In preparation for this month's GNO (Girls Night Out) which is an 80's themed shindig, I have spend this past week coming to grips with the fact that I have been dressing in 80's attire since, well ... the 80's. Before you starting high fiving each other thinking old Sally girl is totally rad and sending me mad props for my coolness, let me preface this blog by mentioning that they are not the "cool" 80's clothes. Ha Ha, Nope. More like a Wham/Golden Girls clothing line. The discovery started off with coolots and have zigzagged their way up to the shirts, makeup and hair; back down again to the shoes. Everything I need for tonight can be found in my supposedly present day closet.
Unfortunately finding a time capsule in my closet is not the worst of my problems, apparently I am so crazy about my dated clothing line that I gravitate back to it in the local Thrift Store and buy the damn things all over again! What kind of sicko 80's diva am I? I am totally not kidding. For the past 2 days I have scoured the local thrift and dollar stores; purchasing a few items for my party tonight and have been super excited about my finds. Last night while showing off my bounty of 80's coolness to my husband, he calmly makes an observation that some of the items look vaguely familiar. Familiar like: The ones you just took to Goodwill last month during your monthly I hate all my clothes meltdown. I kid you not. It's bad enough I had the freaking clothes still hanging in my closet 20 years past their prime and still being worn BUT I purchased them for the SECOND time and brought them back into my home to put on my "not 1980's" body!!! Who freaking does that? Stunned, I began putting away the 80's makeup I had also just purchased for the party only to find it's mate already chilling out in my makeup bag. Dear Sweet Baby Jesus. Unless you are a Drag Queen or 5 years old, there really isn't a legitimate excuse for owning frosted pink lipstick after 1982. Come to find out, that is except if you are me.
Nevertheless, I am super excited about partying it up Madonna style tonight with my gal pals. Some of us have been friends for 5, 10, 15+ years and others have been since junior high, back in their true 80's heyday. I'll be showing up in all my 80's diva glory with a six pack of Purple Passion and the coolest Ray Baners the Dollar Store has to offer. Maybe I am destined to only be attracted to the tackiest grandma style of only one decade which happens to be the 1980's, and at this point I'm leaning very strongly on that theory. But it can always be worse. I could be a nudist with frosted pink lipstick.
Now how would you explain that to the neighbors?
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Just Call Me Bruce Lee
It's safe to say that I am not a violent person and I truly enjoy people and their company but in the past few weeks my actions have convinced me that not only do I have a brain tumor but I am also 92.6% sure I was a Bruce Lee Martial Arts Master in a Pre-Sally life, life. The examples are numerous with the most damning evidence being my overwhelming urge to karate chop any poor creature that does not move at my preferred speed, talks too much in a checkout lane or breathes too much. My patience is hanging by a noodle people.
I am a terrible person and I know this but it cannot be helped. Just last week this sweet little old creepy old little old fella was trying to be funny by telling bubble gum wrapper jokes while we were standing in the 5 hour checkout lane at Walmart. Now let me preface this by saying I purposely do without a cart on most visits so I will not buy unnecessary crap; this morning was no exception. While I'm standing there in the "Express Line" with an armload of private lady things, Mr. Last Comic Standing was un-charming our lane full of pissed off people with jokes a kindergartner wouldn't laugh at. I know this sounds awful but after 7 agonizing minutes of "Knock Knock" and "What Do You Get When ..." I found myself rounding back my shoulders, rolling by neck around and hopping up and down like Daniel-Son getting limber to preform a Karate Kid Crane Kick.
It all comes back to Bruce Lee. A smart mouth response from one of the kids could very easily result in a swift-kick to the legs and I have no problem breaking out some "Enter The Dragon" moves when my family chooses to not give my iconic meltdowns their due respect. Chop Chop people! I don't know where it comes from but I try hard to be pleasant but after a few minutes of a no thank you or ha ha laugh, I really need folks to back off. Not long ago I had to threaten a lady who was holding up the Diary Queen line with a Kung Pao Chicken to the neck look if she did not hurry up and place her order. For the love of Mr. Miyagi! It's freaking ice cream!
I know my kids think I am mental but this insane Hong Kong Fooey behavior and addiction to rice is only another symptom of my tumor of which I have no control. People should fear me but alas they do not. It must be my curly hair and angelic face. How could they possibly know that under my cool exterior a Karate Master lies in wait?
