My Health Insurance Company Is Afraid I Might Jump Off A Bridge

  • September 19, 2009

I got a letter in the mail the other day from my health insurance company that basically said, “We are all scared shitless here because we noticed your aren’t taking your Prozac anymore.”

What.The.Fuck.

Technically I have a prescription for Prozac. It is one of the few antidepressants approved by the FDA for the treatment of severe PMS (I read a shitload of magazines and I’ve actually self diagnosed myself with PPMD which is way worse than just the regular PMS). And the reason those yahoos at my health insurance company think I’ve stopped taking it is because, per my prescribing doctor, I’m only supposed to take it for the 5-7 days before my period, not every day. So one bottle lasts a really long time. And some months I don’t have to take it at all. If I start thinking about picking up a fork and stabbing Dave in the head with it then I know I better go over to the cupboard where we store our drugs and take one of those little pills. So that’s like my litmus test for determining whether or not my PMS is indeed severe enough that I need to medicate myself immediately. If I don’t feel like stabbing Dave in the head with a fork in the 5-7 days before I get my period, then I don’t need any Prozac.

My PMS started to get really bad when I was about thirty-eight. I noticed I was becoming less tolerant, bitchier. Then it got worse and now I pretty much want to kill people during certain days of the month. I went to my gynecologist and my regular doctor. They both immediately suggested birth control pills regardless of the fact that my husband has had the “snip-snip.” Supposedly, the pill would regulate my cycle so that my hormones would be “evened out” and I wouldn’t be so psychotic and mean to people I actually love. I think my gyno and my doctor are both getting outrageous kick-backs from their pharmaceutical reps because I can think of no other reason why they would pimp these birth control pills all the time (am I right, Pfizer??) However, since I was having a lot of “fork stabbing months”, I decided to at least try the pill to see if it would help.

Remember that chick who was on the Yaz commercial and she’s sitting around with all her girlfriends at some club and they’re drinking and she’s rattling off all these Yaz statistics and then she’s all “I didn’t go to medical school for nothin'” but you know she’s not really a doctor and instead is probably a struggling actress whose resume lists a deodorant commercial and an episode of Fear Factor under “experience?” That’s the pill my doctor put me on. Within six weeks I lost the desire to ever have sex again and my boobs exploded. I have a pretty good rack to begin with so I really don’t need bigger boobs and hello? if I have no sex drive what good are big huge boobs? Dave was super bummed considering he now had to choose between a psychotic hormonally unbalanced bitch on wheels or a hormonally regulated woman with ginormous boobs and no sex drive. Plus Yaz gave me really bad headaches.

I informed my doctor about the exploding boobs and the lack of sex drive and she pretended not to have ever heard of either of these side effects. She then said if I was not willing to be on birth control pills, she could prescribe something called Sarafem which is really just Prozac that has been marketed under a different name and FDA approved for the treatment of severe PMS. And the little pills are pink. You know, for girls. She also mentioned that because my prescription was for Sarafem, and not Prozac, no one would think I was crazy which does not sound like a very doctor-y thing to say at all.

The first time I went to fill my Sarafem/Prozac prescription, the pharmacist asked me to pull up and over (like they do at McDonald’s when they don’t have enough nuggets to fill your order and you have to sit there and wait for your fast food while everyone drives around you and glares). Then, when the pharmacist came out to my car she was all “We don’t have any Prozac and we can’t fill your prescription until tomorrow” and I’m thinking, “What the fuck do you mean you don’t have any Prozac, you’re a pharmacy” (and it’s Sarafem, remember?) but I was all “Oh, that’s okay, no big deal, I can come back tomorrow” and she’s all relieved looking because I think she thought I might stab her in the head with a fork but that’s ridiculous because I don’t even keep forks in my Explorer.

I used to be envious whenever I’d hear about someone having to have a hysterectomy because I thought that maybe removing the whole “kit and caboodle” would offer some relief but apparently I am experiencing issues that are not related so much to the hardware (girly bits) but the software (the monthly hormonal shitstorm).

I will say that the Sarafem/Prozac DOES work when I take it. But it also makes me very tired and I kinda don’t give a shit about anything. I also don’t have the energy or desire to commit manslaughter though so I guess you have to take the good with the bad.

Anyway, if your periods make you bat shit crazy and evil like mine do, consider taking Sarafem/Prozac/Fluoxetine(generic Prozac) for 5-7 days each month. It does help.

But if you do accidentally/on purpose kill someone during PMS? Call me.

I will so totally testify on your behalf. Or bake you a cake with a nail file.

Whichever.

Peace out.

