Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
First, I got a very special comment from Mr. Unpronounceable. I call him that because his entire comment was written in Kanji. And while your girl is a wiz with languages - it's not bragging when I say that I have MASTERED (yes, be jealous) both English and Pig Latin. OU-YAY OU-SAY I AM YING-LAY? EN-THAY UCK-FAY OU-YAY! Skillz! Haters be damned, in any language.
Anyway, Mr. Unpronounceable might have been offering me candy or a spa treatment or his wang for all I know, as I am unable to read his message. Anyone who reads Japanese characters is welcome to translate our exchange, which went something like this:
DG at Diary of a Mad Bathroom said . . .
Dear Mr. Unpronounceable,
Kanji spam is my favorite kind of spam. Redolent with succulent umami flavors and a spicy wasabi kick. Or as you would say - 永遠不要躊躇伸出你的手
Then, almost immediately after this exchange, I started getting Twitter messages from my Tweeps saying that while they were flattered by my offer, they just couldn't find the time to take me up on it. My "offer" was this:
diaryofamadbath: hi, i'm 24/female/h0rny... i have to get off here but message me on my windows live messenger name Paris928l0ve@hotmail.c0m
And while it was clear to my husband that I did not send that message, all of you need to know that none of that is true. You can't have the volume of laundry that I have and be 24 and h0rny. It just doesn't happen.
So while I feel slightly violated and afraid for the potential virus activity that may have occurred as a result of my Asian/p0rn/hack/spam, I can happily state that my husband was thoroughly entertained by it. He was returning from a week long trip to Vegas for a conference when he got my spam message. His reply was - I've only been gone for a week and this is what you resort to? - Yeah, thanks honey. When you get home, just remember that the paying customers are first. We want that trip to Italy, right?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I know that there will be a mad rush to my house to take my temperature and make sure that I haven't simultaneously emptied the contents of my liquor and medicine cabinets, but I don't care about the Olympics. There. I said it. "BLASPHEMOUS" you cry. But, there is nothing in it for me.
So far, I have not seen any tap dancing fiddlers, shussing skiers or tights wearing male skaters (though I see the hilarity in that, straight away).
It seems like for those that are Olympics stalkers, they break into two camps -
1) Those that are sportos and just love the thrill of competitive sports, of any kind.
2) Those that are cynics and just love to spot the dance belt on the foppish skaters.
And as compelling as it is to figure out who hides their candy, the bottom line is that I just can't be bothered.
To me, the Olympics is a gigantic commitment. It runs for a looooooong time and is a massive time suck. I have too many other things competing to waste my time (lookie what I'm doing right now). And until they make cookie baking or coffee drinking an Olympic sport, I just can't relate.
So bloggy buds, please forgive me if I visit your blog and don't catch that gnarly wave of Olympic enthusiasm. I am simply ill-equipped. Me watching the Olympics is about as useful as Richard Simmons in a room full of Playboy bunnies. It would be entertaining for a couple of minutes, but then it would just get weird and someone would end up crying.
It also doesn't help that I can't look away from Mickey Leigh's memoir "I Slept With Joey Ramone". The book is a fascinating and in depth account of Joey Ramone's life and the history of the Ramones. It goes deeper than the documentary "End of the Century" could and it is, at times, amazing, heartbreaking and surprising. How can I possibly think of snowboarders when Joey is about to get sober?
And while my complete lack of interest in athleticism makes me feel like the dorky, uncoordinated kid that wasn't sporty enough to hang with the jocks, neither was Joey Ramone. And I'd gladly hang on the sidelines with him, any day.
Friday, February 19, 2010
On with the show. . .
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Everyone has an interesting tale or two about his or her grandparents. Well, today I would like to introduce you to mine.
May God help you all.
My grandparents lived in the same house for probably 30 years. For the final third of that time, all they did was complain about what a crappy house it was.
It's old. It's drafty. The basement smells funny. The kitchen isn't big enough. There are too many stairs. The driveway isn't paved. There's no garage. The yard is too small.
Anyone who heard them talking about this house would've assumed they lived in a Rubbermaid tub in the basement of a power plant.