I am a terrible person and I know this but it cannot be helped. Just last week this sweet little old creepy old little old fella was trying to be funny by telling bubble gum wrapper jokes while we were standing in the 5 hour checkout lane at Walmart. Now let me preface this by saying I purposely do without a cart on most visits so I will not buy unnecessary crap; this morning was no exception. While I'm standing there in the "Express Line" with an armload of private lady things, Mr. Last Comic Standing was un-charming our lane full of pissed off people with jokes a kindergartner wouldn't laugh at. I know this sounds awful but after 7 agonizing minutes of "Knock Knock" and "What Do You Get When ..." I found myself rounding back my shoulders, rolling by neck around and hopping up and down like Daniel-Son getting limber to preform a Karate Kid Crane Kick.
It all comes back to Bruce Lee. A smart mouth response from one of the kids could very easily result in a swift-kick to the legs and I have no problem breaking out some "Enter The Dragon" moves when my family chooses to not give my iconic meltdowns their due respect. Chop Chop people! I don't know where it comes from but I try hard to be pleasant but after a few minutes of a no thank you or ha ha laugh, I really need folks to back off. Not long ago I had to threaten a lady who was holding up the Diary Queen line with a Kung Pao Chicken to the neck look if she did not hurry up and place her order. For the love of Mr. Miyagi! It's freaking ice cream!
I know my kids think I am mental but this insane Hong Kong Fooey behavior and addiction to rice is only another symptom of my tumor of which I have no control. People should fear me but alas they do not. It must be my curly hair and angelic face. How could they possibly know that under my cool exterior a Karate Master lies in wait?
Friday, March 30, 2012
It Must Be A Toomaah
After many restless nights I finally said goodbye to some old friends this morning. What is the poem .. "If you haven't been able to fit your lard butt into something for 2 decades it's probably time to take it out of your closet, and even if you could why are you freaking wearing 20+ year old clothes you loser?" Any-Who, there I stood in front of my closet removing much loved articles of clothing that let's face it; will never be worn by this girl again. Fact. All snotty and bleary eyed feeling sorry for myself that my favorite jeans will never grace my old ass again, there I stood thinking to myself this probably wasn't the smartest way to begin my Friday but why wait another torturous year by taking up valuable closet space? So there I stood stuffing my dreams of sizes long past into a bag. On a high note I was finally able to use the ginormous Thirty-One bag I just HAD to buy that could serve no useful purpose other than to dispose of dead husbands, hold food for Shamu or help dispose of my past. score
About 10 good minutes into the deforestation I stumbled upon the the most horrific scene that I am still shaking from with the shock of it all. Hanging quietly in the backedy back back there they were. I don't even think it registered what I was seeing until I heard myself gasp .. "Holy Mary Tyler Moore! There's a pair of Coolots in here!" At that split second all I could muster was the realization that I probably have a brain tumor. I am being totally serious. Let me be the first to admit that ol' Sally is far from being a fashion plate by any stretch of the imagination but a pair of COOLOTS!! It's possible I may have blacked out for a moment. With the speed of a Leopard Cheetah I yanked the evidence from the hanger and thew them into a bag and then the back of my truck to dispose of later today. The plan is to throw them deep into the woods on some deserted back road with the hope if found, someone will just assume a homeless alien/person accidentally left them behind. I mean why would anyone past the year 1970 purposely buy a pair? I hope my tire tracks cannot be traced.
On the way to my office I could not stop thinking about this morning's bombshell and have been self-diagnosing for a brain tumor ever since. Coolots in a 37 year old's closet is a grave matter indeed and not one to be taken lightly. Something is terribly terribly wrong with me. All this time whenever I heard about some mother just up and leaving her family, vanishing for years until she is discovered by the roadside in Siler City peddling macrame and shark tooth necklaces; I would say to myself while shaking my head ... Kids. It's got to be her kids. They they finally driven her bonkers. After years of keep your hands to yourself and yes you have to brush your teeth ... dirtball, the poor lady flipped her wig and while driving home just went right past her house and just kept on going. Now I'm convinced she had a brain tumor and just didn't know it. Poor girl. All those years knitting and beading and she's toast. shame
Now that all arrows point to my toomaah (in my best Schwarzenegger voice) and my days are numbered I must admit that I'm concerned that my husband and so-called friends must be afflicted with brain tumors as well. There is just no other explanation for people that supposedly love me and have a concern for my well being, would allow me to leave the house in coolots much less purchase them. Could this be a tumor epidemic or a decade old joke on me? Think about the howls of laughter at my expense as they watch me running across the field at half my normal pace because of the wind drag from the coolot sails. Ok, more likely walking.
