guest poster. Amy writes a fabulous blog about (temporarily) living with her inlaws, raising her adorable son Jackson and working in the family business with the hubs. Proximity to the inlaws gives her lots of material that she can't necessarily post on her blog. So in the words of the great Clariee Belcher (Olympia Dukakis) from Steel Magnolias - If you don't have anything nice to say about anybody, come sit by me!

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When DG threw down the challenge of divulging how our family is "nuttier than squirrel poo" I was intrigued to say the least. Mostly because I have about a million and one stories of wacky, zany, and down right ridiculous behavior, yet I refrain from posting such hilarity on my own blog for fear of hurt feelings and bruised egos. Stupid feelings!!!!


So when given the opportunity to guest post, I am giddy with dysfunctional family delight, as I could compile a short novel of all of the absurdities I've witnessed throughout the years. My in-laws are usually the target of my anecdotal humor as theirs is more innocent and laughable than *my* families. Also, adding to the element of comedy is the fact that I live AND work with these people, so I have a front row seat to all of their eccentric kookiness. So, without further ado, here is one of my favorite family stories which has been retold mercilessly at every gathering and holiday get-together since it's inception nearly 20 years ago.


My husband's family is large. 5 kids...4 of them boys just one year apart in age. Let's just let that one little tid bit sink in shall we.....4 BOYS!!!
I have one and I'm losing my mind, four is just insanity.

So, my mother-in-law picked up all five of her children after school one day, and realized she had to make the "dreaded stop" before retiring home with the said children in tow. Seemed the Dodge Colt Vista (affectionately termed "the grocery getter" or "GG") was out of gas and needed refueling.

For those not familiar with the luxury that is the Colt Vista, picture this..........................

You should also imagine four loud, smelly, and rambunctious boys inhabiting the back seat while Big sister Kelly rode shot gun, and frazzled mom was of course piloting this ship.


As "GG" pulled into the service station, my husband's younger brother, John, a wee 10 years old at the time, insisted on pumping the gas. In an effort to quickly complete this chore and return home for the day, my MIL obliged telling him to only put $10 worth of gas in as she retreated inside to pay.

She returned to the car and waited for her third son to finish pumping.

But, it couldn't be that easy, right moms?

You see, John went over the $10 that was already paid. A slew of screams and taunts could be heard from the back seat as this had already taken longer than it should have. After poor John had been teased by his brothers over his lack of skill in the gas pumping arena, he was handed more money to bring inside to the clerk.


John slapped the money down, waited for his change, and hurriedly retreated back to the Vista Cruiser where everyone was impatiently waiting.

I always imagined poor John getting head nuggies and arm pinches when he was finally back in the car all belted in, but I have no idea if the boys were if fact that sinister.

My MIL started the car and darted out of the lot to hurry home and fix dinner for all her heathens. Only problem was.......................

She took the gas pump with her!

The hose ripped from the tank itself, the nozzle still nuzzled in the car's tank.
If memory serves, she promptly stopped the car. This is where I imagine panic sets in and poor John begins to cry.

"WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN?"

"IS THE STATION GOING TO BLOW UP?"

"DO WE HAVE TO PAY FOR ALL THE DAMAGE?"

I guess at some point my MIL made the walk of shame back inside the station to hand the clerk his busted hose and nozzle. I actually think the clerk was very gracious and said something like "this happens more than you'd think," and just sent them on their way.

Now, while that entire ordeal would have been enough for me to learn my lesson, not to mention send me to the loony bin, my family seems to have a penchant for doing this.

Just mere months ago, my FIL came prancing into the house proclaiming that "he had driven off with the gas station hose connected again."
AGAIN???!!!!

I looked around as my husband and MIL laughed with fits of glee. My hiney began to actually sweat as I imagined what I would do in such a pickle. After all, I share these goofballs name. What if I'm just destined to take off with the gas pump too???

Not a month after *that* lunacy, my husband triumphantly announced that he "nearly took off with the gas pump still attached today....but was able to catch it before he actually left the station."

That cold, sick feeling returned as I again wondered.....when will my gas pump story unfold?

Thanks for guest posting Amy! Now, readers, your job is to do two things -

1) Leave comments for Amy here, so that there's no controversy on her blog.

2) Go to her blog, read her posts and follow her in a devoted, almost cult-like fashion.

Post It Note Tuesday

It's time for Post It Note Tuesday - Hosted by SupahMommy.

