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.

Is anyone wondering where the hell I’ve been?

  • September 2, 2009

Dear blogosphere in general and my readers in particular,

Hi. I’m not dead!

If you’ve been wondering why I seemed to have disappeared it’s because:

A) I was carried off by a dingo
B) I fell down a well (a big one, not a little one like baby Jessica fell into in 1987). Obviously.
C) My Internet connection exploded
D) I got a job.

If you picked D, you’re the big winner!!!!!

Let me be the first to say, I’m not totally sure how this happened. I mean, I remember the general process. A friend told me about some available jobs, I went to the website, filled out a lengthy application and uploaded my resume, had an interview, passed the reference and background checks (I know!), and was offered a job. Which I accepted.

I am now working in our school district as a Paraeducator which is just a fancy way of saying teacher’s associate which is also just a fancy way of saying teacher’s helper.

I’m working with older students. It’s like the universe sucked me in and then crapped me back out right into a John Hughes movie. I’m pretty sure I spend 7th hour with the kids from The Breakfast Club except now they’re all wearing Abercrombie.

I won’t be able to blog about my job. Frankly, I’m surprised funny in the ‘hood didn’t get me dooced before I even started. And I certainly don’t want to get canned for violating student confidentiality guidelines.

You’re probably wondering how I ended up working at a school (because God knows I am). It’s not for the money, although I was formerly making zero dollars an hour and if you look at it from that perspective, I just got a nice raise. There are two main reasons I accepted the position. First, if the offspring are at school then I am too. If the offspring are home, so am I. I also have all the holiday breaks, early outs, and snow days off so Dave and I never have to worry about someone being home with the kids. Dave puts them on the bus in the morning and I’m home when they get off the bus in the afternoon. It’s taken a little adjusting but Dave assures me “It’s not hard at all Tracey, it’s really going quite well.” I imagine it is going smoothly considering I have every single thing organized and ready for every living person in this house, including Dave, before I walk out the door at 7:00AM. The second thing I like about this job is that it is somewhat temporary. I’m technically unemployed again when school gets out next May and if I don’t want to go back, I won’t. If the job market ever fully recovers I wouldn’t mind finding a part-time job in my field which is/was Human Resources and Information Technology recruiting. But for now, things are going okay. I am fortunate to be able to choose what I want to do and what I think is best for my family.

Now that I have a job, I am feeling very productive which is something I was lacking in last year when the offspring were at school all day and I was home alone. I’ll be the first to admit that I had acquired a pretty severe Internet addiction, one that kept me online for hours each day. I wasn’t as bad as those people you hear about that sit on a stool in front of a slot machine for so long they pee right in their pants but that’s probably only because there’s a bathroom ten steps away from my computer and I didn’t have to worry about anyone sliding onto my stool and stealing my triple 7’s jackpot.

I’d rather spend all day writing on my blog, reading other people’s blogs, and leaving lengthy comments on them. Ditto Facebook and e-mail. But the time has come to get off my ass and do something and so far, I’m feeling pretty good about my decision. My only regret is that I may not have as much time to write and blog. Hopefully, as I become even more efficient and get used to my new schedule, I will still be able to post a couple times a week.

So, even though my job is low paying, there are often BAD SMELLS, and it’s pretty much a given that I’ll come down with H1N1 at some point, I’m pretty happy right now. I may change my mind in November when I’m in the death throes of the flu.

When that happens, please send Kleenex and wine.

And don’t forget about funny in the ‘hood either.

Sure I’m busy. But I’m not dead.

P.S. Have a wonderful Labor Day weekend! We are going to Tom and Amy’s lake house for one last hurrah.

P.P.S. They only reason I was able to write this post today is because I’m home taking care of Matthew. He has a raging case of strep throat and I feel sorry for my little buddy. We went back to the doctor for the second time and he should be fine by tomorrow.

P.P.P.S. Children’s illnesses = blog posts.

P.P.P.P.S. Cold and flu season is just around the corner so perhaps blog post volume will actually increase?

P.P.P.P.P.S. Will be spending meager paychecks on doctor co-pays and not designer purses.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Curses, foiled again.

I Regret To Inform You That Flashback Friday Will Not Occur Today

  • August 7, 2009

I’m in a big ass hurry to get out of town before my brother and sister in law change their minds about watching the offspring and I can’t find any funny pictures for Flashback Friday but to make it up to you I am working on a post about my horrible PMS which I will publish no later than Sunday night. Or Monday if I am still kind of drunk hungover on Sunday. Which is quite possible.

So no Flashback Friday+drunk/hungover=everything you ever wanted to know about my monthly hellish hormonal psychotic episodes.

I know.

Awesome.