Tracey’s Shit List

  • September 3, 2009

1. McDonald’s. I’m not talking about those ‘tards at the McDonald’s up the street from my house (which, if you remember, is why we no longer have McDonald’s Monday). I’m talking about a different McDonald’s and the d-bag who thought it would be a good idea to have double drive thru lanes that require hungry and/or stoned McDonald’s customers to take turns and merge. Implementing a system that the general public has to self administer is just asking for trouble. How long before the drive thru reaches riot levels and someone goes all “Reginald Denny” on some annoying blinged out milfy mom in a giant SUV who is yammering into her cell phone and trying to cut in line? *****This McDonald’s location never fucks up my order though so yay!

2. People who post five or more Facebook status updates in one 24 hour period. Set up a Twitter account, you losers! And I won’t be following you. Also, I don’t need to know that your kids have homework, it’s bunco night, or everyone’s! eating! tacos!

3. The duggar’s. Okay, we get it. Michelle and Jim Bob like to put the penie in the pie. A lot. And they don’t like birth control. But seriously Duggars, stop reproducing. Michelle your uterus is just going to fall out and land on the sidewalk someday. Thankfully, Michelle has made some much needed improvements to her hairdo. If you want to see it, click here and head over to DG’s World by Big D. She’s got a bitchin’ picture of Michelle’s new ‘do.

4. In the last three weeks, I have seen no fewer than three dudes scratch their balls while they are talking to me. Here’s the thing guys, your hands and/or genital area are not, in fact, invisible. I can see you scratching. Just because you keep on talking to me doesn’t mean I didn’t notice. Plus, now I’m not only grossed out, I’m creeped out too. You don’t see chicks walking around scratching down there, even if we are dealing with the outgrowth of a bikini wax/trim/shave/whatever. Seriously, girls don’t scratch in public (unless maybe they have crabs or something which at least helps us identify who the whores are. Am I right?)

5. Old Navy. I think I’m going to have to write Old Navy a letter. It will read like this:

Dear Old Navy,

I recently returned to the work force and had to buy a whole new wardrobe (at least that’s what I told my husband). Because I am working at a junior high, and will probably come into contact with sweat, puke, general 8th and 9th grade funk, and the H1N1 flu virus, I wanted to purchase clothing that was cute, inexpensive, and possibly disposable. Your retail establishment offered everything I was looking for.

However, I ordered four pairs of chinos online, and not one pair fits me the same (and in the case of the navy blue pair, not at all). Since I’m tall, I love your web site because I can order my pants and jeans in a longer length. The drawback, however, is that I cannot try anything on. When I get a big box in the mail, full of new Old Navy clothes I get very excited. But when I received my last order and started trying everything on, I wanted to march into your headquarters and stab people with a screwdriver. Kindly fix your pants sizing clusterfuck immediately. The employees working in your corporate headquarters will be very grateful. Or dead. It’s really your decision Old Navy.

6. Walk in clinic. Last week, I had to pick up Matthew in the nurse’s office because he was burning up with fever and complaining of a sore throat. I knew it was strep because I’ve been down this road with him a few times before. I only had 35 minutes to get him to the doctor and then get back home before the bus dropped Lauren off. I chose the walk in clinic, a decision I now regret. First of all, the nurse practitioner ripped me a new one for not “filling out the waiting log correctly.” Apparently, writing down my time of arrival, AND the number of the beeper assigned to me (Jesus, walk in clinic, do you think you are Outback Steakhouse or something?) was not good enough. As I am standing there with my poor child who is ON FIRE with fever and whimpering she pointed out that I had not written down my name. Even though we were the only people waiting. And some A-hole had scribbled out the column that said “name” so I didn’t even know there was someplace to write it down (in case the beeper and/or visual scan of the waiting area did not help her to identify that THERE WAS A MOMMY AND A SICK LITTLE BOY WAITING TO GET SOME MEDICAL ATTENTION AND BY THE WAY THE BUS IS GOING TO DROP OFF MY OTHER CHILD IN 25 MINUTES SO GET DIAGNOSING YOU BITCH). *I’m very sorry about all the yelling*. Anyway, I shot her my best dirty look and let out a little “ugh” under my breath. I also gave very curt little answers to her questions because her attitude made me all passive aggressive. Luckily, we did manage to make it home before the bus dropped Lauren off. However, the nurse practitioner did not prescribe the right dose of antibiotic for Matthew, he got much sicker, and I had to take him to his pediatrician to get the right drugs as well as an oral steroid to reduce the swollen tonsils that were so big he couldn’t even enunciate words properly. And yes, the walk in clinic did receive a piece of my mind some constructive criticism.

7. Dave. I love my husband (97.6% of the time) but the other night, Dave said “Chloe has some poop hanging off her butt.” I’m all “okay, then deal with it.” I mean, if you see it, shouldn’t you just be the one to take care of it? And haven’t I been almost 100% responsible for attending to all the shit (and I mean that literally people) that has come out of the offspring’s you-know-whats from the time they were born until they were potty trained? So why in God’s name is the shit hanging off the dog’s butt my sole responsibility? Man up Dave. If you see a dingleberry, do something about it.