Since my demise is just around the corner only 2 questions remain. #1) Should I cancel my teeth cleaning appointment in mid April? #2) On the slim chance there isn't a tumor after all, is it possible for someone to CSI my fingerprints from the coolots and it lead them back to me?
Siler City here I come.
About 10 good minutes into the deforestation I stumbled upon the the most horrific scene that I am still shaking from with the shock of it all. Hanging quietly in the backedy back back there they were. I don't even think it registered what I was seeing until I heard myself gasp .. "Holy Mary Tyler Moore! There's a pair of Coolots in here!" At that split second all I could muster was the realization that I probably have a brain tumor. I am being totally serious. Let me be the first to admit that ol' Sally is far from being a fashion plate by any stretch of the imagination but a pair of COOLOTS!! It's possible I may have blacked out for a moment. With the speed of a Leopard Cheetah I yanked the evidence from the hanger and thew them into a bag and then the back of my truck to dispose of later today. The plan is to throw them deep into the woods on some deserted back road with the hope if found, someone will just assume a homeless alien/person accidentally left them behind. I mean why would anyone past the year 1970 purposely buy a pair? I hope my tire tracks cannot be traced.
On the way to my office I could not stop thinking about this morning's bombshell and have been self-diagnosing for a brain tumor ever since. Coolots in a 37 year old's closet is a grave matter indeed and not one to be taken lightly. Something is terribly terribly wrong with me. All this time whenever I heard about some mother just up and leaving her family, vanishing for years until she is discovered by the roadside in Siler City peddling macrame and shark tooth necklaces; I would say to myself while shaking my head ... Kids. It's got to be her kids. They they finally driven her bonkers. After years of keep your hands to yourself and yes you have to brush your teeth ... dirtball, the poor lady flipped her wig and while driving home just went right past her house and just kept on going. Now I'm convinced she had a brain tumor and just didn't know it. Poor girl. All those years knitting and beading and she's toast. shame
Now that all arrows point to my toomaah (in my best Schwarzenegger voice) and my days are numbered I must admit that I'm concerned that my husband and so-called friends must be afflicted with brain tumors as well. There is just no other explanation for people that supposedly love me and have a concern for my well being, would allow me to leave the house in coolots much less purchase them. Could this be a tumor epidemic or a decade old joke on me? Think about the howls of laughter at my expense as they watch me running across the field at half my normal pace because of the wind drag from the coolot sails. Ok, more likely walking.
Since my demise is just around the corner only 2 questions remain. #1) Should I cancel my teeth cleaning appointment in mid April? #2) On the slim chance there isn't a tumor after all, is it possible for someone to CSI my fingerprints from the coolots and it lead them back to me?
Siler City here I come.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
For The Love of Richard Simmons, Just Tell Me Already
For the past few weeks I have been in a pretty mediocre vibe, knowing that I really need to make some changes in my life but not quite sure where or when to start this transformation. Typically during times like these I will just ask the man upstairs, Richard Simmons my pseudo life coach or any angel hanging around bored stiff to please send me a sign, just a little nudge in the right direction or something to show me things are going to be alrighty. Usually my plead for assistance calms me and a few instances here and there settles my nerves and is helpful, but alas this time not so much.
Why isn't there a handbook on what are "true signs" anyway? What determines if something is a sign, coincidence, voodoo curse or just a normal occurrence that would have happened regardless? I am nutso already so my recent vague happenings just make me even more bonkers than before I asked for help in the first place. I know God's schedule is mad busy but can he not just do a chick a favor and stop by the hizzy? fast fast - short and sweet. Pop by all casual in his Jesus sandals and robe, give it to me straight and then move along to the next kooky broad.
Here are some examples:
- Went to the beach and it was covered with black Jingle Shells, Lady Slippers and unbroken Angel Wings. This never happens.
- Accidentally Goodwilled my comfortable (fatty-boom-ba-laddy) pants and stuck myself the with the 2 sizes too small version that I was forced to wear (hideous) for my lunch date with my mother and sister back home and I didn't see anyone I knew. Unheard of luck.
