I'm from around the way

NEW POST-- NEW SITE

2011-02-27T22:55:00.003-06:00

I know I just got some new followers and I hate to make you move around, but I've moved my site to

www.aroundthewaygirl.com
I hope you'll follow me there!!

And I REALLY hope that you'll love my new site enough that you'll spread it around to your friends (because I don't really have many and I live in a small town so I gotta keep my alter-ego on the down-low or else I could be shot. You understand, right?) So if you like what you're reading, please post it up on facebook. I promise to be on my best behavior (unless I'm drinking, then all deals are off.)

Thanks!

Nasty- That's What They Call Me

2011-02-26T10:11:00.005-06:00

I’d like to dedicate this blog to just a few of the things that I wish I could scratch from my brain. I wish I had those fingernails from the guy in the Guiness Book of World Records, and I could use it to claw out the parts of my brain that remember this shit:

- That Penguin movie with Morgan Freeman narrating, you know when that penguin egg cracks and my little boy fell on the ground crying. Yeah. A big middle finger to you Morgan Freeman for breaking my kid’s heart. Coulda warned us on the cover. “Baby penguins die in this movie and from now on every time you offer to put in a dvd for your kid, he’s going to ask, it’s not that penguin movie is it?”

- That time (it was last night) that I googled Blue Waffle. I know just saying that is going to make you want to do it, But SO don’t do it. And just a shout out to Allison for telling me to google it. I totally get where you’re coming from. It’s the ‘smell my finger’ phenomenon. You can’t believe something could reek so badly that you just want to share it, but then you feel bad when they start throwing up. Anyway, It’s BAD STUFF.

- That movie Precious. The thing that still blows my mind is that I TOLD my friend Jennifer that I was excited to just have a night off and that I’d gotten a movie for Javi and me to watch and some popcorn. She asks, what did you get? I said, Precious. She said, oh it’s sad. I thought, that’s fine. I’d read a little quip about it. Black girl from bad home goes to alternative school and gets an education. Sounds like a Michelle Pfeifer flick I saw back in 92, but I’m a sucker for the lift-me-uppers. Yeah, Precious isn’t really a lift-me-upper. I lasted 5 minutes into that movie before I started screaming “TURN IT OFF. TURN IT OFF. Oh God, my cold heart is melting. Turn it off.” Jennifer, I’m getting you a fucking thesaurus for Christmas because ‘sad’ doesn’t really describe that nightmare.

- The sound of my parents having sex. Try as I might, but that one time when I was seven and I heard my mom sound like she was running on a treadmill, but we didn’t have a treadmill, still gives me the fucking heebie jeebies. That’s why I have Javi gag me with my underwear so I don’t make any noise. (just kidding)

- Those toe nails on that black lady that I saw walk into the gas station last summer. Holy Shizz, they were jacked up. She should be fined for that shit. It was life-alteringly bad. Like, I want to live life to the fullest, never forget to kiss my kids goodnight, and donate to poor kids in Haiti, because life is short and I could have jacked up toes like that, but only by the grace of God do I function on halfway normal toes. Thank you, Dear Precious Lord for funk-free feet. Why oh why, can’t we all have them?

You know, not a lot of things bother me if I can have a picture of a hemorrhoid on my page and not flinch. That picture doesn’t freak me out so much as make me wonder, how is that picture even available for my viewing pleasure? Did someone really bend over for that? Just for me? That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever… wait. Not really. If it was a girl it was probably taken while she was knocked out on a roofie some college dude gave her. If it was a dude, 1. It’d have been a lot hairier, 2. It’d be the asshole of a perv and who wants to see that. Is somebody standing there grabbing their ass cheeks while somebody else is zooming in? Okay, now I’m getting disgusted. It’s better not to over-think these things.

Gosh, sometimes Google shouldn’t be allowed to have the crazy shit I google available. They should just put a sign that says, “No way, you fucking perv. Now quit googling weird crap and pretend to be normal, for the sake of your kids who are so going to pass out and die if they ever stumble on this blog one day."

Douche is as Douche Does

2011-02-24T23:14:00.006-06:00

After class tonight I decided to go out where the young folk go. Actually I’ve been there a few times with people my own age and had fun. Good pizza, beer, decent music. Can’t complain.

Until tonight.

When I realized that I have NOTHING in common with people and that’s why I should stay locked up in a tower and only ring the church bell when they call for my hunchback ass.

You know most people would think it’s cool to have lived in a foreign country for 8 years. And yeah, it was cool. But here’s the deal: when you come back you’re a fucking freak. It’s like those people who go to space only to find that time has progressed 20x faster than they have and now it’s like 1985 but when they left it was 1955. Well, when I left, Beverly Hills 90210 was still on.

So no, I don’t know ANY of the shows you’re referencing. None. So stop trying. Nope don’t know that one either. Did I mention that I was in Spain for 8 years and didn’t watch any of your TV programs? Sure, I’ll put whatever show that is on my long list of shows that I need to watch because truely you’re the first person I’ve had this extremely painful conversation with. No not really. The shit is so old I feel like making a fucking t-shirt out of it. I think it’d have a little black and white picture of a guy with his head up his ass and then it’d say: Nope, didn't see it.

And also, just FYI, I shoot pool like shit. I realize that you’re 20-something and shoot pool all the time because you, well, you can. I, on the other hand, have a whole boatload of shit that I have to do that keeps me from the pool tables. I’m just glad I didn’t poke anybody with my pole. That’s how I measure my success. Just don’t fucking embarrass yourself by putting out an eye tonight. Cha-ching. No 911 calls. Guess I’m not so bad after all.

Wrong. I could totally hear myself talking to these other people. For someone reason it didn’t sound like me though. It sounded like a whiney fart that came from my mouth instead of my ass that said things like, “Uhm yeah, I speak a little Chinese. Just very little though. Yeah, a little Japanese too, but really not much. Yeah, I just spent a little time there. Not much. No. Yeah, fluent in Spanish. But that’s only because I lived there for so long. Really, I’m not that smart. I promise I’m just like you and everybody else you know. Well, except that I don’t watch TV. Ever. And you've never left the tri-state area, but whatever… that’s totally cool. Oh and that I’m 714 and when you laugh you remind me of my son. But other than that, I’m a total hot babe that you should try to pick up so that I can feel like I still got it.”

God, it was bad. There were all these young girls in mini-skirts, and I just sounded like an old squeaky douche. No, not even a douche, like the mom of an old squeaky douche. God, I hated myself tonight. I feel like the saggy ass that old women wipe when they finish shitting.

So I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I’m going to play with people my own age. 32. God, when did I get so old? Good night.

Beware: Inappropriateness is near

2011-02-23T09:16:00.009-06:00

So a friend invited me to go blog-hopping with her. I wasn’t sure exactly what that involved because I have been invited to swing with couples before, and I’m a raging jealous maniac that would end up cutting a bitch so I’m not really the swinging/hopping type.

But I am open-minded (not really, I just like to think I am), so I clicked to find out more. I didn’t get all the details but it went something like: I must link/comment/fake friend a whole bunch of people who I’m probably not going to like (because I'm a judgmental bitch) because most of them seem like gun-toting, shank the towel-head, keep my kids away from the gays and my money away from the poor, WWJD, stay-at-home-moms who buy really expensive hair bows and get all giddy about it. Anyway, just not my type. My judging is only made worse by the fact that at the end of the instructions were the words “family friendly blogs only. Inappropriate blogs will be deleted.” And I thought, that bitch would so totally delete me. I should just post my blog anyway and when she deletes me say, what? Your kids don’t say ‘douche’? I thought that WAS family friendly. Oops.

But here’s my point: I spend all day being appropriate. I’m a freaking college professor at a very conservative university. How appropriate is that? (and I’m sure as soon as they find this blog, I’m so fucking fired.) So can’t I be inappropriate in my brain? And really this blog is just an extension of my inner thoughts. It’s not the shit I’d say to your face. I’m from the south, and I was raised right. I say “God love her” after every derogatory comment I make. As in: “That skanky bitch sucked 6 different dicks last night, God love her.”

In fact, I was raised so right that when I moved to Los Angeles when I was 19, I was almost mauled to death by non-southerners. I was like this Frosty picture. All bubbly and smiley, with a sack of snow for brains. I was taught to be polite. If someone is talking to you, you nod and listen. If someone asks you to do something, then you do it. If someone needs you, you help. That sorta thing.

Yeah, well, my mom was never a teenage girl waiting tables in LA. I gave my phone number out to so many people I had to have that bitch changed 3 times. I just couldn’t say no when someone asked. Every pore in my body would scream, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Give him the wrong number. Don’t do it." But my body would just do the right thing and give him the number. I had the dirty married Mexican cook calling me and just breathing into the phone. (I know it was him because I could hear people speaking Spanish in the background.) I had this hardcore Amway lady calling non-stop. I had a girl who wanted me to be a prostitute with her, saying it’s not that bad. Oh, the list goes on…

The point where I realized things were really out of hand and I had to man up, was when some 55 year old native American man, with dark skin, greasy hair, and a pock-marked face motioned to me in the car next to me. I was driving along, singing to the radio in my little borrowed Honda, when this man next to me is motioning to me. I smile politely back. I don’t know, this goes on for a good 5 miles, when he motions for me to pull over at the 7-11. And I do it? WTF? Next thing I know, I find myself listening to this ole joker tell me about how he was recently divorced and yadda yadda and that he’d just like a hug, and would I mind hugging him? Well, hell yeah, I mind. You stink like cheese, mother fucker. But that’s not what my appropriate-self actually says to people. So there I am, in the 7-11 parking lot, with some fat old Indian behind me, rubbing his crotch in my ass and getting a hug. That’s what appropriate gets ya.

So you know what, this blog is not appropriate. It’s not work-friendly. In fact, it is has a big ass hemorrhoid right over here. (how was that picture even taken?)