8. Chloe. I don’t know what the hell you rolled in when you were in the back yard but I’m pretty sure it was poop. And then I had to wrestle you into the tub and scrub something stinky and brown off your fur. And then I had to completely change my clothes which required ironing an entire new outfit and selecting new shoes. And then a little while later you insisted on climbing onto my lap and I thought you still smelled like shit but I wasn’t sure if I was just being paranoid and since I’m lazy I decided to just febreze my lap because I am not made of ironed outfits plus I didn’t feel like going upstairs. ****If you see me today and I smell like shit blame Chloe.

Help Me Decide Who Would Be a Better Vampire Boyfriend, Bill Compton or Edward Cullen

  • August 6, 2009

Recently I went to Target to buy a bunch of shit we don’t really need and I threw season 1 of HBO’s True Blood into my cart. I’ve read all nine of the Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris, upon which the HBO show is based, and since we don’t have HBO, I’ve been anxiously awaiting the DVD’s release.

Dave and I started watching the series last week. He’s kind of mad at me because I accidentally blurted out who the killer was when we were only three episodes in (hint: it’s not a vampire). Sometimes I have Tourette’s with secrets and I couldn’t help it. Anyway, we are enjoying True Blood but I am disappointed at how unattractive the main character, vampire Bill Compton, looks on screen sometimes.

Part of my fascination with Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series, both the books and the movie, is that Edward Cullen is so fucking hot (even though technically he’s ice cold because he’s dead). Edward is so gorgeous that I just want to stare at him without blinking until my eyes cross but Bill Compton looks all swarthy and ungroomed but I think HBO is trying to make him look all brooding and deep and stuff. But if the producers of True Blood want my opinion (and hello? why wouldn’t they) I would tell them that they can drive their ratings through the roof by making Bill Compton look way more gorgeous because even though a vampire could kill me on a dime I’m willing to overlook that if the vampire is super hot. Like Edward Cullen.

Exhibit A:

I have no desire to bone Bill Compton when I see this picture.

Might bone if I was drunk.

Would definitely bone, regardless of blood alcohol level.

Would bone all day and night.

I’m still confused about who would make the better vampire boyfriend because I am not shallow enough to make this decision based solely on physical attributes. I find, in these situations, it’s best to simply pro and con it out.

Pros: Bill Compton

1) Closer to my age so I would not be seen as slutty cougar type, rawr!
2) I could bring him home to meet my dad and I’m confident dad would be totally oblivious to the fact that Bill is an old, dead vampire.
3) Strong enough to lift me no matter how much weight I gain eating crack dip.
4) Bill would spend all day in his coffin thus leaving me free to do whatever I wanted, i.e. shopping with the girls, manicures, etc…
5) As vampires don’t eat food and/or have digestive systems, I imagine Bill would not fart in bed and hold my head under the covers.

Cons: Bill Compton

1) Technically dead.
2) Would not be able to eat crack dip with me.
3) Could accidentally kill me.
4) Could kill me on purpose.
5) Cold rock hard body could make post-lovemaking snuggling problematic.

Pros: Edward Cullen

1) Gorgeous, sexy, fast, strong, beautiful, rich, vampire.
2) See item #1.
3) See item #1.
4) See item #1.
5) See item #1 infinity.

Cons: Edward Cullen

1) Way prettier than me so no one would ever notice I was standing there. Would be like invisible girlfriend.
2) Even though Edward has been around for 107 years, he is technically seventeen which means I would look like a total cougar (rawr!).
3) Is not bothered by sunlight and might start to bug me if he hung around 24/7.
4) Might not agree to have sex with me unless we were married first.
5) Can be a bit of a controlling jackass, especially if I wanted to have a beer with one of the werewolves of London.

Now I’m more confused than ever. I mean, they both have their good points, and their bad points. It’s clear I’m going to have to do more research and possibly set up a spread sheet to help me make my final decision.

Last night, Dave was on the computer for a while (hijacking my Facebook page, again).

Dave: “Gah! Why is our screen saver a picture of that vampire?”
Me: “Do.Not.Remove.My.Boyfriend.Edward.”

So, has anyone else wondered who would make the better vampire boyfriend? No? Just me again.

Okay, maybe no one else has wasted taken the time to ponder this very important issue and provide compelling reasons for, or against, Bill or Edward. But I have.

You’re welcome.

Questions I’d Like to Ask the Producers at Bravo

  • July 15, 2009

You all know I love watching the Real Housewives on Bravo, right? I’m totally a fan and I love to hit play on the DVR just so I can see what those ladies have been up to. But as I watch the show, especially the latest installment (Real Housewives of NJ), I can’t help but think of a few questions I’d like the Bravo producers to answer.