About five years ago, they finally found a smaller house, all on one level (which was their greatest concern) and it just happened to be next-door to good friends of ours.
When they were first looking at the house, it had a mild Southwestern flair that was very colorful, yet still tasteful. Everyone they brought by to see it commented on how they would barely have to change a thing, appliances, decor and all the rest.
Once they officially bought the house, all hell broke loose.
They gutted that thing.
The brand new carpet was torn up ("...because it was just disgusting!").
The small, quirky borders were ripped off ("...because they were tacky!").
The new appliances were exchanged for newer ones ("...because they were in such bad shape!")
The kitchen tile was replaced. Not once. Nay, not twice. Thrice did someone come to the house, rip up the tile and replace it because my grandma insisted that one or two of the tiles was the wrong color (though she be blind as a bat).
After this metamorphosis had been going on for a few months, I remember stopping by one day with my mom to see my grandmother.
"Would you two look at these paint samples? I can't decide what to paint the walls and I'm just sick of looking at them."
I love paint samples (don't ask me why), so I quickly agreed.
My mother and I looked at them, glanced up at each other and then looked back down.
I scanned over them, sure that at least one or two might be a pale shade of yellow or a robin's egg blue, but alas. All I saw was eggshell, ivory, ecru, enamel, stucco, mother of pearl, and of course, white.
I started to laugh, because I was sure this was a joke. I looked up at my grandma and said, "They're all white." I looked over at my mom, who was suddenly staring very intently at the ceiling.
I looked back at my grandma. She was staring blankly at me. This was not a joke.
Quickly trying to recover, I looked back at them and said, "Well, this um, Winter White is a nice shade, but this, uh, this beige might be a little warmer, if you want."
In the end, the carpet was the color of faded khaki, the kitchen tile was the color of minced onions and the walls were a lovely shade of off-white.
It is the most vanilla house you have ever seen.
A few years have passed since the purchase and renovations were completed. Now, when we go over to their house, we hear a brand new set of complaints.
This house is too small. There's no cabinet space in the kitchen. It's so cold. We have no storage. The people across the street are too loud. The hospitals are really far away.
I simply smile and say, "Yes, it IS a lovely house!"
Thanks for guest posting Sara!
Now, readers, your job is to do two things -
1) Leave comments for Sara here.
2) Go to her blog, read her posts and follow her in a devoted, almost cult-like fashion.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
But every now and then, the generation gap rears its ugly head and waves a bony finger in my face to say "You're not so cool. You don't get it old lady. Go take some Geritol and floss your dentures." Those times are usually the YouTube times.
My daughter has become obsessed with making and viewing YouTube videos. The content that she puts out there is very silly and usually aimed at professing love for Miley Cyrus or whatever. Harmless, really. It's when she runs down to me, laptop in hand, to excitedly show me someone else's new, "hilarious" video that has 3 Million views. I appease her and watch them, but more often than not, I am left with a blank expression, muttering "Three million views. I don't get it.".
Here is a partial list of videos that she has shown me recently, that are totally lost on me. Please tell me that I'm not crazy and that you do not find them blisteringly funny. If you do find them funny, I will know that it is a flag of the defeat of my brain by the aging process.
Depending on your comments, I will either:
a) buy a cool new pair of boots and big, sparkly earrings
b) Buy a walker and orthopedic shoes.
My fate is in your hands. . .
Where's the Chapstick:
Sittin on the Toilet:
I weep for the youth of America. Except when Homestarrunner is on. Now that shit's just funny.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
She has taken a break from shoveling the metric ton of snow that she recieved over at her place to bring us this story. To me, the story sounds like she was either being punked or put to the test by her inlaws. Let's see what you think.
So without further ado, I give you the heroine of our story, Susan Fobes -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ah, yes, the world is full of people who “march to the beat of their own drum,” but I seem to have more than a few of these individuals in my own family. Normal was a term I had used to describe my husband’s family, at least until I spent a weekend with my mother and father-in-law inside an incredibly small motor home.
You see both were newly retired and had purchased this motor home so that they could travel the eastern US and show their other new purchase- two purebred Newfoundland dogs. But neither had camped in an RV before, or camped ever, and no one, not even my husband, decided to share this little bit of information with me. So on an unseasonably cold and rainy fall day, we joined them at a dog show in the mountains of Cumberland, Maryland.
