Archive | April, 2011

On the Phone with Dad

27 Apr

Him: And how is Himself? What’s going on at work?

Me: I think he went in early this morning because they didn’t have power.

Him: Wow. He can do that? Does he harness it for all the stores?

An Open Letter to the Woman on the Phone at the Grocery Store Who Kept Referencing “Sex and the City”

26 Apr

Dear Woman on the Phone at the Grocery Store This Morning Who Referenced Sex and the City Three Times…That I Know of,

Stop. Stop. It.

No one gives a crap if you’re a Samantha or a, well, I don’t know who the other characters are. But no one cares if you’re TOTALLY HAVING A SEX AND THE CITY MOMENT HERE IN THE BAKING GOODS AISLE. Look, honestly, I don’t even know what the hell that means. But you sounded like a moron.

You sounded like a moron in front of the organic chicken when you were discussing cocktails. You also sounded like a moron in the vitamin aisle where you totally blocked my access to my favorite gummy vitamins. Do not block my access to gummy vitamins. They are both candy AND a way to maintain a healthy lifestyle.  Each time something was TOTALLY SEX AND THE CITY, you sounded ridiculous.

And, so, when you finally put down your phone and got down to serious shopping, I was less than thrilled every time you took your half in the middle. Now, honey, those aisles at Kroger are nice and wide but when you make it so the 115 year-old lady and I can’t get around you, you just annoy me even more. THAT LADY NEEDED HER SUGAR WAFERS! Because apparently sugar wafers, bananas, and ice cream are all you eat when you are really old. Which is awesome. But you would not get your designer-jean clad, Miu Miu knockoff ass out of the way. Why? I dunno. MAYBE THAT’S NOT WHAT SAMANTHA WOULD HAVE DONE. Who knows? But your need to read the back of every single box of crackers IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AISLE made it difficult for Grandma Moses and me to get our Oreos and move on.


I doubt you’re reading this. I’m sure you’re off at Anthropologie right now giving some poor sales associate PURE HELL because they don’t have those mirrored, feathered martini glasses you saw on some Housewives show. And that’s okay. You gave me something to write about today, and I thank you for it. Moron.

Number Five

21 Apr

Today is my fifth anniversary. I thought about really embarrassing my husband with all sorts of flowery prose about how much I love him and junk. But I think I’ll just choose five songs to say it for me.

Here are five songs (in no particular order) for Chuck.

An Open Letter To People Who Don’t Want Me To Enjoy The Damn Royal Wedding

19 Apr


Let me see if I get this straight: You don’t want me to enjoy the wedding because it perpetuates the myth that every girl can find her prince. And you don’t want me to enjoy it because it’s a huge expense in what should be a time of fiscal sobriety. And you don’t want me to enjoy it because of the stereotype that girls only care about pretty dresses and flowers and jewelry.

Suck it.

Shall I compare thee to a right gas bag? For thou art as full of foul air.  I could almost go with the idea that it’s a huge expense, but the care and feeding of the monarchy is a huge expense. Look, these crazy kids can’t just hop over to Las Vegas and be married by a midget Elvis impersonator then spend the weekend getting drunk by the pool at Circus Circus. There are LAWS governing this marriage. And I’m not talking about one that says you can’t marry your sister.  The Queen must give her consent and then announce it to The Parliament. You think you had to go through hurdles because your future mother-in-law friended you on Facebook and saw that picture from college where you were dancing on the pool table at the Kappa Sig house wearing nothing but a vintage Dan Marino jersey and a pair of clear acrylic stripper shoes? What if your future grandmother-in-law had to okay your marriage and then get the whole thing through Congress? Duuude.  You’d totally deserve some pretty, sparkly things to wear after that fiasco.

And quit pushing this bullshit about how we’re only interested in a girl finding her prince. I mean just stop it. I don’t want to BE royal. I want to watch them prance around in cool hats. I’ve got bigger fish to fry than trying to make a morality play out of the daughter of a man who sells Peppa Pig Party Piñatas and Justin Bieber Squiggle Straws marrying a guy who, based on the Royal Family Tree, might actually be his own second cousin.

Here’s true romance:

Me: Who’s the guy with the teeth?

Him: Billy Bob Thornton.

Me: Yeah, that’s him.

