Politics and Facebook

I'm a republican. But I don't think Obama is evil. Do I agree with his politics? Not quite. I also don't think Romney is evil. Do I agree with Romney? Not quite.

So who am I going to vote for?

I don't know.

Then,  after reading my Facebook feed this morning I decided. I'm totally voting for Obama.

Then I got deeper into my feed .  . . and decided I'm totally voting for Romney.

Because these Facebook status' verbally ripping Obama and Romney apart really made me think and change my point of view

*snort*

Here's what those status updates did do:

Convince me that Republicans are going to vote for Romney because Obama is an evil man.

And also convince me that Democrats are going to vote for Obama because, duh, Romney is an evil man.

Mind? Blown.

So, who am I voting for on November 4?

I don't know.

Slow Cookin'

So. With the kids back in school I've decided that I'm going to do more home, from scratch cooking. And Diana at Hormonal Imbalances has been talking about the beauty of crock pots for years. So I scoured Pinterest and cookbooks and found some that sounded amazing.

Ah-maz-ing.

This morning, before I even had the kids on the bus I had dinner out, prepped and in the crock pot. Honey Parmesan pork chops. I assembled all the needed ingredients then pushed little button that said, "High 6 hours." Not worried a bit that the recipe said, "Low 6 hours." Because 6 hours in a crock pot is 6 hours. Right?

Wrong. So very, very wrong.

My house smells wonderful, but the pork chops? Caked with the honey Parmesan sauce. The juice I was supposed to make a gravy with? Burnt and nasty.

The house smells amazing though. So there's that.

And I just ruined 3 center cut, thick pork chops.

Awesome.

So. Those of you who use crock pots -- what kind do you have? How many settings? I need some help here. This 'easy' way of cooking seems to be a little difficult for me!

Something Died In There.

We left for a four day mini vacation on Friday. Took a six hour drive down to Virginia to see my husband's great Aunt. As we were leaving the house I turned on the dishwasher. My husband freaked his freak out and turned it off.

Because the dishwasher will break if you leave it turned on while you're not home.

I rolled my eyes, and threatened him with a great stink when we got home. However, I can't say much because he has this rule about washing machines as well, and once I ignored the rule. And came home to a river running through my laundry room, across the hallway and down the stairs.

Really.

So I continue to roll my eyes and declare that the dishwasher is going to reek. He promises it won't because he rinsed the dishes.

We leave.

We have a great time in VA, the kids play like crazy and we get to visit with his aunt.

We come home (the trip home is hellacious. It take 1 hour and 45 minutes for the kids to settle in and accept the fact that they are going to be in the car for 6 hours so for the love of all that is holy just be quiet and watch the movie. Any movie. Just.watch.it.).

We get home, empty the van (I go for a RUN, but more on that later), and shower the kids. After everyone is in bed, my husband opens the dishwasher to put soap in it.

AND THE STENCH. PEOPLE. THE UNHOLY STENCH.

It wafts over and through the entire downstairs. It's so bad I'm sure I can see it. It's oily and black and overwhelming. My eyes water, my nostrils flare and I gag. I start lighting candles.

We go to bed.

This morning: I open the clean dishwasher. AND THE STENCH. OH THE STENCH.

Then I become an old nag and start snipping at my husband about it. I fill it with soap, again, and slam the door.

2 hours later I open the door.

THE STENCH!!

I pour soap and vinegar in it. Say a little prayer, and turn it on.

2 hours later I open it.

THE STENCH!

I'm on the phone with Diana (over at hormonal imbalances. Did you know she's having TWINS?? we were OMG-ing over that) when I open the dishwasher for the THIRD time and guess what?

THE STENCH.

I reach in and pull out a glass. I can smell the sour milk -chunky egg-rotten cream cheese-old salad dressing smell baked onto it.

I gag. And rant at Diana. We decide to pour some bleach in.

2 hours later I open the dishwasher.

And the beautiful, warm, clean, nose hair burning scent of bleach wafts out.

SUCCESS.

(and yes, I washed them one more time to rinse the bleach off them.)

 

 

 

 

 

Be Confident. And Realistic.

OK. I'm a bitch. I get that. And judgey. I get that, too. What I am not? Ignorant when it comes to what my body looks like.

I know that I could stand to lose a few more pounds. That my arms are a little soft. I know that I should always wear deep scoop or V neck shirts to lengthen my neck.

I also know that I should not, ever again, wear a string bikini.

Never. Ever. EVER.

Did I rock one years ago? Yes. When I was 21. Am I 21? That would be a large, three kids and 30 pounds later no.