Click on the yellow stickie above to join the party!

Hi Mr G, How Do You Poo?

This post is not for the squeamish. Curiosity is killing you, right? Don't say I didn't warn you. . .

When I was in first grade, I used to walk home from school with a boy on my block named Randy Grippo. Randy was an annoying kid. You know, the kind that tells grandiose lies and steals your toys. The most succinct way to describe him would be to say that he was a "little shit".

On the last day of school before Christmas break, as we arrived at the corner of our block where we would go our separate ways toward our respective houses, Randy asked me if he could come in and use our bathroom. I looked him in the eye and asked him why he needed to use our bathroom when he lived a mere ten houses down the block. But there was something pleading in his facial expression, so I said that he could come in.

My daily after school ritual was to watch Popeye at 3:00 PM on WPIX. It was my way to unwind after school and my mom allowed me to watch it before I did any homework or chores (stop laughing mom).

I sat down in front of the TV with a glass of chocolate milk and watched the cartoons. I loved Popeye and got all caught up in the complex dynamics of the love triangle between Popeye, Olive and Bluto. Before I knew it, it was 3:3o and Popeye was over and I hadn't seen or heard from Randy for the last half hour. Just as I realized this, he slunk past me sideways and ran out the front door, shouting his goodbyes as he ran. Odd behavior, but he was an odd kid, so nothing surprised me.

Fifteen minutes after Randy left, I heard a blood curdling scream coming from the bathroom. My mother was screaming, no, SHREIKING my name. When I arrived at the bathroom door, she was holding a poo covered bath rug in her hands. I looked around the bathroom and there was poo on the toilet seat, poo smears on the floor, poo on everything. It wasn't clear exactly how the poo had managed to cover so much ground, but it was very clear that Randy had a major intestinal issue going on.



- - - - - - -But wait, it gets WORSE. Yes, I said WORSE. - - - - - - - -


Cut to the next day. Christmas day. And we are all loaded up in the car, about to make the trek out to my Aunt and Uncle's house out in distant Suffolk County. The gifts were loaded in the car and the fam was all dressed up in their Christmas finery. Everything was ready to go, except the toilet. For some reason the danged thing was stopped up and wouldn't flush, despite my father's best plunging and Drano dispensing efforts.

Not content to leave a plugged toilet while we are so far away, my father felt compelled to correct the situation. So he trudged downstairs with the snake and opened up the cap to the main sewage line. He let out 10 feet of snake, then 20, and so on until he felt like he hit something in the line. Then he started to reel it in like a fish on a hook. He could feel the weight of whatever it was, tugging along on the end of the line.

At this point we had been sitting in a running car for 20 minutes. My mother turned off the car and we went back into the house and found the basement door open. Assuming that this was where my dad was, we went down to see what was holding him up. We arrived at the Laundry Room door just as my father was reeling in his catch. Then we heard a whoosh and a rush of liquid as my father got covered from head to toe in raw sewage.

Completely stunned from what had just happened, my father staggered and grabbed wildly for a towel from the dirty clothes pile to wipe the poo from his eyes. Then he inspected the offending item on the end of the snake line and called out "Size 6X Boys Fruit of the Loom." Then he shook them at me and demanded "Are these yours?". Even though I knew not to mess with him in his fragile state, I fired back a sarcastic "Yeah, I wear boys briefs every day.". Then like a collective light bulb, we all looked at each other and muttered "Randy".

Apparently my little friend had an accident and tried to flush the evidence down our toilet. Knowing that he would probably get the daylights beaten out of him, my dad didn't tell Mr. Grippo, and I never mentioned it to Randy.

How did he pay us back for our silence? He robbed our house when he was 19 and got away with it thanks to the lameness of the Nassau County Police. We weren't the only family that he robbed and it eventually caught up with him. He is currently a ward of the NY State Penal system for multiple counts of burglary and won't be out any time soon.

I told you he was a little shit.

Look What Fell off my Family Tree Friday - Setting the Stage

Last week I put out a challenge to the blogosphere to share with the world, under the semi-anonymous cover of my blog, the story of their family crazies. Thanks to their good nature and probable need to "let it all out", I have lined up four great bloggers to share their stories with you, each Friday in February.