Crack Dip Recipe

  • August 6, 2009

Some of you have recently asked for my crack dip recipe (originally given to me by my friend Wendy) so I thought I’d post it again. Everyone in the world loves it except for my friend Shellie and her friends but I’m pretty sure it’s just because they made it wrong (just kidding, I love you Shellie!).

Here’s what you need:

1 – 9 oz. jar of Archer Farms Habanero and Roasted Pineapple Dip, available at Super Target. It is in the pickle/olive aisle and sometimes it’s hard to find.

2 – 8 oz. bricks of cream cheese (please do not use the fat free crap). The cream cheese should be left out to soften for at least four hours.
1 – 8 oz. bag shredded sharp cheddar cheese.
1/2 of a small red onion, finely diced. Be careful because too much red onion will overpower the dip. You can always add more later.

Here’s what you do:

Mix together cream cheese and habanero dip until combined. Add shredded cheese and diced onion and mix again. Refrigerate for at least one hour so the cream cheese can firm up again.

Serve with Ritz crackers. You can use other crackers but Ritz taste best with the dip.

Enjoy!

I’m So Behind On Blogging I’m Just Getting Around To Posting About July Fourth

  • August 6, 2009

Dave and I are going to Tom and Amy’s lake house tomorrow, for the whole weekend, without the offspring. We managed to coerce, beg, convince my brother and sister-in-law to come to our house and take care of our dog and kids while we are gone (and we will be leaving big, black skid marks in the driveway as we get the hell out of dodge, people).

I can’t wait. We are going to be celebrating Dave’s birthday at the lake house and I’m packing so much liquor the bottles are going to be clank-clanking as we roll down the highway. I’m also making a double batch of crack dip even though I only have one more pair of shorts I can fit into and if I grow out of them over the weekend, I will have to shop for all new clothes next week but whatever.

Anyway, I thought I’d better finish and post the entry I started last month about our Fourth of July weekend at Tom and Amy’s lake house because I am all about chronological order. Sort of.

Probably no one cares what I did on July 4th but here it is anyway.

We spent the holiday weekend with Tom and Amy at their house on Twin Lakes. I told Amy we’d be there by twelve thirty but that was a lie because at noon, we hadn’t even left Des Moines (and you may have noticed I totally blew off Flashback Friday that day). Although we started packing at 7:00 AM, it still took us approximately six hours to pile all our crap so high in the back of the Explorer that Dave couldn’t even see out the back window. Must.Get.Better.System.

I might be slightly to blame for some of the delay in getting out of town. I tend to overpack and include things like sundresses and strapless bras. I don’t know why I bother because the reality is I spent the whole weekend schlepping around in either a wet swimsuit, shorts, or an Iowa Cubs t-shirt and grey polo sweat shirt.

We also had to drop off Chloe at the place we were boarding her. I had a slight nervous breakdown leaving my puppy behind. But I might not have to deal with my pet separation anxiety issues ever again because the people at the pet boarding place told us that Chloe has some “aggression” issues and “doesn’t play well with others.” Because of her behavior she was not allowed to participate in all aspects of the doggy daycare curriculum (um, like snacks and crafts? I mean, what are we talking here?). Apparently Dave and I are going to have to find another option for Chloe if we ever hope to take a vacation again.

Once we got on the road out of town we noticed that even though it was bright and sunny in Des Moines, the closer we got to our destination the cloudier the sky became. And Dave was in a big snit because he thought he’d try a new route to the lake and it was taking a really long time for us to get there because it was mostly two lane roads and we got behind no fewer than three cars who refused to go faster than 49 miles per hour. Plus, one time we got stuck following some sort of farm machinery thing (combine?). The offspring had started asking “when are we gonna be there” at thirty second intervals. My husband, who is usually calm and even tempered realized that the route he’s chosen sucks and he started to get pretty fucking snippy with me.

He compensated for our slow progress by putting the pedal to the metal. We got pulled over by the highway patrol approximately fourteen seconds later and Dave was busted for going seventy-nine miles an hour. I started to text something snarky to Amy and Dave said, “I bet you’re texting some sort of funny and clever remark to Amy right now, aren’t you?”

“No!” I said (Gah! Yes, totally). I hit the clr button on my phone and erased everything I just wrote. By the time Dave got his ticket and a warning to slow down, his eyes had turned demon red and I swear I could see smoke coming out of his ears. It did not help when the offspring started yelling “I can’t wait to tell everyone that dad just got a ticket.”

We finally got to the lake (it was raining a little by then) and unloaded our enormous amount of shit. Dave took a little walk by himself and when he returned we sent Tom and Dave to the store. They went to a bar first which was an excellent idea as Dave returned in a much better mood. The rain stopped so we were able to grill our dinner, light a crapload of sparklers, and make s’mores.

The fireworks at the lake were scheduled for Friday night so at dusk we all piled into the pontoon and headed out.

Shortly after the fireworks display ended, we headed back to the house in the pouring rain. We all changed into dry clothes and went to bed.