Does it piss me off to walk through the toy section of Target and find it as segregated by color as 1954 Mississippi? Yes. Is that poor Kate Middleton’s fault? No. We made a social contract years ago that stipulates girl children will only play with things that are pink, purple, and sparkly and boy children will only play with things that are red, black, and have 8,000,000 tiny parts that get stuck in the carpet and you don’t ever find them until you step on one at three in the morning when you get up for water. Girls play with toys that have Pretty, or Dream, or Kitchen in the name and boys only play with toys with Tron, or Mega, or Annihilator in the name.  We are breeding creativity out of kids and replacing it with confetti and prime time wrestling. That’s not the fault of the British Monarchy. You need to take that up with Disney and your guilty conscience. You want to start a revolution? Give a kid an apple slice and a refrigerator box instead of a Fruit Gusher and a Transformers Construction Devastator.  But quit blaming media for myths you’re just as guilty of perpetuating.

I’m getting up early to watch a circus. I’m going to have tea and crumpets and clotted cream. One morning of pomp and circumstance isn’t going to turn me into ninny. You don’t like it? Don’t watch it. Don’t buy the Wills and Kate Wedding Dish Towel Set. But mind your own damn business and keep the bitching to a dull roar so I can hear the commentary while I sit on the floor in front of the TV and wonder if Queen Elizabeth carries Halls Menthol Lozenges in her purse just like my grandmother did.



Pfffft…I Give Up

13 Apr


Michele Bachmann. She says Planned Parenthood wants to be the LensCrafters of abortions. The big box retailer of abortions. The Walmart of abortions. Because as we learned from The Honorable Senator Jon Kyl, 90% of what Planned Parenthood does is perform abortions. Whether you want one or not. Whether you’re even pregnant or not.

That sort of talk is wrong, ridiculous, and disgusting. So I’ve decided to fight fire with fire.  With the help of my Marketing Guru, Adele, here are some tips for Planned Parenthood to help them become the Walmart of abortions. YOU’RE WELCOME.

  1. Abortions in 30 minutes or less or you get a coupon for 1/2 off  next abortion plus subscription to Real Simple magazine.
  2. Spring “Pap-Stravaganzza”. Free soup, salad, and breadsticks lunch from Olive Garden with every pap smear.
  3. Free caulk with every abortion. Eliminates need for future abortions plus weather-proofs your home.
  4. Complimentary flavored condom sampling Tuesdays and Thursdays from 2-4 pm.
  5. Tattoo removal specialist on staff weekly. Perfect time to get that “Enter Here” tramp stamp removed.
  6. Swipe your PP Loyalty Card every visit and earn rewards good towards condoms, Vagasil, home STD testing kits, and Starbucks.
  7. As speculums are not warmed before use, hand warmers on aisle 7 now approved for use on ladybits.
  8. Outsource pelvic exams to call centers in Arizona via use of  the Skype SpeculumCam.
  9. Four words: Cecile Richards Bobblehead Doll
  10. Release compilation CD of lounge music to be sold at appointment check-in counters.

You Give Pedestrians A Bad Name

12 Apr

Dear Jackholes Who Just Walked In Front Of My Car,

I know you’ve got the day off and you haven’t seen sun since sometime in the Bush administration. I know you’ve been stuck at home, watching Maury, stuffing your face full of cheez products. Haven’t we all? I know that with this Greenline thing you’re all excited that you have a flat place to walk in town. Because with this being the Delta region and all, flat places to walk are scarce as hen’s teeth.

But listen, and listen well…


If you decide that you want to cross High Point while I’m in my little car, trying to get the last of the good ribeyes from Mr. Shirley’s before everyone gets off work and all that’s left are the grandma cuts, you better be damn sure you’re prepared for me to run your ass over. Because while my car has brakes, and they’re good–I just had them replaced not too long ago–they take a second or two to work. So let me suggest that from now on, when you see cars already at the crosswalk, YOU REFRAIN FROM WALKING INTO ME. Being a pedestrian does not make you Jack Harkness. Or that dude Bruce Willis played in that movie with Samuel Jackson. If I were to hit you at a reasonable rate of speed? I’D WIN THE GAME.

And, look, I know I’m in a car and you’re not. And I know it gets a little confusing who goes first. So let me lay it out for you. If I’m there first, I go. Car or no car. Bike or no bike. Okay. It’s that easy.

And so this afternoon, when you get home and you sit down to your blog to bitch about that dumbass in the Altima who just about mowed you down, I GOT HERE FIRST!



That’s What He Said

8 Apr

Husband: He got his butt chewed six ways from Tuesday three times on Wednesday.

Me: I love you.