Yesterday we went to a water park.

And OMG my eyes. Gouge them out.

Listen, be confident in your body, please. Work your curves, please. But be smart, be realistic.

I think I look good at the weight I am. I think I look good in my bathing suit. However, I am not  Heidi Klum.

 My bathing suit? Covers my rear end. It covers my stomach that has been stretched out by three children and ice cream. It hides the bit of bra fat I have from breast feeding and peanut butter by the spoon full.

I am not a bathing suit model. I know it.

But there was a woman at the park yesterday that thought she was. Oh, yes she did. And I was horrified. My husband was horrified. I think Violet was horrified. I saw other people eyeing her. It was a train wreck of monumental proportions.

She had on the tiniest of string bikini's. The tiniest. Four tiny triangles and some string tied into a couple straining bows. And her stomach hung over the bottom so much that it covered it up. Except when she raised her arms. Then? You.Saw.Hair. *throws up in mouth*

The string on her top kept getting caught in her bra fat. And pulling the triangles in the front sideways. It wasn't pretty. Her belly button ring? Pointed down.

Seriously.

And she strutted around, swinging her hips. Tossing her hair.

Why? Are we that sexualized that any nakedness is good nakedness? That just showing skin, regardless of what it looks like, is a good thing? Has our society become so much about sex, about skin, about showing off everything and leaving nothing to the imagination that the majority of people now believe they must show everything to fit in? I wonder if this woman looked in her mirror when she put on that bathing suit and thought, "I look good. This looks good." In some way I did feel badly for her -- especially after I saw her super skinny friend walking around with her. But that doesn't change the fact that on some level this woman believed that showing all of herself was the appropriate thing to do.

There was another woman there, who somehow kept ending up standing by the string bikini lady.  She had on this adorable blue bathing suit, strapless, that skimmed down into a dress. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was gorgeous. And larger than the woman in the string bikini. But she was dressed appropriately and looked amazing for it.

And please, God, tell me that someone was thinking the same thing about me.

**spell check will not run on this lap top, so once again, please ignore any typo's. Please!**

My Eyes, My Eyes!

I can barely breathe, because I'm guest posting over at  Mama Still Wears Gucci !! I don't know quite how I managed to do this. Gucci is incredible and outrageous and all kinds of wonderful. She is a rare gem. I've adored her humor and outspoken ways since the day I landed on her blog over a year ago. And now somehow little me is on her blog. Go on over there for a visit and look around. Leave me a comment and let me know you stopped by!!

Listen up, people! It is once again swim suit season and we are at the pool every single day. For many, many hours. I calculated just how many here. And apparently there are some rules we need to go over as the summer begins.

Why? Do you not have mirrors? Do you think these things you do are attractive? They are not.

1. Butt crack. Just no. Never. Man, woman. Whatever. Sarah is 5 and I have decided to put her in dresses every day because the girl cannot keep her pants up. Her crack isn't cute. You're 20. And hot. You've got rocking abs and arms out of "Thor." But your butt crack? Makes me want to hurl. Plus, is this what the girls are into? Are they saying, "OMG, he's so hawt. Those abs. And that crack. *sigh*"

Girls, the same goes for you. I saw you in your string bikini, with the heart cut out that allowed your crack to wink at me as you walked by. Why? This is a fashion statement? What's next? A little pubic hair curling out?

2. Your underwear. You. Are. A. Lifeguard. Why in the name of all that is holy are you wearing 'shorts' (they come down to your ankles) that are slung so low I can see the label on your Calvin Klein's. And FYI? Not impressed that they're CK. Because I've noticed that they are same grey pair with white band and black lettering every day. Do you have seven of the same pair. Really? You do? Well, go swagger yourself in front of a set of teenagers and not this group of moms.

3. A tan does not make you fit. Or thin. Or make that bikini fit. Or make that flap of skin that is 5 inches thick disappear. Am I thin/fit? No. Do I wear a bikini? I do not. Because I should not. Look in the mirror.

4. Comparing children. Do not walk up to me and say, "How old is your daughter?" And when I say, "Five." Turn to your son and say, "See? Five. Same age as you and she's putting her face in the water. Why can't you?" Oh, they are fast friends now. And then you sit and chat me up? And you're actually nice? But your son hates my daughter and I really don't blame him. And I kind of hate you.

5. Watch your own kids. Does this one need explaining? You're at the pool. It has a lot of water. You should probably pay attention to those small humans that you proclaim to love more than life itself because if I have to jump up as though I'm about to go into the water after a drowning child one more time I'm going to lose mind (again.) Last year I went in twice after kids that were not mine. And did that weird jerk where you almost go, and the other parent realizes, "holy crap I was texting/talking/reading/drinking/sleeping and my kid is under the water." and grabs them.