Tom’s sister in law Rita woke us up the next morning by knocking on the sliding glass door around 9:00 AM. We were participating in the fourth of July boat parade contest and we needed to get the boat decorated and be at Muddy Bay by 10:30. The theme for the contest was Around The World and we put the kids to work hanging up flags from different countries all around the outside edge of the boat. We also had globe beach balls, signs, and everyone wore a costume. We had an assortment of hats including viking, German Oktoberfest, and Irish, plus sombreros. We boated down to Muddy Bay in gale force winds and pouring rain (sleet?).

Because of the weather, there was not a huge turnout for the boat parade and we figured our odds of winning the contest just shot up due to lack of participants.

There was one other boat that looked like it might be a contender. It was a pirate ship complete with skull flags and a cannon. The captain of the boat fired the cannon every five minutes or so and I thought it was kinda cute the first time but by the time Johnny Depp had fired it fifty five thousand times I just got annoyed. Plus everybody jumped whenever we heard it because it was so loud.

Here I am representing Mexico in my sombrero and Mexican blanket thingy (which is the only reason, quite frankly, that my core body temperature did not plunge to hypothermic levels).

The boat parade finally ended and we headed back to the house to put on dry clothes and warm up. The kid’s lips were blue by the time Tom motored the pontoon boat back into the lift.

We spent the rest of the day inside, reading and playing games and trying not to get in each other’s way. It rained continuously.

Finally, at around 5:00 PM, we headed out for dinner at a local restaurant. This was an excellent idea because it got us all out of the house and gave us something to do (which basically meant consuming lots of wine with dinner). We also asked the hostess to seat the kids at a different table. We could see them, but we couldn’t hear them. We ordered drinks and had a great dinner.

We headed back to the house and were happy to see that the rain had stopped and the sky was starting to get blue. Matthew fished, the rest of the kids played, and the adults sat on the patio.

Later, Amy stayed back at the house with the kids and Dave, Tom, and I took the boat out for a ride. We drank beer, listened to the radio, and Dave drunk dialed and texted everyone in his Blackberry.

We headed home on Monday morning, tired, mosquito bitten, sunburned, and with enough dirty laundry to keep me busy for days.

I can only hope this weekend is as awesome.

P.S. Kids were ecstatic because we won 2nd place in the boat parade! The prize was $20 dollars so the four kids each got a five dollar bill.

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.

The Post Where I Tell Everyone How Awesome My Husband Is

  • August 3, 2009

Remember when I wrote that really nice letter to Santa asking him to bring me a Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather? No? Then click here.

And then remember when Santa didn’t bring it to me because he’s a rat bastard? No? Then click here.

Well last Friday, Dave took the afternoon off and we took the offspring to the mall for a little back to school shopping (this would be between the first visit from the police, and the second).

Dave told me he’d be right back, conveniently sticking me with the offspring who were clamoring to go to Auntie Anne’s for some pretzels. After we finished our pretzels he still wasn’t back and I was starting to get a little irritated.

Dave finally found us and when I asked him where he’d been, he handed me a Dillard’s bag and said, “I was buying you this.”

Blogosphere, I’d like to introduce to you the Dooney and Bourke medium Chiara bag in black (patent) leather:

Someone is so getting lucky this month.

Flashback Friday – Safety First or My Parents Were Crazy, You Decide

  • July 31, 2009

Yes I know I blew off Flashback Friday last week. It was partly because of my heinous garage sale and partly because I’m running out of pictures. I mean, I can show you snapshots of Stacy’s seventh grade slumber party where we’re all wearing our “7th graders do it better” t-shirts or pictures from 8th grade science camp but will those be entertaining to you? I’m not sure. And some of my friends promised to send me pictures for Flashback Friday yet I still haven’t received anything (losers!) so let’s blame them, K?

Anyway, I was looking through some old photo albums that my dad gave me and I found a few pictures I kind of liked:

For example, when the offspring were born, Dave and I placed them, rear facing, in the back seat in infant car seats that required an engineering degree to install. Yet my parents felt comfortable putting Trish and I in the front seat of my mom’s Corvair. Even though we are in some kind of car seat, I do not see any buckles or harnesses and would bet money that those seats aren’t attached to the car in any way.

“Um, hello? An object in motion tends to remain in motion so if you hit something mom, Trish and I are going flying.”

In this next picture, my dad is participating in the ever popular balancing a baby on one hand.

“George, put her down, you’re going to drop her!” “Oh calm down Patty, we’ve got a spare.”

“Help, this cat is gonna sit on my head, suffocate me, and then eat me!”

Oh look, someone thought it would be funny to stick buckets on the helpless twins.

This? This right here? Explains a lot. And makes me wonder if alcohol was involved.