So don’t follow me, link me, or friend me if you’re expecting me to fake smile and laugh at your “my mom just had foot surgery and now I’m going to gab your ear off for 45 minutes detailing the shit” story. Because I do that in my real life. Not on my blog.

Rules to Abide By

2011-02-22T16:33:00.003-06:00

When I was a kid I had to memorize a poem called My Inside Self where this kid talks about how her outside self wears janky clothes and has white cellulite thighs, but her inside self is funny and cool like Around the Way Girl. (heehee, j/k)

And I've been thinking a lot about that lately. About how my inside self is all bad-ass like Pink.

My outside self has never sported corn rows in my life.

You know in this post, where I talk about the other night when I was out slumming it at The Skanky Fish with some of my best girl friends? Well, there was this young guy there who was quite possibly flirting (which was making me feel oddly like Mrs. Robinson from The Graduate.) At some point he asked how old I am and in my drunken state I thought it was cool to answer by holding up my fingers. He looked at the 3 fingers on one hand and then the 2 fingers on the other and says, which way? And I look at him like he's from planet Retard because although I'm not a bad 32, I'd be a fucking wreck if I were 23. I mean, to get a face like this at 23 you'd have to have been left out in the yard like an old frisbee for ten years. Seriously. But then I realized that for a 24 year old, 32 is equivalent to 78.

And I know it's only going to get worse from here. On the inside, I'm 22 and singing "Oh Na-Na. What's my name?" to all my bitches like I'm ghetto fabulous.

On the outside I'm any other middle-aged mom bopping along in her mini-van.

Which leads me to my list. This is just a simple list of rules that I think all old people should abide by.

- no long hair. I know Crystal Gayle was the fad when you were young, but hair down to your ass and a face like Tales From the Crypt is not pretty.
- no cut off shirts and no micro minis. I don't care how skinny or lonely you are. Stick to the rules.
- no drawing on the eyebrows. If your eyebrows get burnt off your face (though I can't fathom why they would) do not, and I repeat, do not, draw them on like Ronald McDonald. That shit's scary.
- Wear your teeth. Don't take up chain smoking. I put those 2 together because the old lady at the check out counter at Rite Aid this morning reeked like an ash tray, had a face all wrinkled up like a cat's anus, and didn't have any teeth. But her hair was dyed brown and she had her lipstick on like she cared what she looked like. I couldn't figure her out. How do you remember your lipstick but forget your teeth?
- Don't write a book about your sexual exploits. I read this book a while back about a 66 year old woman who had sex with a bunch of strangers. And she detailed Waaaaaayy too much stuff about old woman sex that I just wasn't prepared to know and I can't seem to claw those images out of my brain. So TMI is funny when it's your girlfriends you're talking to. It's just nasty when you're a stranger.

And last but not least. Be weary of 24 year olds who hang out at The Skanky Fish. You know the old saying (not really I just made it up) If it's skanky AND fishy, it probably doesn't wash off.

Sop It Up With A Biscuit

2011-02-22T02:46:00.002-06:00

In order to steer this blog away from the violent turn it’s seem to have taken all of its own accord, I thought I’d write something sweet, like about daisies and dolphins and shit (not literal shit of course). Maybe throw a unicorn and a rainbow in there. Then I realized that I know a lot less about daisies and dolphins than I do about sex and violence. How sad is that? How was I even allowed to breed with all that crazy shit I have in my brain?

Steering from the crazies: I’m going to mention a new domain name that I recently bought. Not sure what I’m going to do with it yet, but I liked the name and have tossed around the idea of turning it into a dual blog with my friend Kelly. Or maybe it will end up being like that exercise bike I bought a few years ago, except that I can’t throw piles of clothes on it. But in the meantime, as I figure out what to do with it, I thought I’d just do some free marketing for it.

The name of the blog is sopitupwithabiscuit.com Do you remember when people used to actually say: Sop it up with a biscuit? I never did know what that meant, but it still made me smile. Kinda like “I’m from around the way.” What the hell does that even mean? I don’t know. But when I google it and this picture comes up, and I compare that image to my picture, it makes me laugh. Because I’m hardcore in my brain. In reality I could pass for a Mormon.

So in order to start this free marketing campaign for my website (that I haven’t started yet), I thought I’d bring the phrase back. I could have conversations that went like this:

Scenerio 1

Boss: Good morning. How are you?

Me: Very well, thank you. Sop it up with a biscuit.

Boss: (bewildered look) I’ll do that. Thanks.

Scenerio 2

Cashier: That’ll be $22.50

Me: Yes, ma’am. Got that right here.

Cashier: Out of 25. 2.50 is your change.

Me: Great math! Sop it up with a biscuit.

Scenerio 3

Student: Meeeees?

Me: yes, Guadalupe?

Student: Why you say “name” and no say “naaah-may”?

Me: Great question, Guadalupe. I know you’ve only been studying English for 14 years, so I can see why that could be tricky for you. English pronunciation isn’t always logical is it? (insert fake white woman laugh here.) But just to give you a really long explanation that is sure to go over your head, I’ll explain how vowels take their long form when another vowel is present. What do you think? Sop it up with a biscuit?

Student: (confused look, but nods enthusiastically while mumbling “No entiendo esta puta loca. Creo que está burlándose de mi. Qué cabrona.”)

I’ve also decided I would trade in my mini-van for this suped up Fiat, and I’d put Sop It Up With A Biscuit on the windows with white shoe polish.

The only thing I’m not sure about is… Do you think I shoulda spelled Biscuit with a K instead?

Feminism is dead

2011-02-20T13:19:00.000-06:00

Something that a friend of mine said the other day has stuck in my mind and won’t go away. She said, “feminism is dead.” When I asked her what she meant by that she said that no one wants to hear about feminism stuff. And at the time I didn’t really agree. I mean, I want to hear about feminism stuff so surely it can’t be dead, right? And then the more I’ve thought about it and looked at things from her point of view (having lived her whole life in a small town in Alabama) I can see exactly where she’s coming from.

Take last night for example. Some girls and I went out for a GNO and we’re at the skankiest place on earth, just having a good time, when a guy we know from high school (who’s married to a girl we’re friends with) comes over for a chat and says things like, hey, how about you and my brother and me and your friend have a 4-some? WTF? Where in your meth-fried brain is it okay to insinuate that I would let your VD carrying dick be put anywhere near me? Why is that okay to say?

My sister got divorced when she was 30. After her divorce she moved to a new town 4 hours away and started going to bars with some new friends that she’d made in order to make new friends and get over the crappiness of the last year. When she’d tell guys that she was divorced some of them would say things like, “What? You don’t like to have sex or something?” Others would treat her like she was desperate and an easy mark for a one-night stand. Once again, WTF? Why is it okay for guys to say that degrading shit? A woman would never say that to a man? “Oh, you got divorced? Premature ejaculator?”

As I was thinking about Alabama and feminism and the jacked up shit that sucks for us women here in the South and quite possibly all over the world, things like how women are expected to work full-time jobs and do all of the cooking and cleaning and child-rearing while the man watches TV and farts, I got to thinking about beauty pageants.

When I was a rebellious 14 year old who didn’t fit into any social mold that I could find, I remember wanting to rebel against the beauty pageants that were so popular in my school. (probably because I knew my 8 foot ass wasn’t winning any beauty pageants on this planet, but I prefer to think it was because I was hippy cool and women’s lib and shit.) In my mind, I was going to be a contestant in the Miss America pageant (because obviously the first pageant you’re in is going to be the big one) and comedy was going to be my talent because I was tired of watching song and dance be a girl’s only talent. I mean really? Why don’t they just have a bake off or something else as belittling? Can’t we get some cool talents out there?
How about when it’s my turn to do my talent I stick the microphone up my sequenced gown and queaf the Star Spangled Banner? Now that’s a talent! Or how about for the bikini contest when I’m out there walking on stage like a cattle at an auction, instead of a yellow polka dot bikini I wear a hijab or maybe one of those long bathing suit cover-ups that are white t-shirts with the hot bikini body airbrushed on. How funny would that be?

But seriously, can we really allow for ‘feminism’ to be dead? In America 1 out of every 6 women will be victim of rape or attempted rape. And how many women do you know who’ve been the victim of some inappropriate grope or unwanted sexual act? Nearly ALL, is what I’d say. And that’s just in America. Can we afford for feminism to die, especially in wake of Laura Logan’s assault in Tahrir Square, and the humiliating response to that assault by people who judged her clothiing and actions in order to blame her for her attack? Really people? Because I’ve seen that fat kid wear that t-shirt that says, “I fuck on the first date” and I seriously doubt he was attacked anywhere. I mean what article of clothing could Laura Logan have worn that would’ve been more direct than that fat-kids t-shirt? So don’t blame her.

I’m not saying we should point fingers, burn bras, stopping shaving, and start peeing standing up. I’m just saying, don’t let feminism die.
I think Sojourner Truth said it best when she said:
“If women want any rights more than they's got, why don't they just take them, and not be talking about it.”

So next time that Douche thinks it’s cool to say something about sticking his dick in me, I’m just gonna give him a fucking Charlie horse because those bitches are painful.

Extreme Language: Beware

2011-02-18T10:38:00.001-06:00

So we had Ethan's spelling bee today and I'm not going to write much except, Ethan didnt win (poor guy messed up on an easy one and started crying and felt like shit. Gosh! It almost killed me right there) It's not a big deal that he didn't win. We're so super proud of him. I don't consider him a crazy good speller, and I'm happy that he's been practicing and trying. BUT I fucking hate his school. Stupid patronizing kindergarten teachers make me want to key their car. I'd probably feel this way about any school, but I just especially fucking hate his school. The teachers are so arrogant and prissy and stupid. On the school website when the teachers wrote about themselves 2 out of 3 of the kindergarten teachers wrote:

About Me: I love pink. I love anything with polka dots. And I only have sex missionary style (okay I made that last one up, but the others are TRUE).