I also don't want to discipline your child. They are not mine. I have my own to glare at all summer long as they spit water at me, I'll thank you to not allow your child to do the same.

Your Welcome.

What? I'm Fabulous?!

Hear that? That's me, screaming. I just saw that Gucci Mama linked to me today in her HNT post. *screams again* A few weeks ago Gucci and I were chatting on FaceBook and I told her she should use a fishing net ala Jonathan Hilstrand in her next  HNT. Because in that one moment I was totally awesome.  And today she has 'Operation Hillstrand' up and running.

So, if you're stopping by from Gucci, HI! Have a look around, don't be shy!

If you're here as one of my 'usual' people, be aware that Gucci is awesome-sauce, amaze-balls, and is hard core fabuolous. She says what she means and means what she says. I can't remember how I found her, only that I fell in  love with her. Oh, and HNT? It stand for Half Nekkid Thursday's. (yeah . . . she's NOT a Mommy Blogger) :)

FYI: I am NOT A Moron. KThanks.

Aannnd, I'm ranting. AGAIN.

Dear C*mcast, (yeah, SO not typing your full name. Did that once.)

 I read my cable bill and noticed that it went up by $41. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Do other people not notice an increase of this much? I called you, prepared to be kind, even though I've been calling you every three to four months for the past four years for this exact reason. Every three to four months you  increase my bill. Yet, I never add any additional services/channels. So we dance this ridiculous dance that goes like this:

Me: My bill was --- last month and this month it is ---. Why?

C*mcast: Oh, that was a special promo. It's over now.

Me: Ok, well, then cancel HBO/whatever and drop my bill back down to it's original price. Because I'm always having to call and do this. And it's annoying. I'm really unhappy with the service, and if this continues I'm just switching.

C*mcast: Oh. Well, I can just keep you at the special promo price.

Me: Fine. But drop all premium channels. It's not worth it.

And now, even though I've dropped all premium channels, I see Starz on my bill. However, you think you've got me by the short and curlies because I've actually been watching Starz for the past three months. Oh yes. Because I thought it was one of those free promo deals where you throw on a free channel, show us how awesome it is to watch all these movies, then hope we'll buy the channel. So I laughed as I watched, because I'm not biting. Also? I checked my bill last month and I was not billed for Starz. When I tell you that I suddenly get Starz, when I have never ordered it, or had it before, this is what you say:

Well, are you sure you didn't get it before? I mean, if you suddenly discovered that you had it, maybe you had it all along, only you weren't clicking on that channel because you just assumed you didn't get it. But you did. So now you check your bill and discover it there. But it's really been there all along.

OMG. Really? Did you just say this to me? Really? So, very, very kindly, I said to you, "No, no, that is not possible. Let me be very clear. I understand that you, personally, did not go in and mess with my account, Joe Schmo. I get that. But somebody did. And because this keeps happening, I check my channels all.the.time. Three months ago? No Starz. Also? I wasn't charged for Starz. Last month I had the channel and wasn't charged for it either. Now it's on my bill. No. No I did not suddenly notice it. It has not always been there. Really? Did you just say that I never noticed I had this channel?"

And suddenly, the heavens open, miracles occur and WHAM, my bill is back down. Only, this time, this time, Joe Schmo, you didn't make me happy. I'm still $10 up from where I was, and you tried to make me think I was batsh*t crazy. I.am.not. But you? Oh, you are.

So, I thanked you kindly, hung up and called Fios.

And this? This is for you.

Pesky Immigration

So. Today while I was driving to pick Sarah up from school, I was rear ended. John and I are totally fine. The van is fine. The other guy is fine.

Wait. No. No he is notfine. He is a dirty rotten scoundrel. He is a player, said like this: playah.  He is a liar with a capital L. And I? Am angry. ANGRY.

I stopped for construction. He did not. So he hit me. It was no big deal. I called Sarah's school and told them I'd be late. I called my husband and asked what I should do -- I admit that I was probably a little panicked. He told me what information I needed etc. There is little to no damage to the car and nobody is hurt, and the police really don't come out for accidents like that around here, so at that point I didn't think to call the police. Here's a Public Service Announcement: Get hit? Call the police before you even leave the car. The End.