My mom died when I was eighteen so I love looking at old pictures of her. My mom would totally love this blog. If she were alive I’d let her guest blog and I’d post pictures of us doing crazy things. I can only hope there’s Internet access in heaven and she has read my blog and is laughing her ass off. And if there’s no Internet access in heaven then I don’t want to go but if there’s no wine in hell then I can’t go there either so I’ll go to heaven after all but if there’s no Internet or wine in heaven then I want to be reincarnated immediately as a six foot tall Sports Illustrated supermodel and if that’s not possible then freeze my head in one of those cryogenic thingies but someone please put vodka in there with me because when you wake me up I’m going to need alcohol because I’ll be a head without a body and that’s kinda fucked up.

As always, thanks in advance.

I Think Yeti is Killing Animals in the ‘hood

  • July 30, 2009

I know, I know, I’ve been MIA, and a totally shitty blogger (sorry Jules!) but I’ve been spinning my wheels and getting absofuckinglutely nowhere super busy keeping the offspring from killing each other and I haven’t been able to find more than two consecutive minutes to sit on my ass in front of this computer and think up witty and clever anecdotes to publish on the Internet.

First of all, I spent days gathering up all the superfluous crap in our entire house so I could have a garage sale and then managed to lose money on it considering I paid $20 in advertising costs and only sold approximately $10 worth of our shit. Fail. I had hardly any customers which is why I will not have another garage sale until hell freezes over or all the Real Housewives remove their breast implants. And the only reason I decided to have a garage sale in the first place is because not all of our old furniture sold when I advertised it on craigslist and some of it was still taking up a bunch of room in the garage and I thought, “Hey, I’ll unload this furniture and a bunch of our other crap and then our garage will be completely empty and sparkly clean and Dave will think I’m a goddess because he loves that fucking garage and will spend 45 minutes right before company is coming sweeping the floor because he totally gives a shit about where we keep our cars and our garbage can.” But as of this posting our garage looks like the city dump and Dave’s car is still not being parked inside it.

You’re probably wondering what the hell any of this has to do with the Yeti, right? I’m getting to it, I promise.

And I know, I said I wasn’t going to blog about Yeti anymore. I said I was going to remove all the posts under this label but I haven’t. Because something happened last week that made me think being thrown in the slammer for writing about and then going all columbine on my neighbor might be totally worth it. So, yes, I’m going to continue writing whatever the hell I want about the Yeti but I won’t be posting pictures because that seems to be more of the illegal part.

Seriously? I am pissed. And so mature that when I passed Yeti in her car today I made a face at her (but did not crash my car into hers on purpose so yay me!).

Here’s what happened. The other day, my roving photojournalist in the ‘hood’s husband (they live on one side of The Yeti) told me they found a dead squinny in their yard (and for those of you who don’t know, a squinny is what we call a ground squirrel here in Des Moines. I have no idea why). Then, a few days later, Lauren stumbled upon a dead raccoon in the yard of the neighbors on the other side of The Yeti.

A while ago it came to my attention that The Yeti believes there is some kind of mole infestation in her yard (though no one else in the ‘hood, including us, has seen a mole). She set out huge traps that look kind of like mouse traps but bigger. While the traps are certainly disturbing enough, I also thought I remembered my roving photojournalist in the ‘hood mentioning that the Yeti was using some sort of poison to kill trespassers moles but she’s in Hawaii and doesn’t have Internet right now so I have to wait until she gets back to see if the poison hypothesis is true or not. But, I find it unsettling that animals are totally falling over dead so the poison thing is probably true because the Yeti is like the poster child for neighborhood sociopaths, psychopaths crazy people.

Anyway, back to the dead raccoon. My neighbor, whose yard the raccoon was busy rigor mortising in, was not home so I called Animal Control and the Public Works department for her. Unfortunately, they will only remove dead animals if they’re in the middle of the road or something. I was all “So what you’re telling me is you won’t come get it?” and they were all “No, not unless it’s in a public area” and I was all “You know this probably encourages people to just throw dead animals in their trash cans” and they were all like “Uh huh.” So, anyway, if something dies in your yard you are S.O.L. on disposal assistance. Just sayin’. I also wanted to call the regular police and the fashion police because right after Lauren discovered the raccoon I saw the Yeti lurking in her backyard and she was wearing a fugly pair of red pants and hello? That is just wrong.

Anyway, as soon as my roving photojournalist in the ‘hood returns from Hawaii I am going to ask her about the poison and if I can prove that the Yeti is a serial animal killer I will be making some phone calls. I come from a long line of wildlife preservationists, conservationists, fuck animal lovers! and I will not stand by and watch the crazy Yeti kill everything displaced by our urban sprawl.

And I am thisclose to doing something to the Yeti that might land me in the slammer and I’m going to need someone to bake me a cake with a file in it so I can bust myself out.

Someone? Anyone?

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!)

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