Now if you’re not familiar with this breed, and I wasn’t, Newfoundland dogs are very large ranging from 120 to 150 pounds. I now know why they call them “gentle giants” because there is no looking up at you from under a table-these dogs are so tall they literally look you square in the eye.
The rain became a monsoon, but the dogs were still hot and panting, making everything inside our new weekend home damp-even the walls. Eating outside was out of the question, so dinner that night consisted of cold sandwiches and chips. We had no table (my father in-law removed it to make room for the dogs) and the RV consisted of just this living/eating/sleeping area and a bathroom. One of these “giants” planted her body right in front of me, and with her snout about three inches from my face, I attempted to eat and she started to drool. Small pools of saliva began filling her jowls then gobs of it began to fall all over my lap-my husband started laughing, I started gagging, and my in-laws declared how this was one of the breeds’ traits that they found endearing. There I sat, doggy drool still on my lap, my mother-in-law wiping one of the dog’s mouths then continuing to eat, and I am wondering what planet these folks hail from.
My father-in-law took pity on me and pours me a large goblet of wine, and my in-laws become normal once again. Hey, a little drool with a meal is no problem, that is until I bite into a nest-sized ball of fur! All my senses were screaming, “You have dog hair in your mouth-spit it out, spit it out!” But I had only been a member of this family for a couple years, my napkin was all covered in drool (it was not going near my mouth again), and I couldn’t think of a delicate way to spit on the floor. So I continued to chew slowly, my tongue revolting at the taste, and when I thought no one was looking, I tried to quickly pull the hair out, but when my furry dinner companion lunged towards my hand, all eyes were back on me. I hastily explained that I had a hair (yea, more like bush) in my sandwich, and even though my husband looked horrified, my in-laws just laughed it off saying that Newfie hair always gets in the food. Uh, people are ok with eating their dog’s fur-more wine please!
Dinner finally ends, and my father-in-law starts instructing me about conserving our water supply-for some reason my husband decides to skip the class lecture, but when I point this out, I am told to pay attention. Ok, I am now dealing with the nutty professor, so I pretend to listen, nod my head in agreement, and just when I think I can get ready for bed, he turns and issues this phrase, “If it’s yellow, let it mellow, and if it’s brown, flush it down,” and I was told to just throw the used toilet paper in the trashcan… I started laughing, you know because he couldn’t be serious, but oh how wrong I was. So let me get this straight, I shouldn’t mind drool, eating dog hair, getting lectures from the angry professor, and doing my business amidst everyone else’s business as long as it’s the correct color. I slowly lifted the toilet lid and prayed, “Please God, don’t let there be any colored water in here.” Well, there was, I went, and I threw the paper in the trash.
I was hoping the evening would end early as I watched the professor guzzle down even more wine and he and my husband tried to adjust the TV. He looked over at me and commented that a young bride such as myself should be wearing something slinky to bed. Um, it’s cold and I am with my in-laws. And even though I protested (what the heck were we going to get on the TV way out here?), out he went into the monsoon, climbing on top of that little RV to adjust the antennae. Oh, did I mention that it had been thundering just a minute before?
With no TV (I could have told you that) all that wine started taking affect and my mother-in-law began to yawn, so I joined her making mine twice as big, adding just the right amount of arm movement for effect. It worked and my husband and I began our ascent over mountainous dogs and into the alcove right above the driver’s seat, slithering in on our bellies because the ceiling was too low to sit up. All I kept thinking was how in the world I would ever escape if there were a fire-I literally couldn’t move, so I just stared at the water vapor collecting on the ceiling.
That’s when I heard “the noise”-it was a cross between a sleeping tiger and a buzzing chain saw, but it was coming from my father-in-law! My mother-in-law never woke up (after years of this she must be deaf), and although my husband and I watched the sun rise on our second day of captivity, I was convinced that a nice hot shower would start the day off right-my professor/father-in-law had other ideas. He now instructed me on how to wash (ok, way beyond normal, but what the heck)-I was given a washcloth and told to get myself wet, turn the water off to suds up, then wet the washcloth to rinse off. Did I have any questions? Just one, but I didn’t think, “Where’s the nearest Holiday Inn?” would go over well, so I did what the professor said.