How could I ever like someone who thinks that "I love pink" is an appropriate thing to write on the About Me section of the school website? Do they really think parents are wondering, Oh Gosh. My kid is starting kindergarten. Let's see who his teacher will be. Mrs. X. Wow. I wonder what her favorite color is? Great! It's pink. Now I wonder if she loves fucking polka dots! She DOES. Yes! Oh it's going to be a great year.

How about in the About Me section you actually write why you might be qualified to even get near my kid, much less have his captive attention for 8 hours a day.

Anyway, while we're at the school spelling bee, this one (super awesome cute little boy) spelled his word right. And then everyone else that was left missed theirs. So he wins, right? Nope. They brought everyone in that last round back on stage to go another round. So I say, "he's already spelled more words right than anyone else. He wins." And then they speak to me in this condenscending tone about how the rules were sent home and that's not the way it works. 1. No. Those weren't the rules sent home. 2. Don't use that tone with me. They're so used to belittling five-year olds all day, that they forget that using that tone with an actual adult might get them cut. Somebody better give them this fucking memo.

MEMORANDUM
To: The lady with the painful hemorrhoid
From: One Crazy Ass Bitch
Re: Your patronizing attitude

Dear Sour-faced Bitch:

Just because your skank ass has a college degree in education from some pobunk university in Alabama where you spent 4-6 years learning to decorate a fucking cork board does not make you shit to me. So how about don't talk to me like I'm under 4 feet tall, like I can't spell my name, or that I won't stuff you in a body bag and dump you in the river? And if you'll do that for me, then I promise to: bring my awesome kid to your school so that he can listen to the shit that flows from your mouth, and I also promise not to slit your fucking throat while you sleep. Assuming that we have this agreement, then we're cool. You'll talk to me with respect, and I'll return that respect through clenched teeth while I do my kegel exercises. And if you ever talk down to me in that condescending tone again, I'll put gum in the black roots of your bleached out hair.

Sincerely,

Your fucking nightmare parent.

The cute little boy did end up winning (because God knows I'm on the rag, was stressed out from chasing my three-year old around the school gym, haven't had a decent nights' sleep in five years, and I don't need to spend the next 10-20 in an orange jumpsuit over a kindergarten spelling bee. Especially when it's not even my kid. But like Billy Jean said, "Fair is Fair.") and all was right with the world.

Talent Shmalent

2011-02-17T08:16:00.000-06:00

So I've spent some time recently reading other people's blogs, and I'm especially intrigued by those blogs where the women (usually younger and better looking than me) have all of this talent. They're making shit, like MacGyver. I know MacGyver can make a car bomb out of a pack of tampons and a rubber band, but who needs a car bomb? I'd much rather read about the mom who can make her daughter a cute little hippie dress from a scrap of material and a few pieces of thread. Or the lady who can take some paper and a shoe box and make the cutest journal. Car bombs are overrated, journals- underrated.

Seeing all of these talented people in one place (granted the internet is a big place) is a little disconcerning to me because it makes me realize my own lack of talent. It's almost like when I was standing in the 'Talent' line in Heaven, God said, "sorry, little lady (apparently God has a John Wayne accent) but you spent too long in the booty line. I see you got double portions there, so no can do with the talent. You'll just have to move on to the mole line. I think we got lots of extras there." "Well, obviously God because nobody wants moles." Gosh! Why didn't I speak up in Heaven? Now I'm stuck with all these moles and no damn talent.

But then I started thinking about all my Bible verses (because I did grow up in the South where there's a church and mission to convert on every corner) that say that God gives everybody some talent, so surely I have a talent hidden somewhere that I just haven't tapped into all these years. So I run through the rolodex of possible talents I could have:
-art/crafty stuff is definitely off the list. I couldn't scrapbook my way out of jail. Not that anybody could, but you know what I'm saying.

- singing. I've heard white noise from the TV sound better than I do singing in the shower.

- athletic? Not until clumsy becomes a sport.

So what? What Dear God did you give me in the talent department? (And good sex does not count.)

Hmmm... Well, you know, talent is probably overrated anyway. What did talent ever do for Van Gogh? He spent most of his life in a mental hospital. What about Sylvia Plath? crazy and dead. Zelda Fitzgerald? Crazy and dead. I'm seeing a pattern here.

So... I guess until I find my God given hidden talent, I'll just be glad to be crazy and alive.

Living for Better Carpet?

2011-02-13T10:35:00.000-06:00

So today is the day that we're supposed to be buying our tickets to visit Spain this summer. In July it'll have been 2 years since we made our big move to America. 2 years since we've seen Javi's grandmother, the sweetest old lady ever. The thing is that tickets to Spain summer are expensive. It'll cost us at least $4,000 just for the tickets. That's not counting all the extra money one ends up spending while on vacation, water parks, camping trips, eating out, etc. That's a huge chunk of money for us, BUT...

what else am I going to spend the money on? My house needs new floors. I need a new bed. (If you don't believe how badly I NEED a new bed, you can read this post detailing the sordid details of my bed from hell.)

You know, but then I thought about it and I thought, what's more important? That my house look nice and I sleep in a bed that doesn't tink, tink, tink like a bomb count-down all night? Okay, maybe the sleep might be better, but do you see where I'm going here?

I never wanted to be the person who worked their whole life just to have nice things. I watched my mom sell her soul for nice things. And she has nice things. A 6,000 sq ft house for 2 people, BMW, a lake house they rarely visit. But she's worked her ass off her whole life. Rarely have they taken a vacation. And that's not what I want from life.

When I moved to Los Angeles when I was a teenager going to college, I was amazed by all of the people with a dream. I saw people living 5 to a 1 bedroom apartment because they were a band trying to make it, the same with actors, and even hairdressers who wanted to do make-up for the movies. I didn't want any of those things, but it was the first time in my life that I saw people fighting for a dream, taking risks, and working hard for something that they wanted to be a part of. My whole life I'd only ever seen people working for things, for better carpet. Work, go home, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed, rinse and repeat. And my teenage self swore that I'd never be that person. I'd never measure my life with coffee spoons.

So that's it. I'll spend the money to go to Spain. I'll spend the summer visiting with family, seeing new places, and making memories with my kids. And I'll live another year with crappy carpet, old furniture, and a bed that rattles like prison chains... Because I'm not going to sell my soul for shiny shit.

Open Letter to Laura McElroy

2011-02-01T17:41:00.000-06:00

Dear Laura McElroy:

I just want to say that I'm guilty. I'm one of those kids that mouthed off a time or ten to her mom as a teenager. I told her I hated her, wished she were dead, and that she was the worst mom ever. Oh I told her all of that and a hundred other things, I'm sure (although I've blocked out most of that stuff.) Luckily, she didn't shoot me in the fucking face, like Julie Powers Schenecker did to her 16 year old daughter and 13 year old son.

So that's where you come in. I'm pissed that when acting as the mouthpiece for Tampa police you detailed the events that lead to Julie intially being investigated for child abuse as discplining her kid and said that there were no signs of what was to come. WTF? No sign? I'm sorry. Did you not see that picture of the lady in the white jump suit? That bitch definitely looks like somebody that will you cut you.

And how could you say that there's no link between a mom 'discplining' her kid by slapping her in the face repeatedly and the mom killing the kid? So really, Laura? You think slapping your kid in the face a few times for mouthing off is perfectly acceptable discplining? Wow! I'd like to slap you in the face a few times. But then I'd be arrested. And in fact, that's what needs to be done to all parents that slap their kids in the face.

Just in case you're not sure where I stand on this: Hitting in the face is not 'discplining' it's abuse.

Don't people get that? You don't get to just hit your kids just because you're pissed or because you feel like it. I can't hit you just because I'm pissed that you're on national television telling people that hitting kids is fine. So let's extend that courtesy to the short people too, shall we? Can we just make it a national rule that hitting anybody in the face or head or vital organs is now off-limits? I say we extend that to: titty twisters, shots to the groin, those little pinches on the underneath of your arm that hurt so bad, and pulling hair. All of the above. Not cool. So let's just decide today that we'll never do that to our kid. And then maybe, one day, not only will we have a tackle on a little thing that affects 50bajillion kids all over the world called child abuse but maybe we'll prevent the next mom from shooting her kids just because they're little douches. Because NEWS ALERT Laura: you're a douche and your mom didn't shoot you.

Signed,
Around the way girl.

Naughty girls on top

2011-01-30T17:26:00.000-06:00

Apparently several people (of the dozen that have ever visited this site) have found my blog by searching "spank her." I'm sure they were a little disappointed when the only video on the site is my five-year old explaining how to hoola-hoop, without an actual hoola-hoop.

So I've decided to up my site stats by including some of the things that I believe are popular google searches:

- youtube black guy singing about friend chicken

- really fat people wearing tube tops and tights with the word 'Juicy' on the butt

- how to find a top paying job without actually working

- how to teach your toddler to unload the dishwasher and fix her own bottle

- midget bowling (what? I know I'm not the only one googling midget bowling.)

- hot asian topless chicks who cook and clean and like white guys with small penises.

And now I'll let all those who found this site down by saying: this site is about...
none of the above.

Crazy 8

2011-01-26T10:06:00.000-06:00

Why does school have to start so early? At Ethan’s at 8am, you’re late. 8 tardies and he’s suspended. The principal called yesterday and said we had 6 tardies and we had to have an intervention meeting. This elementary school is like prison camp.
I went to visit him for lunch one day, I couldn’t help but feel like they could’ve easily traded in their navy pants and white polos for orange jumpsuits. He’s 5. In kindergarten and they aren’t allowed to talk during lunch. They’re not allowed to talk ever. Or laugh.
Ethan was telling me about how the teacher had made a mistake and said, “we’ll do that after lunch” but they’d already had lunch. And I guess for the same reason Amelia Bedelia is funny, so was this slip up by the teacher. So Ethan was laughing when he told me and I said, did the class laugh when she said that. And he goes, “no, we’re not allowed to laugh.” And say, “ever?” “No. Never.”