Playah and I pull into a parking lot. This is the only brownie point the guy gets. He didn't take off, which he totally could have. He gives me his info and I hand him mine. As I'm writing his down I start chatting him up. "Is this you?" I ask of the name on the insurance. "It's my dad." Kay. But wait, it expired in December. He says he has the up to date one, he just hasn't put it in the fancy sleeve yet. Seeing as I had to hunt for mine and do the same thing, I totally buy it. *slaps self in the face*

I get his phone number, license plate number and take pictures of our cars. Then he says, "Would it be cool if we just said my dad was driving?"

Uhm, NO, no it would not be cool. So I say, "No, no, it would not be cool. Why would I do that?" And Playah says, "Because I don't have a drivers license."

*slaps self in face multiple times, very, very hard*

I said, "Can I ask why you don't have a drivers license?" And Playah said, "Oh, immigration took it away from me."

Really? I'm supposed to believe that your father has car insurance and you had a drivers license but then did something wrong that caused immigration to take just your drivers license away? OMG.

I backed away from him, nodding, said, "Okthanksbyegottago." and jumped in my van. I wanted to call the police, but didn't think Playah would exactly wait for them. So I picked up Sarah, came home and called my husband. And promptly fell apart.

Then I called the called the police.

They told me what to do. So I called Playah, who amazingly, answered his cell phone. I told him we had to make a police report. He balked. Tried to talk me out of it. Then said he had to call work and see when he could meet me there. Then called me back and tried to get me to  let him 'take care of it. Get three estimates. We'll take care of you. My insurance will go up. I know you don't care, but I'll take care of you.' Then he mentioned something about me stopping short. And you guys? Momma Bear came out like I never knew she existed.

I started crying, but my voice was firm and I just railed at him. I said, "Playah, don't even go there. You rear ended me. You were driving without a license and you.hit.me and I had my baby in the car. My baby. And you hit me. And you? Don't.have.a.drivers.license. So don't talk to  me about how you're going to take care of me. I'm taking care of this. I'm taking care of this by going to the police department and making a report. And now you need to be a stand up guy and do the right thing. So be that guy. Be him. Or don't. But I'll be there at 1:30 and if you're not, the accident will be listed as a hit and run. And I have all your information. So I'd really, really be that guy and do the right thing."

ME!! I really said all that. I'm all that and a bag a chips. Yes, yes I am.

Then, I called my husband and cried some more.

I went to the police station, and shocker, Playah did not show. I gave them his information. The police officer punched in the plate number and smiled. Smiled. And said, "Playah was driving?" I said yes he was. She asked me to look at the computer screen to verify a picture of him. I looked at the picture, and I guess I had funny look on my face, because after I said it was him, she smiled and said, "That wasn't his license photo." I said, "Uhm, no. I kind of figured that out. Because my drivers license photo? Doesn't include a picture of my calf and the tattoo on it." But his mug shot does.

He's what they call a repeat offender. Yeah, go big or go home. So Playah didn't show up because he has multiple warrants out for his arrest for driving without a license.

So . . . .What did you learn today, kids?

Overheard: The ER

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My doc? Did not look like this.

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A couple weeks ago I had to visit the ER for a migraine. It was packed and I was there for five hours. My head was killing me and I desperately needed to be distracted. So I took a page out of Kate and Lydia's book over at Rants From Mommyland and started taking notes.  My observations are noted in red. Because you really need to know what I was thinking.

* "Uhm, Hi? This is my baby? He fell last night, and like, hit his head? And like, now he can't see?" Meanwhile the baby is totally waving at me. And I'm like 10 feet away.

* "This is my husband, he's the patient. He blacked out while driving and went into a ditch. On Friday." It's Monday. What.The.Blank.Did.You.Do.All.Week.End??

* Three uhm, 'boyz' are in line ahead of me. They could hang with Snoop Dogg. They all look totally fine. "Yo. I had a boil drained on Fri-DAY. Doc told me to come back TO-day. And these are my boyz." How did that conversation go? And you all don't have jobs/school/chores/something else more engaging to do on a Monday morning than sit in an emergency room while your 'boy' gets a boil checked?

* Husband, complaining while wife sits in wheelchair waiting to check in. "There's a line. Man! What if there were a national emergency? What then? Huh? What if there were bombs dropping from the sky? I bet they'd see us then, wouldn't they?" Really? They'd see us then?

*" No, I'm not at home! I'm at the emergency room, dumba$$. Because I have a cyst on my wrist and it's cutting off my circulation. My hand is all swoll. I can't talk now. Call my manager and tell him I haf to haf it tooken off." She doesn't see me writing down her conversation, because she is busy texting the entire time she's waiting to be seen. I feel all mean towards her, especially because she gets seen before me. Then I see her later. With her eye makeup all smeared and her wrist all bandaged. I'm a winner.