1. Exactly how many people will I have to sleep with to secure a spot on The Real Housewives of Dallas County (because seriously, would an Iowa installment be a total hoot or what?) I am comfortable sleeping with two Executive Producers, the head of casting, and maybe someone from craft services. But that’s where I draw the line because I’m married.

2. Does at least one housewife per season need to have some kind of cosmetic procedure on camera? If so, I have been planning on having the twins hoisted but will gladly wait and have this done on a future episode. I don’t care what you show, I just want new boobies and I want Bravo to pay for them.

3. In The Real Housewives of Atlanta, Bobblehead Kim with the bad weave is seen driving off in her convertible with a glass of chardonnay. If, on The Real Housewives of Dallas County, I decide to take my Ford Explorer for a spin around the ‘hood, and I have a cosmopolitan between my legs, will Bravo post bail if I’m busted for DUI or am I “on my own.”

4. Speaking of weaves, I have noticed that Theresa Guidice’s hair also looks like a bad weave/wig. And have you noticed that she and Fergie have the same exact forehead (or lack thereof, actually). If Theresa is in fact wearing a wig, do you ever worry that it’s on too tight and could explode off her head at any time and then land on the ground like a big scary black tarantula? Or is that just me?

5. I was slightly taken aback when Theresa Guidice of The Real Housewives of NJ said “blowjob” in a recent episode. I expect this from Samantha on Sex and The City but that’s HBO and you, Bravo, are no HBO (but you are my favorite network, yay!). Does the FCC not care what the Real Housewives say on the air? This could be a real bonus for me as I have the worst potty mouth you’ve ever heard. Anyway, please explain the blowjob loophole. Also? Lately douchebag has become my favorite word. Can you say douchebag on TV? Thanks in advance.

6. Why in God’s name would you send Theresa Guidice to that furniture store and have her buy all that stuff with a big stack of cash? Do you not realize that every single juvenile delinquent in Jersey now has plans to “roll” her when they see her walking down the street after dark? And then I read in People magazine that all the cash Theresa walks around with is fake. That’s absurd. Why would you talk Theresa into doing something like that? She has three little girls and another baby on the way. Do you want her to get mugged just so you can promote the stereotype that wives of mafia dudes only carry cash?

7. Why does Bethanny Frankel get to constantly promote her skinny girl margaritas when the recipe is not original and is in fact right on the back of the cointreau bottle? You don’t see me running around the ‘hood promoting tipsy housewife cosmos now, do you? Yet my recipe for them is exactly the same as the one on the cointreau bottle, too. Is it just that easy to start up a brand? Do the Cointreau people not care? Am I the only one who has made this astute connection?

8. I recently ordered a Happy Wife Happy Life T-shirt from Theresa Guidice’s web site (and a blinged out pink baseball cap with the same slogan – I am stylin’!). But, the shirt had a tear down the seam when it arrived so can you tell Theresa the workmanship at her sweat shop is “sub par” and also let her know I’m going to be contacting her to exchange the shirt.

9. Though this post is Theresa Guidice-centric, she is not actually my favorite housewife (although I like her just fine even though her T-shirts are crap). My favorite housewife from OC is Vicki or Jeana, my favorite from NY is Jill, and my favorite from NJ is Jacqueline (I don’t like any of the Atlanta housewives because they are all whiny, gold-digging whores). Who is your favorite housewife and why? Who is the biggest pain in the ass? Who drives your ratings through the roof? Is it Danielle from NJ? I bet it is.

10. And finally, have any of the Real Housewives developed rampant alcoholism due to drinking all the time on your show? And do you think Lynne from OC smokes a lot of pot since she’s really spacey and didn’t know if her home had air conditioning in that one episode? I read that Vicki and Jeana were taking some kind of supplement to try to lose weight but do you think they might actually be dabbling in meth? As I mentioned previously, they are my favorite OC housewives so I hope not.

Anyway Bravo, if you get a minute, maybe you can write me back with the answers to my questions.

Thanks in advance,

Tracey (Bravo’s biggest fan!)

Dave and Tracey Had a Babysitter

  • April 20, 2009

Dave and I had a babysitter Saturday night. We hadn’t been out alone since we saw Slumdog Millionaire and I was really looking forward to going out for dinner and drinks. Our next door neighbors Brooke and Spence were able to get a sitter too so they joined us for a night out.

We decided to go to Sam and Gabe’s, one of my favorite restaurants. It was going to be a long wait for dinner so we squeezed ourselves around a small table in the bar area and ordered drinks. Dave and I always split a bottle of La Crema pinot noir when we go to Sam and Gabe’s but they stopped carrying it so we settled on a bottle of syrah instead.