Geez! Did they not get the memo that it’s a freaking kindergarten class? Another thing that pretty much kills me about this school is this ‘bones’ thing that they do. I don’t understand this type of behavior reward system. So, they start off the day with empty dog bowls. If they do something exceptionally well, behavior-wise, and the teacher catches them, then they get to put a bone in their bowl. There are 22 kids in the class. They are expected to get 5 bones a day. If they do something wrong, like turn around in their chair, and they get caught, they have to take a bone out.
At the end of the day, they count the bones in front of the class and if you have only 1 or 2 bones, then the class says “awwwwww” in a disappointing way in order to shame the kid. Then if they get 3 or 4, they get a silent wave. And then a 5 gets you a “good job” and then the more you get the better the vocal reward is. If you get 10, then you get a dinky toy, but I think that is pretty rare.
So basically my kid comes home every day disappointed that he’s been working his butt off to get caught doing something great and is only caught 3-4 times. He rarely ever gets a bone taken away (he did once for turning around in his chair looking at some other kids talking. He said he didn’t realize that he couldn’t look. He thought he just couldn’t talk. And then another time it was for talking, but someone had asked him a question, so he felt like he’d fallen into a trap. Next time he said he wouldn’t answer them. I wanted to say, next time, give your teacher the finger when she makes you take out the bone.)
But here’s my kid who is constantly being tested and working so hard just to be noticed. I think, give the kids a break. Let them start off on ‘green light’ or with 5 bones and then take the bones away if they’re bad. But don’t constantly test them. No one likes to live like that.
And I have to sit in the principal’s office.

Inform the President

2011-01-24T08:46:00.000-06:00

Ethan wants the President to see his video on how to hula hoop. He's so going to hate me in ten years. :P

Light bulb

2011-01-18T10:15:00.000-06:00

So I read last night that there's this online blogger that I read occasionally who brings in $40,000 a month from advertising sells on her website, and I couldn’t help but think, Holy Shizz, Batman. That’s a lot of zeros. Does Stephen King even make that much money? And then I thought about my sweet blog over here on blogger and I did a little bit of mental math and figured up that between all five followers (one of those being my sweet hubs) I don’t think we’d average $4a month in buying crap from her advertisers, so how in the world is there that much money to be made? And why am I just now reading about it?

Of course I’d heard that people made money writing blogs. I thought money meant like enough to support my Twizzler addiction, but that it was probably easier to give up the sugar-crack than it was to put all that time in effort into making a name on the web. But 40Gs a month? Do you know how many 2 pound bags of my favorite artificially flavored candy I could buy with that?

Then I realized that my little baby bean dreams don't even grow that big. Have you ever read the book The Secret? If so, you’ll probably hate this synopsis, but if not, you’ll appreciate me summing it up for you. So basically if you imagine, I mean really believe that your dreams will come true, then they will, but you have to really believe. I think they say something like, you have to act as if you’ve ordered your dream on amazon and you’re just waiting for it to be delivered. But might as well go ahead with your plans to redo your whole life because it’s on its way. Well, the realist in me just can’t get past the ‘what if…’ part. I mean, I have ordered crap off of amazon and it never come. What if that happens with my dream? What if my seller is one of those counterfeit operators from Hong Kong or Nigeria and my dream never arrives and I’ve already sold my house?

Here was an example they give of a guy living The Secret. So every time this guy got a bill in the mail, he’d kiss it and in his mind add a zero to the end of it and believe that it was money coming to him (not bills going out). How? How in the hell do you just slip through reality like that and still hold a job? I mean, really? People who can kiss their bills and pretend their income checks are they safe to be around?

So you’re supposed to make this dream wall where you put up pictures of you living your dream. There you are, walking into your dream house. Another picture of your head stuck on somebody else’s body shaking hands with the president. Maybe you’re standing next to a super model as if that’s your wife. And I can’t help but wonder, what do your friends think when they come over and see your crazy dream wall? They don’t wonder if you need to be locked up? “Oh yeah, that’s my wife. I ordered her off amazon. She’s on her way. In the meantime I’m buying her sexy lingerie and some sex toys that I know she’ll love. I know because I ordered her that way.”

The book sold over a million copies so apparently I’m just a stick in the mud. Although I can’t suspend my reality enough to kiss bills and cut out pictures of chicks with six pack abs and place my face over theirs, I do wish I could dream bigger. I remember asking students of mine in Madrid to describe their dream house. All of the students (there were about 6) described an apartment in the center of Madrid. And I thought, why an apartment? Most said they wanted the top floor penthouse so that they could have the space on the roof too. And I thought, it’s a dream, why not dream for the whole dang building, the whole block? A house in the center of Madrid, like the Palacio Real, but without the 1970s furnishings?

And then I realized that’s me too. All this time I've been dreaming in square meters instead of square miles. I’m a peanut dreamer. I could never dream of making $40,000 a month writing something short and quippy for the internet (could be because I use words like quippy that aren’t even real words, but that’s not the point). I once read (part of) the book, The 4 Hour Work Week and the guy (who sounded like a real tool) described how he became rich as God and only works 4 hours a week, and I just kept thinking Bull Shizz. People don’t really get to be that lucky. But last night it was like a light bulb went off and I said, hold up, wait a minute, Life. I think you’ve got a secret you haven’t told me. Or maybe you have and I didn’t want to see it? Whatever the case is, move over, because I have some bills to kiss.

Advice

2011-01-17T16:53:00.000-06:00

So my youngest daughter Sophia is Crazy (yes, with a capital C). She just turned 3 but was born in the terrible 2s. She has never slept alone in her life, nor through the night. She thinks she owns the world and expects us mere mortals to give her whatever she wants, mostly sugary snacks. When denied said sugary snack (because eventually I do draw the line) she freaks the funk out.

Her dad has more patience than Job and even he asked me, “could she be pms-ing already?” “Uhm, no honey. I know the BGH is pretty bad in cow’s milk, but I don’t think we need to buy tampons just yet. Besides, Sophia drinks soy.”

On top of her mood swings (think the 3 Faces of Eve times 300) she also knows everything. We’re quizzing her older brother on his spelling bee words and she’s begging to play too, but I already know how this is going to go so I’m reluctant to say yes, but then of course I know what will happen if she’s denied, so I say “okay, Sophia. Spell ‘A.’”

She proudly stands next to her brother and says, “A. Booyah!” and then does her happy dance around the living room.

Ethan gets a few more words then Sophia’s back at it again, begging for another. So I say, “Okay Sophia. Spell ‘so.’”

“hijk”
“No. Sorry Sophia. It’s s-o.”
“No, it not. It hijk.”
“No. It’s s-o.”
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

“Well, Sophia. If you would just do as I’ve told you for the last 3 months and start learning to spell your name then you might know that ‘so’ is s-o and not hijk. Okay?”

So I’m in the middle of spelling bee hell when a friend calls. She hears Sophia in the background and thinks that I may be being held hostage. I explain a little of the situation and that’s when my friend goes off about how I need to spank Sophia with a paint stick.

Funny enough this is not the first time someone has told me to spank her with a paint stick. What is the deal with beating kids with paint sticks and wooden spoons? I don’t get it.

My friend goes on to explain that she was spanked with a paint stick and she’s a better person for it and of course when she has kids, she’ll bring out the trusty ole paint stick too. How much painting is that family doing? I don’t even own a paint stick. I just shake the paint can. Is that not enough?

Luckily, I’m interrupted by my mom beeping in. I take the call and I’m explaining in my “Oh my gosh, can you believe this girl?” voice to my mom about the suggestion that I should spank Sophia and my mom is completely silent. Like ‘dead man walking’ silent.

So I ask, “so do you think I should spank her?”
“Maybe not with a paint spoon, but I did spank you guys growing up.”
Yeah mom. That might be why I’m so screwed up. How about I try not to screw up my batch? - I didn’t say that, but I thought it. I just said, “yep, you did.”

And that brings me to the point:

People who haven’t had kids or people who had kids 30 years ago, should not give parenting advice. I hate to tell the older folks, but times, they have a changed. When my sister and I were kids my dad used to let us get in and out of the car through the window, like we were Bo and Luke Duke. He’d let us drive his 1978 Chevy Malibu around the neighborhood and even let us ride on the hood sometimes when he drove around.

Those were fun times, but they’re over now. And so are the days when we’d spend hours at the ‘fun’ McDonald’s sliding on the bumpy slide while dad waved at us from the bar next door. Those were fun times for all of us, but fortunately, also they’re gone as well. We’re raising our kids a bit differently.

However, I find that many people have the idea ‘it worked for my parents, and I turned out alright, so I think I’ll do the same with my kids.” Some ideas that I’ve seen are: My parents never did homework with me, they can get their education at school. Or the opposite idea that teachers are morons and all education should come from watching me. I was in Walmart the other day and I overheard a mom telling her son, “Well, you can tell your teacher I said she can kiss my ass.” Then she looked over at me and said, “his teacher’s always coming home telling him what foods is healthy and what ain’t.” I look at her shopping cart full of snack foods and frozen dishes and then look back at her 9 year that had to have weighed 120 pounds and thought, “well, she might have a point.”

Times they have a…. what? They haven’t changed for this lady. She was wearing denim shorts and house slippers to Walmart. I had a feeling she was going to pull out a cigarette and start smoking right there in the soda isle.

Dr. Ferber’s book which was all the rage a few years back was developed from the Emmett Holt’s book published in 1895. Apparently “cry-it-out” is as old as babies. But what about the book Holding Time which advises parents to force their children to be held, even if they cry and fight back, because of course, parents know best.