* "I hear an ambulance. They're bringing someone here w/ a broken leg. Because this is one of them trauma centers. But can they fix your leg? Oh noooo. They make us wait and wait . . " the wife gets up and starts wandering around the waiting room, on 'broken' leg. "What if there were a national emergency?" This, again? "What then? Huh? I bet they'd fix your leg, then, wouldn't they?!" Uh, no, they would not. Do you remember September 11? All the doctors rushed to the hospitals to help because we thought we'd be getting survivors here. Also? Your 'broken' leg would not be at the top of the important list if there were a national emergency.

Back in the treatment area:

* "Uhh, it just hurts so bad. I wish somebody would come and tell me why it hurts. Or tell me I could eat. I'm so hungry. Go see if I can eat. " The boyfriend trots off. The girlfriend pants and waits. "You can't eat because you just had a CAT scan to see why you are in so much pain. You might need surgery." Girlfriend hurls her phone at him. That should speed things up. "But I'm hungry! This is so wrong. Why can't I eat?" Time passes. More whining about wanting to eat. More panting because she is obviously in pain. A doctor comes by with her CAT scan results. "You're in pain because your LapBand has come off." What?? The boyfriend freaks out. The girlfriend is all calm. "There is something inside you? What is inside you? Tell me what is inside you!"  She keeps shushing him. "Just shut up. Find a doctor. I want to know what they're going to do and when. So I know if I can eat." Hhmm. What do you think caused you to need the LapBand in the first place??

Nurses and Doctors are saints, people. Saints.

Give me your best ER story!

Kim

Where's Your Magic Spot?

"Ladies, do you know where your 'magic spot' is?"

"Girls! Find your 'magic spot'!"

"OK, now let me see that 'magic spot'!"

"Good! Now, get into your cage and make sure you find your 'magic spot'!"

This is what I was doing on Thursday evening. What were you doing?

I was in a room full of people, listening to a woman yell out these instructions. It was highly entertaining, educational and thought provoking. Some people took pictures. I took notes. There was applause and laughter. Some people were uncomfortable, it's true. I've done this type of thing before, many times in fact, so I was not uncomfortable. But the lady sitting next me, Mary? Could not hold it together. She almost got us kicked out. It was dreadfully embarrassing, to be honest. I mean, we're adults. Finding our 'magic spots' should not be something unheard of.

Especially, since it was explained to us, a sticker is put directly on the 'magic spot' at the beginning of each session so as to make identifying it easier.

Had we perhaps seen the sticker?

When our daughters brought home their ballet shoes?

Because there, on the inside of the heels, would have been a sticker. Identifying the 'magic spot.'

It was observation night at Violet's dance class, and very educational. She danced beautifully and was so excited that I smiled the entire time she danced. Good thing she can't read lips or minds.

And Mary? Uhmm, I might have been contributing to her inability to hold it together. With things like, "Oh, just be happy. Go find your 'magic spot.'" And, "You're mad at your ex? Why? Couldn't he find your 'magic spot'?"

Were you worried?? eh, go find your 'magic spot.'

Kim

P.S Bonnie, A.M and everyone else, I love you. I adore you all. I have not stopped laughing!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Pretty All True . . .Featured Blogger!

I can hardly believe it!! Kris, over at Pretty All True, who I mentioned yesterday, has chosen me as one of her featured bloggers!! When I 'found' Pretty All True, I was captivated. I love how Kris writes, so much so that I immediately Followed her. And wanted to meet her family. Not in a stalkerish-scary-freaky way, you understand. But in a Maj and Kellan (her daughters) and Mark (her husband) are  beyond entertaining, humorous and totally lovable way, that make you want to instantly be friends with them. Like, I want to have them over for dinner and a great big slumber party where we watch movies and stay up all night giggling. Anyway. She has this hilarious feature, called "Make Me Come!" You send her a link to one your posts that you think is compelling, and if she likes it, she will comment on it. She has a sizable blog, so I thought, "Hey, I'll send in a post and see what happens. I totally thinks she rocks and would love her to read some of my writing." Well, I "Made Her Come" and she commented on my post, "Where I Lose Myself." I was so thrilled. And I thought that was the end of it. Turns out I didn't read the 'fine print' in my excitement to link up to her 'Make Me Come' feature. If she liked what she read, I would become a Featured Blogger!

So today, there I am! So go there now! Not to see me, silly! You've probably read my post before. But go check Kris out. She kicks some serious butt and totally rocks it like a rock star. I think she may be a rock star.

Kim