Our table was finally ready after an hour and a half. We sat down and ordered more wine and drinks. I chose Italian nachos for my dinner which is actually an appetizer but there are a lot of them so it’s easily enough for a meal. The chips are deep fried and puffy yet also crispy. There is crumbled Italian sausage and some sort of white sauce on top. I order them almost every time we go to Sam and Gabe’s.

After we finished eating we discussed where we should go next. We wanted to listen to music so we asked the wait staff to recommend something. They didn’t have many ideas but finally suggested Denny Arthur’s.

Denny Arthur’s is a dance club for the “over thirty crowd.” It was quite popular during the 90’s and I didn’t even realize it was still open for business. Somehow, it seemed like the perfect choice and it was conveniently located around the corner from Sam and Gabe’s. One quick shortcut through a Perkins restaurant parking lot and we were there.

There wasn’t anywhere to sit when we first walked in but, utilizing a maneuver I perfected in my twenties, I noticed an empty table and shot like a bullet from a gun toward it before anyone else could claim it. We sat down and just then, I heard the opening notes of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”

Brooke and I hit that dance floor like it was our job. My entrance would have been much more graceful had I realized it was a sunken dance floor because I totally missed the step down and went flying. From then on, whenever we entered or exited the dance floor I was all, “be careful there” while pointing at the step.

We danced without inhibition. The dance floor wasn’t very crowded which was a good thing as we were using every bit of available space. Spence and Dave had a great view of us so we really ramped up the Solid Gold dancer show. I opened with the classic housewife move which involves raising your arms above your head and spinning around while shouting, “woo-hoo!” Then Brooke tried to do a herky but she did a stag so I showed her what a herky was and she did that too. Not to be outdone, I started doing “The Running Man” and quickly followed up with a little Saturday Night Fever (a la John Travolta) and THEN I started doing I’m Bernadette
and cracked myself up so much I had to leave the dance floor and go to the bathroom before I had a pee-pee accident in my new white pants.

When I returned to the dance floor I felt like the class clown. Brooke and I had to keep coming up with new dance moves to entertain Dave and Spence who were laughing their asses off at us. The fact that we had a captive audience did nothing to temper our behavior; frankly it’s the only explanation I can think of for why I pretended to lasso something with my left hand while smacking my own ass with my right. Dave and Spence seemed to really enjoy that move.

The post-dinner buzz that had been so strong when we arrived began to diminish and some of my inhibitions started to return. The dance floor was getting more crowded and Dave and Spence could hardly see us. They were, however, still able to catch a glimpse of me doing “The Sprinkler” and “The Robot” which I am really good at. I also did various other dances I made up all by myself.

At one point, Brooke sent her mom a text to let her know we were at Denny Arthur’s. Her mom texted back immediately, “Oh dear God, we’ll be there in a flash.” Brooke’s parents arrived at Denny Arthur’s soon after and we immediately drug her mom onto the dance floor (she had no trouble with the tricky step).

We danced to several more songs and then took a break while all the Denny Arthur’s regulars did a bunch of dorky line dances.

We returned to the dance floor for “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy”, “Redneck Woman”, “All Summer Long”, and “Rock Star.”

I honestly can’t remember the last time I danced in a bar. We were having so much fun I didn’t want to leave but we’d told our babysitter we’d be home by midnight so we reluctantly called it a night.

I don’t think Spence and Dave had quite as much fun as Brooke and I did. We all rode together in one car and Dave took his designated driver responsibilities pretty seriously so I think things would have been different for him had he been able to drink a little more. I’m sure Dave and Spence had a very entertaining evening and I think we might have gotten them out on the dance floor eventually, if we’d bothered to ask them.

They say you should dance like nobody’s watching and I think Brooke and I can cross that one of our lists, even if everyone really was .

It wasn’t an inexpensive evening by any means. By the time we paid for dinner, drinks, and a sitter we’d made a pretty good dent in our entertainment budget.

But it was money well spent because in my opinion? Nights that are that fun are absolutely priceless.

You! Suck! McDonald’s!

  • April 13, 2009

I recently posted about a weekly occurrence in our household called McDonald’s Monday.

Unfortunately, despite my quality control, a six piece order of Mcnuggets did not make it into the bag with the rest of our food last Monday. I blame myself for not looking closer. However, that did not stop me from calling McDonald’s and delivering a scathing, two minute ass-reaming to the GED holder store manager that answered the phone.

I am not positive they know what I look like but there may be a crude caricature of me with a diagonal slash through it on the wall of the break room at McDonald’s. There’s also a good chance someone has drawn a Hitler moustache and devil horns on me with a black magic marker.

I can no longer guarantee that, even if my neighborhood McDonald’s manages to give me all the Mcnuggets I’ve paid for, they will not include a spit garnish. I also feel compelled to mention that I don’t think it’s fair that I have to be so involved in the fulfillment of my fast food order.