Uhm. Maybe we do. I guess. Maybe. But forcing my kids to be hugged even if they’re fighting and biting me? Hell, if we know best, then why are we buying all these books? And why are theories always changing? Apparently some people don’t know best.
So for the next person that advises me to beat my high strung, opinionated, moody, beautiful, independent, spirited, unique, amazing, little girl with a paint spoon, just be aware that I’m going to try it out on you first and see how that works. Okay?

SNL - Mom Jeans Parody Commercial

2011-01-16T10:34:00.000-06:00

For Kelly. "Because you're not a woman. You're a Mom!"

My Bag of Crazy

2011-01-12T08:42:00.000-06:00

I wanted to take this time to explain a little bit about my bag of crazies in case you might be holding a similar bag and have always wondered if you were alone. Or maybe I just want someone to assuage my guilt by saying, Oh, that’s not crazy. Let me tell ya about "crazy." And then they totally one up my crazies with some off the wall 'I douche with Dr. Pepper' story.

My deal is that I’m an overachiever at heart but not an actual overachiever. I WANT to be an overachiever, yet… I look at what I've achieved and find it mediocre at best. On good days, I give myself a pat on the back for all that I’ve done (live in another country, start a successful business there, move back to the US, raise 2 great kids, go back to school, work), but most days, I’m just not good enough.

I read this blog the other day and the lady is a writer and mother. She says that although she hasn’t achieved as much as she thought she would’ve by now and that in fact, her 23 year old self would probably want to beat up her 33 year old self, she feels content because she’s been a great mother to her daughter.

So why can’t I be like that? You know what I kept thinking when I was reading that blog? Instead of thinking, she’s right. I’ve been a great mom, therefore I can justify my lack of published novels (or even written novels for that matter). I just kept thinking, yeah, well she’s probably a much better than mom than I am. She probably reads with her kids every night like I thought I would before I had kids. She probably never feeds her kids Totino’s pizza for dinner and then eats one herself (32 grams of fat in those tasty suckers). Her kids probably don’t watch near as much TV as mine (something I’d swore my kids would never do) and she probably bakes sugar-free wheat cookies with them every day. Her house is surely cleaner, her waist surely smaller, and her hair not near as flat as mine. Otherwise, how does she not feel as guilty as I feel?

My husband on the other hand. No guilt about anything. Sometimes I’ll ask, “don’t you feel bad about not working out sometimes?” (Not that he should. He’s super hot-if you like tall, dark, and lanky, like I do)
He says, “nah. I wish I had a little more muscles in my arms and chest, but it’s okay.” And I’m in awe of his nonchalant attitude. When I skip the gym I always feel guilty. It doesn’t stop me from skipping, it just stops me from enjoying my skipped days. My sister is the same way. She says, “I know I’ll never look like a super model. I just have to work with what I’ve got.” And after I pick my eyeballs off the floor that have just popped out of my head, I say, really? People think like that? Because I never do. I think, I could look like that super model if I weren’t so lazy. If I went to the gym more often, stopped eating anything that tasted good. I’ll work harder.

And it’s the same with everything. I think it’s the “you can be whatever you want to be in the world if you just work hard enough” syndrome. I could be more successful if I just worked hard enough. Why am I so crappy not to be working hard enough?

Now here are some things that have kinda pushed me over the edge of my normal crazy and into “I’m under the covers and I’m not coming out and if you try and make me, I’ll hiss and scratch like a mangy cat.” Javi went to Spain in November and brought me back 3 bags of matching bras and panties from H&M. Very nice of him, right? Yeah, it would be great except that the panties are just a shade too small. Not so small that I can’t put them on, but small enough that the elastic digs into my hips and I’m muffin topping over the sides.

Then I changed hairdressers in December. (Long story but she was a friend of my sister and supposed to give me a good deal, which she didn’t and now I want to shoot her in the face) and the new chick instead of giving me blonde highlights gave me brassy, orangey ones.

So now every time I look in the mirror all I see is red hair and too tight panties.

Why does any of that even matter, I’m sure you’re thinking. And my brain says you’re right, but if I just worked hard enough I’d be a size 6. If I just worked hard enough I’d be … Richer, prettier, more accomplished, perfect.

I don’t know why I’m so hard on myself. I always have been. The good side of being hard on yourself is that it pushes you. The bad part is when all that pushing becomes too much and get to the point like I was the other day.

Because I’d spent so much time beating myself up, I was so sore and sensitive that I was like a crazed country woman in a flannel dress and shotgun in my hand, crouched in the corner of my make-shift cabin, eyes shut, gun overhead, shooting at anything that made a noise. You couldn’t hardly say, “have a nice day” without me giving you the finger and saying, “bitch, thought I was gonna have a bad day. I’ll never shop here again.”

Example: husband wants sex. I read: he thinks we don’t have enough sex. He’s going to end up leaving me for some younger woman who wants to have sex 4 times a day.

One morning last week I got into bed (after going to the gym) at 6am and wrapped my arms around sleeping husband and put my hands on his bare chest. He flinched at my icesicle paws. I got up and went into the other room. Obviously he hates me and wishes I were dead.

Maybe I was a little oversensitive, I admit.

I’m on the mend now. I can see how ridiculous I get, but I’m still not able to talk myself off the ledge. I can see myself being a complete idiot, but still have trouble stopping myself from acting like a run over yard dog.

Maybe I will one day… If I just work hard enough.

Sketchy L.A. Gyno story

2011-01-10T17:38:00.000-06:00

Ok, so some of you may have read my post Chiropractor or Masseuse and wondered about my sketchy LA gyno story that I mentioned. I don’t usually like to tell this story because it still gives me the heebie jeebies. It’s full of ick-factor, so you may not want to read this at work.

I was twenty-four, recently married, and living in LA. I’m not originally from California, but I went to college there and then lived there for a year and half while buying books and just generally preparing to start a used English bookstore in Madrid. (Long story) I didn’t know anyone too well in LA, and had never actually seen a gyno in the four years I’d been living there, so I chose a gyno based on the fact that they shared an office building with my dentist. (you know, now that I think about it, I ended up in the emergency room with my jaw locked open because of that dentist. If only I’d known…)
I was about to quit my job and I wanted to get a birth control while I still had insurance so I decided to use the gyno that I saw two doors down from my dentist. Dr. Adams. Innocent enough name, I thought.

Wrong.

I make an appointment. The flabby receptionist asks if I want to see the father or the son. I say I don’t care, whoever is available. At this point in my life, I’d only been to the gyno maybe once or twice. I didn’t think much about it, and figured one was the same as the other.

So I get Adams-son. Young guy, early thirties, maybe. I really don’t know. I wasn’t there to make friends. I’m lying on the table, legs in stirrups, ass pushed down til it’s almost hanging off the table, and the guy says he’s going to start off with a breast exam. He asks if I know how to check my breasts for lumps. I say yes. Then he rubs my breast in circles from the outside in toward the nipples, similar to those 70s brochures Planned Parenthood published. Then he starts shaking my breast and checking for ‘bounce’. Uhm. Okay? Then he says, ‘you have very dense breast for such a small frame’ and I’m thinking, I’m five foot nine and medium build, I wouldn’t call me ‘small framed’ and I’m a c-cup, pretty average breast size for a medium build woman, so I thought the comment was a little strange. But it wasn’t just the comment, it was the way he kept staring into my eyes, all intense like.

But the exam goes on, and he’s checking my nether regions. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing down there. I’m just trying to relax enough to keep the damn jaws of life he’s got in me from hurting so damn bad I can’t go back to work later. But he’s talking to me. Chit chatting, looking at me straight in the eye. How about not chatting me up while you drive that car into my cervix or whatever the hell you’re doing down there? Red alarm #2 went off when he commented on a tattoo that I have on my hip. “Oh what a pretty shade of blue. What color is that?”

Fucking blue. I don’t know. QUIT TALKING TO ME. Is what I’m thinking.

“Hmmm… not sure,” is what I say ever so politely with my Alabama accent.

“Oh you have the cutest accent,” he replies, staring up at me.

How the fuck are you getting anything done down there with all that eyeballing? Focus, doctor. Stick to the task at hand. I’m mentally coaching him now.

While I’m lying there, stressed the fuck out but trying to relax my cervix, he asks, have you ever been checked for rectal cancer. I’m shake my head no. Never even heard anyone except Beevis and Butthead say the word ‘rectal.’ I most definitely haven’t been checked for it.

Well, I’m going to do that for you today. Sounds like it’s been a while since your last exam.

I nod.

What I didn’t understand up until that point was that checking for rectal cancer meant he was gonna stick a finger up my ass. Needless to say I was shocked as shit. Then he says, “do you eat a lot of salads?”

At this point, I’m pretty much humiliated because I’m certain that he’s feeling last nights soggy lettuce in my colon. I nod.

“Oh yes, I can tell. I can also tell that you’re ovulating.”

Great. What the fuck? Who cares? Go away, mother fucker.

“Do you feel that right there?” finger knocking on colon wall about to touch my spine.

I nod.

That’s your …..

I don’t know what the fuck he said because all I could see were those crazy steel blue eyes staring into mine, and I’m thinking:
“Hey you know, I guess they don’t teach this in med school, but initiating cheerful fucking banter while your finger is stuck up somebody’s ass, is just plain rude. So how about… just for shits and giggles… you shut the fuck up and pull your thumb out of my ass?- just for fun.”

Then he leaves. At first I figure he has to go get something, then when he takes awhile I think, he has another patient. Then when he’s taken thirty minutes, while I’m sitting there still naked with nothing but that little tissue paper apron covering me, I’m thinking that bastard is going to the bathroom to wack off.
But I still have to get fitted for a diaphragm, which was the reason why I’d come there. I should’ve been able to guess that using a diaphragm probably wasn’t for me but birth control pills made me nauseous and a friend of mine that I’d met in Spain had told me that she used a diaphragm and was super happy with it. Granted she’s also the type of girl who can locate her cervix with a Clinique makeup mirror. I, on the other hand, am the type of girl who refers to everything down there, both inside and out, as “the cooch” because words like ‘vulva’ and ‘vagina’ induce the gag reflex.