- A childhood friend I had no contact with in over a decade found me through fb a week after my mother and I were reminiscing about her family as we drove down our old street. ESP awesomeness
- Worried that the kid's games will take place at the same time this weekend on opposite sides of town while my husband works and I'm alone until the long awaited schedule shows they are 7 hours apart. Whew.
- Started the week with a drawer full of clean panties and my son replaced the toilet paper and didn't leave me stranded. Magic.
- Parents bought a slew of smoke alarms for our 500 sq. ft. birdhouse to add to the 4 we already have installed. Should we be practicing stop, drop and roll? Just tell me!
- Had a 3 day stomach virus so I was amazingly able to button the only clean work slacks that I own. Straight up Voodoo Luck.
- On this mornings drive I got behind a VW Golf, my first car who's wheel fell off in front of the entire town and a school bus with the same number of the one I crashed into at the end of my street during high school. What are the odds?
There isn't enough margarita mix available for me to try and decipher all these going-ons. For goodness sakes Richard Simmons! Are things on the upswing or are you buttering me up for a colossal heaping of whoop-ass life lessons? Send me a fifth of Kettle One and let's talk about it.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
All Funked Up
I'm in a terrible funk and have no plans of getting myself out of it any time soon. Truth be told I am pretty wary of people who are habitually in a good mood, always wanting to spread around some cheer and happy thoughts. Keep your it could always be worse unsolicited crazy-talk and leave me in my cloud of funkness and Swiss Cakes you wackadoo. Even this morning I was perfectly happy in my mood of doom and gloom with lips in full sneer, brow wrinkled, shoulders all hunched over and pissed off at the world when this one hundred thousand million year old man opened the door for me at the gas station. He even had the nerve to smile and tell me to have a nice day! "Shove it Gramps" was only a breath away but I hadn't the nerve ... this time.
What's so great about being in a good mood anyway? You can't get away with half the crap you can during an epic "funk phase". For instance during my day off last week after I completed the drudgery of my day off duties with running errands, laundry, vacuuming, dusting, yada yada yada, I sat down on the couch and mashed ass for 3 good hours until the kids got home from school. Normally I would not allow myself to sit and stew for that amount of time without feeling terribly guilty for days afterwards but during my time of blahness it's totally encouraged. Eating an entire box of Wheat Thins in a single sitting on a happy mood day would be unacceptable but on a funk day would be forgiven. Standing in front of your closet in a full-throttle ugly tizzy while yelling at your husband that you have nothing to wear and blaming him for breathing while he stands there shell-shocked ... Good Mood Day = Graceless. Funk Day = Tolerable. Mad at the world, face in a perma-scowl, hating your job and everyone else that gets in your way is perfectly fitting during a funk phase yet severely frowned upon on a normal basis.
Sometimes I just don't want to look on the bright side of life. Instead I prefer crying and moping, ho-hum myself around town and sulk with a little rain storm cloud lingering above my head. Who wants to be upbeat and perky when you can be glum and sullen?
Besides, frown lines are sexy.
What's so great about being in a good mood anyway? You can't get away with half the crap you can during an epic "funk phase". For instance during my day off last week after I completed the drudgery of my day off duties with running errands, laundry, vacuuming, dusting, yada yada yada, I sat down on the couch and mashed ass for 3 good hours until the kids got home from school. Normally I would not allow myself to sit and stew for that amount of time without feeling terribly guilty for days afterwards but during my time of blahness it's totally encouraged. Eating an entire box of Wheat Thins in a single sitting on a happy mood day would be unacceptable but on a funk day would be forgiven. Standing in front of your closet in a full-throttle ugly tizzy while yelling at your husband that you have nothing to wear and blaming him for breathing while he stands there shell-shocked ... Good Mood Day = Graceless. Funk Day = Tolerable. Mad at the world, face in a perma-scowl, hating your job and everyone else that gets in your way is perfectly fitting during a funk phase yet severely frowned upon on a normal basis.
Sometimes I just don't want to look on the bright side of life. Instead I prefer crying and moping, ho-hum myself around town and sulk with a little rain storm cloud lingering above my head. Who wants to be upbeat and perky when you can be glum and sullen?
Besides, frown lines are sexy.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Life Is A Beach: Dear Lord, Give me patience or give me vodka ...
Life Is A Beach: Dear Lord, Give me patience or give me vodka ...: On weekday mornings my husband leaves the house for work a full 45 minutes before myself and the kids do for school . If I had not driven h...