Therefore, McDonald’s Monday in our house is now known as “Something from Subway.”

McDonald’s Monday

  • March 24, 2009

Yesterday was McDonald’s Monday at our house.

Lauren has tap and ballet after school and by the time we get home an hour later, the offspring are threatening to gnaw off their own arms unless I produce dinner immediately. A quick detour through the McDonald’s drive thru after dance class is a convenient and fast way to make everyone happy.

I realize they’re hungry. Lauren has just danced for an hour and Matthew is a nine and a half year old bottomless pit. Mama’s hungry too, especially since I’m following the low-fat reduced-calorie eating plan that Weight Watchers doesn’t think is a diet (ok, whatever).

I still make Dave and myself a healthy dinner when I get home although I’m starting to wonder if he wouldn’t like his own McDonald’s meal since he pissed Lauren off by eating half her fries and stealing a chicken McNugget.

The McDonald’s near our house has about a 60% accuracy rate when filling our order. It only took one or two instances of somebody’s happy meal being fucked up before Dave and I learned to always check the bag before leaving the drive thru.

When we went to McDonald’s last night, I pulled up to the window and prepared to launch my usual quality control efforts to ensure there would be no shortage of food.

I try to be quick when I do this because I don’t want to jack up the whole drive thru at McDonald’s and make all the other customers mad.

A teenaged boy who desperately needed Accutane handed me the bag and I quickly checked to make sure there were two orders of nuggets and two fries by counting them out loud.

I turned back to the window for the drinks and the boy handed me the cups one at a time. As he handed them to me he said, “here’s o-n-e and here’s t-w-o.” He spoke extra slowly and exaggerated the motion of handing me the drinks one at a time.

Wait a minute. I think Jr. McZitty Face might be mocking me.

Does he have any idea he has a pre-menstrual housewife in his drive thru and she’s not hormonally stable?

I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I am a mature mother of two and perhaps he’s just a slow talker.

I suddenly realize that they have forgotten to include Matthew’s order of apple dippers and I inform Jr. McZitty that they’re missing. I feel simultaneously vindicated yet irritated.

Zitty hands me the apple dippers and says (very condescendingly) “do you need me to put them in their own bag?”

“No,” I said. “I need you to stop being a smart-ass!”

I grab the apple dippers and haul ass out of the drive thru, forgetting about the big bump in the parking lot and I think my Explorer might have suffered minor axle damage.

Lauren asks from the back seat, “Did you just say ass?”

“Yes Lauren, yes I did. And I was wrong to say that in front of you.”

“Is this like that one time when you got in a fight at McDonald’s about the happy meal toy?”

“Um, yeah, a little bit. But its okay, I’ve calmed down now so don’t worry.”

I got home and re-enacted the whole thing for Dave. He’s not a fan of our neighborhood McDonald’s but my prefacing the story with “maybe I just have PMS” probably convinced him that nodding and agreeing with me was the only safe option.

Maybe Jr. McZitty didn’t mean anything by his mannerisms and comments. Perhaps I am wound a bit tight right now but I’m dealing with a serious Estrogen/Progesterone deficit so it’s not intentional, it’s just out of my control.

Hopefully things will go better next week on McDonald‘s Monday. I can’t promise there won’t be a smack down but I can promise to try harder.

100 more things

  • February 15, 2009

Keri in MA recently tagged me in her note 25 random things on Facebook. I enjoyed coming up with my own 25 things so much I thought I’d write a new list and try to come up with 100 more things.

Here they are:

100. Trish is five minutes older than me.
99. My parents went to the doctor when my mom was seven and a half months pregnant and they found out there were going to be two babies instead of one. My mom went into labor later that night and they didn’t have a name or a crib for me. I guess they thought Tracey sounded good with Trish.
98. We are fraternal twins meaning there were two separate eggs.
97. We look nothing alike but people still ask us if we’re identical twins.
96. I am a little bit taller.
95. Trish and I both have brown eyes.
94. I was born breech.
93. I have a really cool younger brother named George but I’ve been forbidden to blog about him. I probably will anyway. I still call him Georgie even though he’s thirty-nine years old.
92. I abhor jazz music.
91. Not crazy about R&B either.
90. Dave is always trying to convince me to like both.
89. I hate riding my bicycle.
88. And not because my helmet is super queer which is why Dave thinks I don’t like to go on bike rides.
87. I would never attend a spinning class at the YMCA either.
86. I have no desire to ever participate in RAGBRAI which is when thousands of bicycle riding enthusiasts pedal their way across Iowa.
85. But I’ll show up when RAGBRAI swings through Des Moines and drink beer with all the bicyclists. To show my support and stuff.
84. I just think biking is boring.
83. Dave’s always trying to convince me it’s not.
82. To me it is (shrug).
81. I make Dave’s lunch for him every day.
80. I make him a PB&J sandwich and throw in a carton of AE yogurt.
79. We only eat natural peanut butter. You have to keep it in the fridge and when you first open it, the oil and the peanut butter have to be mixed up.
78. I pack either strawberry banana or cherry vanilla yogurt.
77. I started packing his lunch because he works out on his lunch hour and he doesn’t always have time to go get something to eat afterward.
76. Dave appreciates that I pack his lunch and never takes it for granted.
75. Dave is way nicer than me.
74. “Hey, is that your real hair color?”
73. That was the pick up line Dave used on me the night we met.
72. I was a redhead at the time.
71. We met at a party being thrown by a guy I was pseudo-dating.
70. Pseudo because he usually just tried to booty call me. Or convince me to go home from the bar with him.
69. Luckily I would usually sleep through the booty call and not listen to his message on my answering machine until the next morning.
68. Which translated into me accidentally playing hard to get.
67. Which is why pseudo-date guy actually called me during daylight hours and invited me to come to his party.
66. And then IGNORED me the whole night.
65. Except for making a rude remark about my blazer (it was brand new, I bought it at The Limited, and it was THE blazer to own).
64. But then Dave uttered his magic pick up line and I fell in love.
63. That party was sixteen and a half years ago.
62. Dave is my best friend.
61. Dave and I are not car people.
60. We’ve only had one income for almost ten years so we had to choose between a nice house or nice cars.
59. Our cars aren’t nice.
58. I drive a 1999 Ford Explorer. It’s white and it does have all the bells and whistles like keyless entry and butt warmers.
57. I bought it from my dad when it was three years old.
56. It was in pristine condition because my dad is very clean.
55. I am super clean too yet the kids and I have managed to turn the Explorer (which we call “the exploder” for no apparent reason) into a giant garbage can on wheels.
54. Dave cleans out the interior every six weeks or so.
53. He’s usually muttering something under his breath about how filthy it was.
52. Dave drives a 1995 Honda Accord that we also bought from my dad and Debby. It was only two years old when we got it.
51. I’ve only had one new car in my life. In 1990, I bought a red Acura Integra.
50. I drove it for the next twelve years.
49. I was pregnant with Lauren when we sold the Acura and bought dad’s Explorer.
48. I loved my Acura.
47. It was a five speed.
46. I miss having a clutch.
45. I’m a pretty good driver. I haven’t had a speeding ticket in fifteen years and I had never had an “at fault“ accident until last winter.
44. I slid into a parked car at cost cutters when I took Matthew to get a haircut.
43. It cost $500 and we paid out of our pocket because it wasn’t worth submitting to our insurance company.
42. I love to read.
41. I just finished reading all eight Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire Mystery books by Charlaine Harris.
40. Currently I’m reading two David Sedaris books simultaneously.
39. I’m really into reading memoirs right now.
38. Dave and I still read to the kids every night at bedtime.
37. We started reading at bedtime when the kids were infants
36. Dave and I have read the first four Harry Potter books aloud to Matthew at bedtime.
35. I had already read all seven Harry Potter books.
34. So I’m getting really tired of Harry Potter.
33. Both kids are pretty good readers.
32. Dave and I drink more since having kids then we ever did before.
31. But I hardly ever drink Sunday-Thursday. I’ve never been a big “school night” drinker.
30. I’d rather consume seven drinks in a weekend rather than have one drink every night for a week.
29. There’s a name for people like me.
28. Binge drinker.
27. During the week I like to work out, get up early, and get things accomplished so I can have fun on the weekends.
26. With wine.
25. Or cosmos.
24. Or sometimes beer if it’s hot out.
23. I also really like iced tea.
22. Not sweet tea!
21. I like diet coke.
20. I hate pepsi products.
19. I only drink soy milk.
18. I hate spiders.
17. I hate snakes.
18. I don’t mind mice.
16. I don’t love mice but I can’t remember the last time I saw one anyway.
15. I’ve seen some scary spiders in my yard.
14. We had a fox in our yard two years ago.
13. Say it with me: Urban sprawl.
12. Matthew walked right by it on his way to the swing set.
11. He didn’t know what it was.
10. It ran away.
9. I don’t throw stale bread off the deck anymore.
8. Although I wish the fox would come back and eat Sandy the yeti.
7. But I’m afraid the fox will eat Chloe someday.
6. We have an invisible fence which will only keep out invisible foxes.
5. We are planning on putting up a volleyball net in our back yard this summer.
4. I am also going to teach the kids how to play croquet.
3. I used to love playing croquet in my yard with Trish and Georgie when we were little.
2. Except one time a bird pooped on my head when I was playing croquet.
1. One time a bird pooped on Amy’s head when she was at a cemetery.
*Amy wins.