So finally the perv comes back, rubber diaphragm in hand, and by this point, I’m really just ready to pack up and go. Once again, I’m in for a surprise. No one bothered to mention that getting fit for a diaphragm is like having one of those blue plastic kiddie pools from the backyard wrestled into your cooch. Well, actually, it’s more like the doctor is wrestling a bear that you already have in your cooch with his one good hand. Sometimes two, but mostly just the one hand.
It’s awkward, humiliating, painful. Why you have a bear in your cooch, is beyond your knowing at this point, but there’s that joker, holding up a mirror and asking you to check shit out.

Awful.

So after all of that… I never even got my prescription filled for the diaphragm. I was so scarred by the whole thing that I didn’t think I’d ever even have sex again. Or eat a salad.

Three Kings Day From Hell

2011-01-07T09:03:00.004-06:00

I want to honor my husband’s traditions. I want my kids to grow up not just bilingual, but bicultural, as well. I really want to give that to my kids, BUT…

This 3 Kings Day sucked ass.

The problem with 3 Kings Day is that it comes after the kids have already started school and after Javi and I have started back to work. You know those few days after Christmas when most people are packing up the Christmas decorations and getting the house in order, ready to start the new year off right? Well, we’re still in holiday limbo. We can’t take down the decorations until after the Kings have come. So we’re the only house in the neighborhood that still had reindeers lighting their yard on January 5th and the mess of Christmas still lingers.

The other problem with 3 Kings is that since it’s equal to Santa, then the kids should receive equal toys for both holidays. This is tough for me because I want the kids to wake up Christmas morning to a living room full of wrapped presents so that their eyes grow wide and they think Holy Shit! Fat Magic Men Rock! Now, I don’t really care if it’s the fat man in the red suit or if it’s the 3 dark guys on camels, either way is fine; however, Santa just makes more sense because he gives gifts on the 25th. That still leaves us a week to play before school starts.

We had planned to let Ethan stay home from school on the 6th to play with his new toys, but kindergarten is not for playing around. The day he got back from vacation, he had 2 test. He had a science test yesterday, something about panda bears. He has 2 test today too. A spelling test and a math test. And Monday a Geography test. He has to locate the Artic and Antartica on the map. Nothing too tough, but Ethan hates to make anything less than a 100 A. That’s what he always says. I’ll say, “how did you do on your test today?” and he’ll say, “100 A. Booyah!” I told him about a spelling bee competition coming up, and he said, “well, when Ethan Javier comes in the room, they better hold onto their socks because I’m gonna knock ‘em off.” He’s extremely competitive and also very hard on himself. When he misses one or two on a test his little chin quivers as he tells me that he just couldn’t think of the word for ‘esfera.’ Then I want to punch his teacher out and say, ‘can’t you just give it to him? He knew it in Spanish.’ but whatever, I don’t say that. I just tell him that it’s not a big deal to miss a few, and that trying his best is what’s important.

But the thing is, I don’t know if I believe that. Is trying your best what’s most important? Because I have a room full of ESL students who say they ‘work hard’ but still can’t pass their classes, and I think to myself, it’s not about working hard, it’s about working smart. But anyway, that’s another post. The point is that we didn’t want Ethan to miss any of the test prep or test that he had at school that day, so we decided he was going after all.

Back to crappy Kings Day story.

So we spent all night of the 5th wrapping presents and pulling crap out of the shed. Long story about this shed, but basically Javi put it together and he is not Handy Manny. So the shed leaks. And the sky can pour out something serious here in Mobile, AL. It was coming down hard, and Javi had a basketball goal to finish putting together. He’d started it a few days back, but apparently when they say it takes six hours and two people to put together and you’re just one person doing it, then you can’t just multiply by 2. There’s something about exponentials there. So Javi has to finish putting the basketball goal together in the rain, which is his reason for putting it together backwards. So at eleven o’clock he comes in, soaked and has me look through our bedroom window at the basketball goal lying on its side in the backyard. Apparently if you put the basketball goal up backwards, you can’t actually stand it up because of weight distribution problems. I don’t know. But he tells me that he can’t stand it up as it is. And I say as sweetly as can be, well then, sweetie, you’ll need to take your ass back out there and fix it. We’re not having the kids wake up to “Surprise, the 3 Kings left you a jacked up basketball goal in the backyard, but don’t worry, Dad’ll fix it later.”

So he shoots me a dirty look and says, “I’ll get up early and do it.” So we put the wrapped gifts under the tree and I remember that we’ve forgotten the gift that Javi’s mom and dad had bought the kids while they were visiting in August. An air hockey table (that also turns into foosball and some other games).

We’ve had that air hockey box in the shed (that leaks) for 6 months. What do you think that box looked like when Javi pulled it out and laid it on my living room floor? Dry rot ass. That’s what.

Now mix that in with the gifts that we bought the kids for 3 Kings. Long story, but basically goes like this. There’s a store here in town called Hudson’s Salvage. They sell stuff 60% off retail price (because it‘s been through hell before it got to the store). We went one day and they had Legos 60% off. BUT… (there’s always a but with Hudson’s) the boxes had all been opened and rummaged through. So Javi goes through all of these boxes of Star Wars Legos and finds 3 boxes that he could piece together to have all of the pieces. We also find a t-ball set. I’m so busy distracting the kids for an hour while he’s piecing Legos together that I don’t really know what he’s picking out. The man loves Legos a thousand times more than his son does, so he’s like a pig in mud while I’m in junkyard hell. I mean this store looks like your worst shopping nightmare, especially for a non-shopper like myself. Add two kids who need a nap to that and I’m past ready to go. Finally, Javi secretly pays for the stuff and takes the things to the car. When we get home, Javi quickly puts the toys in the attic, and that is where they stay until the night before 3 Kings when he pulls them down and sets them in front of the Christmas tree.

We bought that junk back in November. So in 8 weeks, he couldn’t have mentioned, oh by the way, the toys that we have for the kids for 3 Kings look like they’ve been backed over by the garbage truck?

The other thing that added to my stress level was that we just didn’t have that much for the kids for 3 Kings. We had given it all away at Christmas. But I took a deep breath and thought, we’ll use this as a teaching moment, that it’s not about all of the gifts that you receive but it’s about… wait, what is the 3 Kings even about again? Oh that’s right, bringing gifts to Baby Jesus. Wait, so then it is about gifts? I’m confused. Because we already celebrated Baby Jesus’ birth. Now we’re celebrating the day he received gifts?

Fast forward to morning of the 6th Javi is up early, in the freezing cold, putting up the basketball goal. He finished just in time to wake the kids up early to open their presents before we rush off to school and work. The kids are tired, don’t want to get up. We drag them up anyway and show them the 4-5 gifts they have under the tree. Javi’s videoing the whole thing. I look like ass, so I’m trying to stay out of any videos that are going to end up on his blog and be forwarded to the 200 family members he has in Spain. Ethan wakes up enough to say, “there’s not very much here,” and I’m thinking, ‘great. Glad we got that on video. Can we stop production now?” But on we trudge. Javi wants to send this to his parents, right. So he says (in Spanish, but I’ll translate) “look son, what’s in that box?” He didn’t say, big rotten mildew, wet, hole-ridden box. That would’ve been just pointing out the obvious.

Ethan looks confused because he can’t tell by the box (because the pictures have all been washed away) what the hell it is. So Javi opens the box and can you guess what happens? What would happen if you left a box in an un-waterproof shed for 6 months? I don’t know if this happens anywhere else in America, but I learned that, if you leave a box in an un-waterproof shed for 6 months and then open it up in your living room on 3 Kings Day, then 4 GIANT Motherfucking Cockroaches, bigger than my children, come running toward you. I grab Sophia and let out a sharp scream as we take five or ten steps back. Javi runs for the roach spray and Ethan jumps on the couch.

Merry Freaking Christmas guys! How about a box of roaches? And a video of it, in case you missed it.

Oh and the basketball goal that Javi put together, missing the net. Not a big deal, we’ll call the company and ask for a replacement, but when the kids opened the door to see their big present it’s kind of a let down without the net.

We finish opening the few presents that are left, then rush to get the kids dressed. Both are crying (because they’re sleepy) that they don’t want to go to school. And that’s the end of 3 Kings.

Then it’s just a regular day. School, work, homework, blah. I get a flat tire, fear I’ll be late to work. You know, all the stuff that goes into a regular day. This does not feel like a holiday.

So my questions is, is it really worth it to keep the tradition?

Southern Sayings

2011-01-06T08:54:00.000-06:00

I read a blog the other day that had the following list labeled Southern Sayings and I couldn’t help but wonder, are these really southern sayings? Doesn’t everyone use most of these? There are some that I’ve never heard of, much less used. But, I’d say the majority of these are pretty common and not really southern at all. Like “snowball’s chance in hell.” That’s not southern is it?

I’ve decided to add a few of my own to the list, although not sure if they’re strictly southern either.

Not mine:
Southern Saying: Like a chicken with your head cut off
Translation: Confusion
Usage: That boy was running around like a chicken with his head cut off!

Southern Saying: Butter my biscuit
Translation: Isn't that something!
Usage: Well butter my biscuit!

Southern Saying: Speckled pup in a red wagon
Translation: Reference to being cute or precious.
Usage: That baby's cuter than a speckled pup in a red wagon.

Southern Saying: Two goats in a pepper patch.
Translation: That's some hot stuff.
Usage: It's hotter out here than two goats in a pepper patch.