I myself have a bountiful basket of nuts to choose from, but the soft spot in my heart is for my Uncle Ronnie. I have posted several stories about Uncle Ronnie that highlight his tendency toward "the crazy". However, I was/am no prize myself and my bachelor uncle was my constant companion and was thereby subjected to all of my mercurial behavior.

This story is less about Ronnies craziness than it is about my own Hurricane Hattie tendencies.
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Uncle Ronnie was the first and only person in our family to have a Polaroid camera. This caused quite the buzz of discussion the first Christmas that he brought it out. It was Christmas at my Grandmother's house, circa 1973. My mother had sewn us matching maxi dresses from a pretty purple fabric and we were both rockin our Florence Henderson shags. Sitting in my grandmother's yellow vinyl and chrome kitchen chairs, we looked like a 70's ad for stuffing mix. We were the modern American family!

The family was all milling about the downstairs rooms of my grandmother's house, placing presents under the tree, making drinks, talking and cooking. But Ronnie was nowhere to be found. I hopped out of my chair and ran up the stairs to see where he was and what he was doing. Just as I reached the top of the stairs, he emerged from his room with a flat black box on a string around his neck. I pointed and yelled "What is that?". That, he explained to me, was a Polaroid camera. And it makes instant pictures!


Instant pictures? I was immediately intrigued by this device. My best friend Debbie's mother made instant mashed potatoes all the time, but my mother refused to buy them, which really made me jealous. So the notion of something instant like this at my disposal, set all my nerve endings on fire. I HAD TO TRY IT!

Ronnie, being the pseudo-adult that he was, tried through his laughter at my excitement over this gadget, to give me the 'be careful', 'handle it gently' speech to me as I flew down the stairs, crashing it into the wall, the banister and assorted relatives on my descent. Ronnie followed closely behind in a vain attempt to protect his new toy.

He allowed me to snap a couple of the very limited number of pictures in the film pack (it had 10, maybe 12 per pack) and as I took each one, a long, strange looking black sheet shot out of the front of the camera. "Hold it by the edges! Don't touch the center! They have to be developed!" Ronnie yelled as he swiftly pulled the undeveloped pictures out of my hand. Then he lined my mother and I up for a quick pic of our matchy matchiness and went upstairs. I ran up the stairs behind him, barely able to contain my excitement.

Ronnie sat at his desk and pulled a black canister out of his Polaroid Camera bag. Then he opened the canister and dumped out what looked like a rolled up pink rag with a plastic handle on one side. He peeled away the top paper that sat on top of each photo, revealing what looked like. . . nothing. There was just a grey box inside the white frame of the picture. Then he took the strange pink rag and dragged it across the face of the photo and instructed me to watch. I stared holes in the picture until finally, the ghost of an image started to appear. I could just make out that it was my mother and I, standing side by side in our maxi dresses. I begged Ronnie to let me do the next one, but he showed unusual restraint and said no.

Not content to just stare at him while he did all the fun stuff, I proceeded to jump on the bed. Higher and higher I jumped, but Ronnie paid no mind. He was focused on the development of his pictures. Bounce, bounce, bounce, I went, with my black Mary Janes all over his bed. Then with a flourish, I attempted my dismount. Unfortunately, I played it too close to the bedpost as it caught my maxi dress and slit it up the back to reveal my yellow underpants. Ronnie barely noticed, but I knew I was in deep trouble.

Feeling the breeze at my behind and knowing that I had to face the music with my mother, I grabbed the picture of my mom and I and I ran downstairs like a flash. Then walking toward my mother, making sure to face forward and not reveal the back of my dress that was waving in the wind like a flag, I presented her with the photo. She oohed and aahed and talked about how bright the colors looked and how pretty our dresses were, then as I side stepped away from her, she caught sight of my hospital gown chic. As expected, she was livid and she gave me the full barrage of what a disaster I was, and how I shouldn't have anything nice and so on. What could I say? I was only seven and she was only right.

That was just the kind of kid I was. Reckless, tom-boyish, always scuffed and disheveled, despite my poor mother's best attempts. And the apple does not fall far from the tree. I spent the last half hour and an hour last night detangling my daughter's hair. After much combing, sleeping with a conditioner pack, and working with detangler spray, we finally got it smooth. And it looked beautiful when she left the house. But I know that when I see her later today, it will be a squirrel's nest of tangles. But I won't get mad. I can't. It's my DNA at work and that's not her fault. Perhaps my daughter and I owe my mom a long overdue spanking. . .