Of course the rain kept up but thankfully we decided to head to a nearby Chinese Restaurant for dinner-I really didn’t have it in me to fight off the dogs anymore, besides, I think I pulled a muscle in my arm the last time I tried. But I was so tired that I was actually slaphappy, repeating phrases like “Chicken and broccoli” over and over and laughing hysterically, and I watched as my in-laws exchanging puzzled looks. I think they thought I had been hitting the bottle but I swear it was the result of sleep deprivation! On our way back to camp we passed a drug store and I almost shouted for my in-laws to stop-ear plugs would save me tonight, and my husband eagerly bought a pair for himself.
I learned a few things after surviving the cramped quarters of that little RV, 1) My husband took a real shower after we left to go to the show ring, 2) I don’t use the word normal to describe anyone or anything anymore, 3) RVing is not for me, and 4) though I had my doubts, I still love my in-laws, quirks and all.
Thanks for guest posting Susan! Now, readers, your job is to do two things -
1) Leave comments for Susan.
2) Go to her blog, read her posts and follow her in a devoted, almost cult-like fashion.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Being the cruel teenage bitches that we were, Maddie and I spent most of our waking moments making jokes about her mother's shortcomings. Sometimes to her face, sometimes behind her back.
One of Maddie's mom's more unfortunate deficiencies was that she was follicularly challenged. Don't speak PC? She was BALD! Almost shiny bald. The white, Italian equivalent of Lou Gossett Jr. That's how bald she was on the top of her head. And while she certainly did not deserve ridicule for her hairline issues, she did choose to address them in an unusual way.
OK, to appreciate this story, you have to put yourself in your best 14 year old mean girl mode (go ahead, I'll wait). Got it? OK.
One day Maddie and I were snooping around on her mother's dresser. She had one of those baroque looking dresser sets with the fancy bottles, ornate, carved brass hairbrush, filigree lipstick case, all very Maurice Villency. But there was something odd on the mirrored tray. Something that once I picked it up and realized what it was, made me shriek and send it flying across the room like a caveman's Frisbee.
I had laid my hands on "The Wireless Wonder Wiglet". How did I know what it's name was? On further inspection inside her mother's alabaster pin box, we found a small instructional manual on how to secure the wonder wiglet to your dome. I don't know how to describe this thing to you, except to ask you to imagine a yarmulke with tufts of dirt water brown hair coming out of it. It looked a lot like one of those petrified cats that they find at the bottom of the garbage pile on "Hoarders".
Needless to say, Maddie and I got insane mileage out of this event. Memorializing it in song, limerick, cartoon and regaling everyone that would sit still to listen.
But you know what they say about karma being a bitch?
Fast forward 31 years to this morning. As I am rinsing the hair color from the the heinous black and grey stripe that races down the middle of my formerly auburn head, I am treated to a parade of red hair, flowing down the drain with the rinse water. Seems that every time I color, I lose about a thousand hairs. And ever since the expected hormonal shedding after my last child (almost 11 years ago), my ponytail has been the diameter of a drinking straw, so I don't have much to spare.
It was a cruel joke that the universe played on Maddie's mom and is now in the process of playing on me. And while I am not yet in "Wonder Wiglet" territory, I can't exactly be all cocky about the fact that I might not need some follicular assistance at some point in the future. It's not a pretty thought. Red wigs tend to be the worst looking of the wig universe. Don't believe me? Look at this:
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
It's time for Post It Note Tuesday - Hosted by SupahMommy.
Click on the yellow stickie above to join the party!
Update Wednesday 2/10 - as if to prove my point. . . http://my.att.net/s/editorial.dll?pnum=1&bfromind=7403&eeid=7110412&_sitecat=1479&dcatid=0&eetype=article&render=y&ac=-2&ck=&ch=ne&s=en&rg=blsadstrgt&l=hm
Sunday, February 7, 2010
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 . . .
You know it's lovely weather for a sleighride together with you.
If you ever wanted to know what sexual confidence looks like. . .this is it!
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.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
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!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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."
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.