You! Suck! Santa!

  • December 25, 2008

Santa Claus is one big, fat, mean, purse-teasing sack of crap. There was no Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather under the tree this morning but you can bet your ass all the cookies I left out for him were gone.

I have coveted that purse since last spring and I STILL don’t own it. I am getting tired of visiting it at Dillard’s. It should be hanging on my shoulder by now and when I’m not carrying it, I plan on placing it on a special shrine I’ve constructed in my closet.

Since I’m not willing to mainstream and get a normal job (and I’m apparently not super employable for some reason) I have to find a way to increase my cash flow and BUY THAT PURSE MYSELF. Here’s the plan:

On Tuesdays and every other Saturday I will be selling my blood and platelets to the Blood Center of Iowa. I know they like my blood because they leave at least 15 messages per month on my voice mail begging me to come in. I gave them a couple pints back in 2005 and now they won’t leave me alone (imagine how excited they’ll be when I tell them about my super preferred life insurance rating). I’m going to ask them to install one of those vibrating massage chairs like the ones I sit in when I get a pedicure because I’m going to be there a lot and I want to be comfortable.

On Mondays and Thursdays I will be stripping at The Lumberyard. My stage name will be Peaches Honeyblossom and I will be wearing long fuchsia hair extensions, white thigh high boots, and my birthday suit. Every hour, I will be workin’ the pole to a three-song set by Def Leppard. Please stop by and contribute to my purse fund by slipping me a buck or two over the tip rail.

I have also put my eggs up for sale on Craig’s List. Because I’m 41 and my eggs are possibly a little funky genetically, I have priced them very competitively and I expect them to go quickly. My profile states that I am a teetotaling midwestern housewife who enjoys biographies and knitting (I am totally screwed if they find my blog and discover that I am really a wino with a potty mouth).

By my calculations, I should have that purse in about a month and I can put all this nonsense behind me. But if you have any other good money making ventures to suggest? Please leave them in the comments section of my blog. I think I’ve proven I’m open to just about anything.

Trish is leavin’ on a jet plane

  • December 5, 2008

My sister is flying to Austin today to stay with Stacy over the weekend before continuing on to Phoenix for a work training session. I’m a little nervous about her flying, not because I think the plane will crash but because Trish has had some ISSUES with flying in general and the TSA folks in particular.

First of all, she thinks none of the rules of airline travel apply to her and will try to sneak all kinds of shit past security. She just texted me that “flying sux – airport security is not my friend.” I immediately texted back to inquire if she’d been arrested. She replied that she had not been arrested but that her liquids weren’t in baggies and both laptops were now separated. The airport personnel hi-jacked her water bottle but not to worry, she’d just buy more once she got through security.

I should be glad she made it to the airport at all because she misses more flights than anyone I know. She managed to miss her flight home for Christmas two years in a row and would spend the whole day trying to finagle her way onto the next one so she could make it to DSM by midnight. I assure you my dad will be calling my house around noon today to ask, “Have you heard from your sister? Do you know if she made it to Dallas and Austin okay?” She makes my dad really nervous when she flies.

You know how NORAD tracks Santa every year and the kids can pull up the web site to see where Santa is? I wish NORAD would loan me some GPS to stick on the back of Trish’s head so I could monitor her whereabouts or better yet a web-cam I could mount on her shoulder so I wouldn’t have to miss any of her interactions with both airline employees and fellow passengers. I guarantee you it will be entertaining.

(Trish just texted me to say the TSA Nazis missed a travel sized hair spray. Then she referred to them as “minimum wage schmucks that think they’re so cool.”)

Trish flew home for dad’s birthday many years ago. When it was time for her to fly back to Austin, I dropped her off at the airport and drove back home. I hadn’t been there very long when the phone rang. I checked the caller I.D. and noticed that the call was coming from the Polk County Jail. Turns out if you argue with security and keep insisting that it’s only your under wire bra that is setting off the metal detector and then you get really lippy about it the TSA Nazis will throw your ass in the clink for a few hours until your sister and brother in law come down and bail you out.

I don’t like airline travel at all. I refer to all aircraft as “smelly germ capsules.” I am thisclose to donning a mask a la Michael Jackson the next time I have to fly somewhere. I cannot handle having to breathe the exhalations of all the other passengers, especially the guy in the back row who has passed out with his mouth open and is drooling all over himself. And there’s no fucking way I would ever use one of those airplane pillows because I KNOW they are crawling with cooties. Gak!

Even though I don’t enjoy flying I don’t find the rules of airline travel all that hard to live by. I’m not sure why Trish insists on making it so difficult. I do know that I won’t totally relax until her plane touches down in Austin and then she’s Stacy’s responsibility. I’m sure she’ll have some stories to share. I’ll be sure to pass them on.

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