Southern Saying: Snowball's chance in hell.
Translation: Not a very likely occurrence.
Usage: You ain't got a snow ball's chance in hell of gittin' that girl.

Southern Saying: Argue with a fence post.
Translation: Stubborness
Usage: That woman would argue with a fence post.

Southern Saying: Rode hard and put up wet.
Translation: Looking rough
Usage: Man, you look like you been rode hard and put up wet.

Southern Saying: Heebie jeebies
Translation: A condition similar to the chills.
Usage: That fellow gives me the heebie jeebies.

Southern Saying: Light in the loafers.
Translation: gay
Usage: Leroy, that fellow light in the loafers to you?

Southern Saying: Three sheets to the wind.
Translation: Drunk
Usage: Betty Lou is three sheets to the wind.

Southern Saying: Short end of the stick.
Translation: Treated in an ill manner
Usage: We got the short end of the stick on that deal.

Southern Saying: Half cocked.
Translation: Lacking all the facts.
Usage: That fellow went off half cocked.

Southern Saying: Skint
Translation: Very versatile term meaning to remove hide, drunk, or to beat up.
Usage: I skint his hair back.

Southern Saying: Above your raisin'
Translation: Acting as a snob acts.
Usage: Little Miss Priss is shore above her raisin'.

Southern Saying: Ruffled her feathers.
Translation: Upsetting
Usage: I really ruffled her feathers.

Southern Saying: Chewin' the fat
Translation: Talking up a storm or talking about nothing in particular.
Usage: We was just a chewin' the fat.

Southern Saying: Like a stuck hog.
Translation: Screaming or squealing in pain.
Usage: Bo hit is finger with that mall and hollered like a stuck hog.
Southern Saying: I declare.

Translation: I did not know that or that is surprising or it can merely be used when there is really nothing else to say.
Usage: I declare!

Southern Saying: In a coon's age.
Translation: A really long time.
Usage: I ain't seen nothin' like that in a coon's age.

Southern Saying: Bump on a log.
Translation: Refers to one being unknowing.
Usage: He was just sittin' there like a bump on a log.

Southern Saying: Mouth overloaded his butt
Translation: That individual cannot back up what they are saying with actions.
Usage: Boy, you're lettin' your mouth overload your butt.

Southern Saying: Countin' your chickens �
Translation: The very risky act of assuming the outcome.
Usage: She's countin' her chickens before the eggs hatch.

Southern Saying: Bitten' off more than you can chew.
Translation: Taken on more than one can handle.
Usage: I really think this time I've bitten off more than I can chew!

Southern Saying: Caught with my pants down.
Translation: That individual was taken by surprise or was totally unprepared.
Usage: She caught me with my pants down.

Southern Saying: Like white on rice.
Translation: Southern symbolism at it's finest. Reference to traits or characteristics that cannot be separated two things that always go together. (Other colored rice is not eaten in the south except by those tryin' to live above their raisin'.)
Usage: She was all over him like white on rice.

Southern Saying: Barking up the wrong tree.
Translation: A situation to avoid at all costs. Indicates you may be about to have your hair skint back.
Usage: You're barkin' up the wrong tree now boy.

Southern Saying: Meat on that bone
Translation: There is still more to go - as in not complete.
Usage: There's still meat on that bone.

Southern Saying: Can't see the forest for the trees.
Translation: Unable to see the big picture.
Usage: Boy, you can't see the forest for the trees.

Southern Saying: Like water off a ducks back
Translation: Reference to the certainty of some event occuring or the ease at which it occurred.
Usage: It was like water off a duck's back.

Southern Saying: Shut my mouth
Translation: An expression of speechlessness. No, we can't keep our mouths shut and this is how we tell you.
Usage: Well, shut my mouth!

Southern Saying: Two peas in a pod
Translation: Suited for each other or identical.
Usage: Those boys are like two peas in a pod. Couldn't nothing break them up.

My additions:

Southern Saying: Full as a tick.
Translation: had enough to eat.
Usage: Damn, Mama those beans were good. I’m full as a tick now.

Southern Saying: Chomping at the bit.
Translation: More than ready. Eager or anxious.
Usage: Oh can’t wait til the Rodeo’s here. I’m chomping at the bit to see Luanne riding her bull again.

Southern Saying: To play possum
Translation: pretend to be asleep.
Usage: I knew Bubba wasn’t sleeping. He was just playing possum.

Southern Saying: …as all get out.
Translation: This expression is added to the end of a sentence for emphasis.
Usage: Golly Gee, Darryl. I gotta get home. I’m tired as all get out.

Southern Saying: Drunker than Cooter Brown.
Translation: Suited for each other or identical.
Usage: They like two peas in a pod ain't they?

Southern Saying: Crazy as a run over yard dog.
Translation: Extremely crazy.
Usage: That boy came back from the war crazy as a run over yard dog.

Those are just the ones that came to mind right now. Maybe if I sit on it awhile I’ll come up with some more. Feel free to add to the list. As you can tell, most of my posts are works in progress.

Deal Breakers

2011-01-03T18:22:00.000-06:00

So I was talking to a friend of mine, who I only know via internet, about meeting up and how I was nervous to meet her because I like her so much over email and blog comments (BTW, you can enjoy her at http://321picklepits.blogspot.com/) that what if when we meet she totally hates me and we stop being friends.

I’ve been told I have a way with people. And not in that good, baby kissing, dog snuggling way. I rub people the wrong way. A lot. In fact, my professor (I’m getting my Masters in English from the University of South Alabama) last semester hates my personality so much that she refused my friend request on Facebook, even though she has like 5000 friends. Apparently, even seeing a 1 inch by 1 inch mug shot of me isn’t even tolerable to some people.

So what if that’s what happens with my internet friend, Kelly? I noticed that lately I’ve been trying to warn her about me in anticipation of our meeting this summer. I’ll just leave a little droppling here and there in an email. “Hey, how’s it going? BTW did I mention that I have a man-face? I never wear make-up because I just look like a tranny when I do. Just FYI, in case that kinda thing pisses you off.” Or, “Hey, How was Christmas?

You might think I’m paranoid, but I promise you, a lot of people don’t find me funny at all. One time I met David Schwimmer at the Sky Bar in LA. This was back in 2000 when Friends was still on and Ross was a big thing. I was pretty stoked to be chatting with him and three or four other people. I was nervous so I was talking a lot, but I was on a roll for funny that night. Just cracking myself up with my witty humor. Something I thought ole Ross would appreciate.

I guess humor doesn’t replace a nice rack because he kept looking over my shoulder, scoping out the room, and mentally thinking “who the fuck is this girl and why won’t she shut up?” I counted myself lucky that he didn’t get me thrown out of the place and spent the rest of the evening being chatted up by Andre the Giant. Not the real Andre the Giant, but a smaller, uglier version, who worked the door. Apparently, funny is a matter of opinion. And what I’ve learned throughout the years is that one person’s funny is another person’s shut the funk up.
Kelly, however, assures me that she’s pretty laid back and not likely to get worked up over a few innocent Jesus jokes or my tree-hugging hippie talk, and that led me to think about what are things that piss me off about people.
Not just piss me off, but friend deal breakers.
At first, I thought, oh no. I’m easy. You won’t piss me off. Then I remembered Jenny, the band director at the high school I taught at last year. She pissed me off.
So Friend Deal Breaker #1:
-Don’t correct or discipline my children if I’m standing right there. Jenny did that. My little girl, (who’s growing up bilingual and is a delayed talker), was just barely TWO YEARS old, when she had to come to ‘meet the teacher night’ with me because Javi was out of town. So to keep her quiet while I spoke with the one or two parents that happened to stop by and say hi, I put on a Scooby-doo dvd. Jenny walked by and asked my adorable curly haired little girl if she liked Scooby doo. She replied ‘yeah’ (which I thought was great because at this point, she was really only saying about ten words and half of those were in Spanish) and THEN Jenny goes and corrects her. “It’s yes ma’am,” she said.
Now I know most people are thinking, what’s the big deal? But I think it’s rude. What if I didn’t want to teach my kids to say ma’am and sir? Is that really her place to teach them for me? Especially when she’s no one to them and I’m standing right there? Oh my goodness, I was going apeshit inside. So basically, however innocuous you might think the correction is, just don’t correct my kids if I’m right there. Let me know the deal, and I’ll handle it.
Which then leads me to Friend Deal Breaker #2:
Don’t let your kid be a jack ass to my kid and not say anything. I know ‘kids will be kids’ and all, but if you notice that your kid is bullying my super polite, God-fearing son, then call him to the side and give him a firm finger shaking for me. And just a side warning, my son may tell your son that he’s going to hell if he doesn’t love God. Feel free to politely disagree, although I discourage giving him the finger, like another friend’s son did.
Friend Deal Breaker # 3 is:
Don’t beat your kids in front of me. Don’t cuss them out, call them names, or be an off the chain bitch to them. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. I was at a friend’s house and she had another friend and her kids over. The other mom was popping her kid in the mouth, spanking the three-year old from behind when he wasn’t looking. The little boy was across the yard when the mom saw him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. She darted a hundred yards and smacked that kid so hard his legs came off the ground. He never even saw it coming. I about fell out of my chair. She spent that enjoyable sunny day cussing at the kids. At one point when it was time to leave, the seven-year old said, “I don’t want to go home.” The mom said, “I don’t want to beat your ass all the way home either, but I will.” She’s not the first mom that’s spanked her child in front of me and I’m not judging parents that spank their kids, but I seriously just don’t like to see it.

So basically, I’m pretty laid back until I go into Mama Bear mode. I don’t mind your religious beliefs, sexual orientation, political views, potty mouth, or TMI tales. I don’t get offended by belching (or even the occasion stank bomb on the elliptical machine) as long as you’re good to the little ones.

Now, if only the rest of the world felt the same way…

What about you? What are your deal breakers?

Chiropractor or Masseuse

2011-01-02T23:56:00.001-06:00

I'm in desperate need of a chiropractor. The main reason I suppose is because I’ve been sleeping on this super shitty bed for a year and a half now, ever since we moved back to America after eight years of living in Spain. (Long story, I’ll explain later.) So when we moved here we bought the king bed from my mom’s spare bedroom. The bed is fugly as all get out. It's brass bars. Do you know how shiny and gold brass is?

Besides being fugly it rattles everyWHERE. The rattle is like an itch that you just can’t scratch. I hear it tick tick,ticking -the sound of brass clanking against brass from the slight motion of our breathing. I search for the place the noise is coming from, tightening up posts and bars, but the ticking never stops. All I can do is pray that I can lie still enough that maybe I can escape the torture long enough to fall asleep. God forbid we roll over. Oh hell, the whole bed clanks like handcuffs on a water pipe. Geez. The neighbors probably pray we don’t roll over.

As if fugly and clanky weren’t enough, the middle of the bed is propped up on 6 small wooden boards and a metal thing, not sure what that’s called. So if the bed is moved, say by two children, aged five and three, that jump on mom and dad’s bed long after they’re told to stop, then the small wooden boards shift and stop supporting the middle of the mattress, which means that when I go to sleep, I feel like I’m sleeping on the side of Old Smokey.

Why don’t I get a new bed, you might ask? Because my cheap ass is so pissed that I already paid 300 bucks for this bed that it really just pisses me off to go and spend more money on a bed.

But that’s not the point of this post. The point now is that my whole body aches, my hips, my back, my shoulders. And that pain is most likely from the sagging mattress.

And that leads me to what this post is about-my fear of chiropractors. Did I ever tell you that jacked up story about the wacko gyno in LA? No, probably not. It’s not one exactly fit for dinner party chatter. Anyway, I tend to clump that horrendous, scarring, gyno experience with my embarrassing, disturbing chiropractor experience, adding to my fear of doctors.

So there I was, living in Madrid, recently given birth to my son Ethan, now 5. I guess Ethan may have been about nine or ten months and my lower back had been hurting, although at a bearable level, since before he was born. I mentioned it to my husband who suggested that I let a friend of his parents who ran a chiropractor type business out of an office not far from where we lived. Now Spain doesn’t have chiropractors like we have in the states or what I assume they are like, since I’ve never been, but from the description this guy sounded pretty close. Plus he’d worked on my father-in-law’s knee with positive results, so I made an appointment. Well, technically, I got Javi to make the appointment because even after all those years of living in Spain, I was still hesitant to make appointments in Spanish. Anyway, so we show up at his office, which is an apartment on the fourth floor, no elevator, in an apartment building a few blocks from ours, and wait in the living room/waiting room for Jose to finish up with another patient. Then he comes out, shakes hands with Javi, engages in brief chit chat while I size him up. He seems nice enough. Late forties, clean cut, typical looking guy.

I’m a little nervous. I always am when I go some place new. Jose escorts me to a small room with a massage cot in the middle of the room. He says to take off my clothes, but leave my panties on and he’d be right back. I think oh, shit. I wasn’t expecting that. Ok. Hmmmm…. Is this like those massages I’ve heard about, but never gotten, where you lie down and they put a towel over your private areas? Where in the hell is the towel then? Do I lie down and cover up my private areas with my clothes? Will I look retarded if he comes in and I’m lying face down with my jeans balled up on my ass?

I’m undressing and scoping out the room for answers. It’s plain, not even a picture on the wall. Also noticeably missing is a license to practice, but that’s par for the course around there. So I fold my clothes up as neatly as I can with shaky hands and put them on the chair next to the cot. Then I sit back on the cot, legs crossed, arms crossed over my breast, more out of shame that the puppies don’t perk up and pant like they used to. Now they’re just lazy old dogs that all they want to do is lay around all day. You know, the kind that you end up carrying home after taking them for a run.

So Jose knocks and enters. He asks a few questions. I avoid eye contact as I fidget around and think holy shit, I’m talking with my shirt off, as I tell him about my back pain. He listens, nods, and when I finish he tells me to stand up and bend over and reach for my toes. I look at his face to see if he’s serious. He is. I’m embarrassed by my American modesty and remember all of the girls from seventeen to seventy that go topless at the pool. I take a deep breath, stand up, bend over, and think, damn! If I’d known I’d be doing all this, I wouldn’t have worn a dang thong. Why couldn’t I have worn my big period panties or those cute boy shorts I bought to sleep in? Nope, beat up maternity thongs it is. And I might’ve even stopped in the tanning bed a time or two for the occasion, but once again, nope. Just a white, flabby ass pointed at you, kind sir. Can’t wait to see you at my mil’s next family gathering.

So Jose stands behind me, white dr’s coat (although we both know he’s not a doctor) tickling the back of my legs, as he leans over and feels up and down my spine. Everything is just fine.

No fucking shit Sherlock. I think I’ve been checked for scoliosis a time or ten. Public school may not have taught me shit about science or math, but I did get checked for the S spine every other year in PE, and it was never with my clothes off.

Then he rubbed my back for forty five minutes, which was surely tense as a brick from being dry humped while I stood there like an idiot. Then he let me know, before putting on my clothes, that my back pain was probably due to the awkward positioning of breastfeeding my son for ten months and that I should just practice better posture to relieve the pain.
I smiled and nodded and then paid him money as I mentally questioned the irony of it.

Which leads me to my massage experience. When I turned 30, my daughter was about five months old. My back pain was still present, apparently my posture was still crap, so my mom decided to surprise me with a trip to a massage parlor that had just opened up in her neighborhood. She lives in a ritzy neighborhood so massage parlor may not be the right word. It wasn’t run my illegal immigrants who brought girls over in freight carts from South America or Eastern Europe, if you’re wondering. This was your average $75/hour massage clinic that was running a Grand Opening special.

I walk in, wait for my name to be called, fill out the questionnaire, and then get escorted to my room. I take off my clothes, except for my jumbo panties, which I cover up with one of the plush nice towels provided for me. Then the largest man to ever give a massage enters the room. He talks through his nose and has a slight lisp which I take as a relief that this guy is gay. Great, I won’t be molested, I’m thinking.

Wrong.

I don’t necessarily think this guy knew he was molesting me, but I still have nightmares. The table that I was lying on was right at groin level on him. Because his gut was so fat, every time that he’d lean over to rub my back while he was at my head, I could feel his FUPA (Fat Upper Penis Area- for those not familiar with the terminology) rubbing against my head. I imagined getting up from the table and my hair sticking straight up like it does when you rub a balloon on your head to see how static electricity works.

It was pretty much a nightmare. Every time that fat fucker went near the top of my head, I cringed. I ended the relaxing massage after twenty minutes because I was so stressed that I thought I might stand up and punch him. Besides that he kept talking the whole time about his wife and how she was so jealous of him working there. Who can relax with all that lying going on?

So you can see my dilemma: Painful back. Chiropractor or Masseuse?

Just another Around the Way Girl

2011-01-02T20:06:00.000-06:00

This is just another blog from an Around the Way Girl. Ok, so maybe I don't fit LL Cool J's description of what an Around the Way Girl is since:
1. I don't have extensions in my hair
2. negative on the bamboo earrings
3. and unfortunately no Fendi bag either
But A BIG FAT CHECK on the bad attitude
Now the next few lines, I'm not so sure about:
"she can walk with a switch and talk with street slang"
hmmmm.... I'm gonna have to go with a 'no' on both of those too, although I do fancy myself hardcore.
I do 'love to do my thang' though as LL says, so there's check mark #2; however, I can't recall a time that I've been sucking on a lollipop while standing at the bus stop. In fact, I haven't ridden a bus since that one super sketchy time I caught the Big Blue Bus to Santa Monica and I thought I was in a bad Spike Lee movie when the Latino with the flannel shirt on in mid-May sat in the backseat eyeballing me and the Hispanic mother yelled at her crying baby in Spanish and the black guy in the purple sweatsuit asked me if he could have the orange in my purse.
So negative on the bus stop.
Although this next line could so totally be me, "Once she gets pumping its hard to make the hottie stop."
I don't really think I know what that means, but it's true that once I've got my mind set on something, I do bite down and growl.
The next one was most definitely written about me. "She likes to dance to the rap jam" OMG do I? I LOVE to dance to the rap jam. Put me on some Rhianna and Drake and I'm dancing and singing "What's my name?" so loud I could wake the baby, down the street. Not mine because well, the youngest is 3 and not technically a baby, and I could slit the throat of someone who wakes her up from her nap. She's like one of those kids from Children of the Corn when she doesn't get enough sleep.
Next few lines are all a big No.
My complexion does not resemble honey or brown sugar(I'm more of the confectioner kind).

No, I don't have a perm in my hair or even a curly weave
and no New Edition Bobby Brown button on my sleeve

Well, hell. I guess I'm not a damn Around the Way Girl, but it just sounded so much better than Just another Mother of 2, with a secret desire to tan easily, wear biking shorts and gold hoops while watching the cuties on the basketball court.

Guess I better change the whole damn name of this blog.

Shit, I could be from Around the Way. Who the hell even knows where that is? And why does LL Cool J get to be the one to decide who gets to be an Around the Way Girl and who doesn't? I mean, who is he, really? I can self-proclaim myself to be 2 Legit 2 Quit too. Doesn't mean I am.

So here I am. Just another self-proclaimed Around the Way Girl. Who knows what else I'll self-proclaim?
-Janet Dickenson self-proclaimed herself the first super model.
-114 citizens of Idaho, self-proclaimed their 5 acres of land The Republic of GEMNOVIAG.
-Erik self-proclaimed himself the coolest guy around (on Myspace).
- Jesus. Self-proclaimed Messiah.

And the list goes on...