Dear Lord, Give me patience or give me vodka ...
On weekday mornings my husband leaves the house for work a full 45 minutes before myself and the kids do for school. If I had not driven him to said job in the past I would seriously question his need to leave me home alone with our little monsters on a school day morning for an extended period of time, alone. Did I say alone? A-flippin-lone with Hollywood and Miss Yes you are my mother but that doesn't mean I am going to do anything you say.
Here was my morning, I'm sure some of you can relate.
Scene: Breakfast Table with Annie who will only answer to Sarah and Drama King Carl
Me - Okay kids, let's eat some breakfast so we can finish getting ready for school! (My best Mom smile possible at 6:20 am)
Carl - I don't feel so good. (Sad face) My stomach hurts, I need to use the restroom but that will make us late for school. (whines)
Me - Carl don't worry about that just go ahead and take your time, we won't be late and everything will be just fine. (This is code for "Hurry up and make it snappy")
30 Minutes Later ......
Me - Carl good grief you're still in the restroom! Come on son, we're going to be late!
Carl - (Hysterical) Mom!! Well that's just perfect, I told you we would be late but you always say "Don't worry about being late Carl (snicker) just go to the restroom and everything will be just fine". Well now we are late, wow. Thanks a lot Mom. Wow (all the smartass comments end with "wow")
I didn't know it was possible for my kid to have a complete and utter epic meltdown on the toilet but apparently it is. Jesus
On the other side of the Funhouse is Annie who now wants to be called Sarah which is actually her given name and what I wanted us to use instead of a nickname from the get-go. But, while pregnant Carl began calling her Annie and it just stuck which makes it virtually impossible to revert to calling her Sarah Anne or just Sarah. For this infraction Annie - Sarah - Moonbeam - whatever claims she will NEVER EVER forgive Carl and screams daily, "Thanks a lot Carl! You've ruined my life!" Personally I think that's a little harsh but I'm too depleted to take on that cause and could really care less what she calls herself. Today it's Sarah and tomorrow it will be Sun, next week she'll want us to call her Cotton.
The final 10 minutes in the house consist of me quickly applying makeup and deodorant simultaneously while yelling at Carl to stop yelling at Annie, who is yelling at Carl to mind his own business while she stuffs her mismatched socked feet into a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that are 3 sizes too small and have been given away 10 times at least but keep reappearing on her feet. Rushing, whining and sweating, out the door and into the truck we go when I remember that I had actually set the clocks 10 minutes ahead last week during a similar apocalyptic morning as a cushion just for disasters like this. Glancing over at Annie who's hair looks like a cow licked her from forehead to collar and Carl who is giving me an Oscar worthy scowl I start seriously considering changing our breakfast meals.
Jello Shots anyone?
Here was my morning, I'm sure some of you can relate.
Scene: Breakfast Table with Annie who will only answer to Sarah and Drama King Carl
Me - Okay kids, let's eat some breakfast so we can finish getting ready for school! (My best Mom smile possible at 6:20 am)
Carl - I don't feel so good. (Sad face) My stomach hurts, I need to use the restroom but that will make us late for school. (whines)
Me - Carl don't worry about that just go ahead and take your time, we won't be late and everything will be just fine. (This is code for "Hurry up and make it snappy")
30 Minutes Later ......
Me - Carl good grief you're still in the restroom! Come on son, we're going to be late!
Carl - (Hysterical) Mom!! Well that's just perfect, I told you we would be late but you always say "Don't worry about being late Carl (snicker) just go to the restroom and everything will be just fine". Well now we are late, wow. Thanks a lot Mom. Wow (all the smartass comments end with "wow")
I didn't know it was possible for my kid to have a complete and utter epic meltdown on the toilet but apparently it is. Jesus
On the other side of the Funhouse is Annie who now wants to be called Sarah which is actually her given name and what I wanted us to use instead of a nickname from the get-go. But, while pregnant Carl began calling her Annie and it just stuck which makes it virtually impossible to revert to calling her Sarah Anne or just Sarah. For this infraction Annie - Sarah - Moonbeam - whatever claims she will NEVER EVER forgive Carl and screams daily, "Thanks a lot Carl! You've ruined my life!" Personally I think that's a little harsh but I'm too depleted to take on that cause and could really care less what she calls herself. Today it's Sarah and tomorrow it will be Sun, next week she'll want us to call her Cotton.
The final 10 minutes in the house consist of me quickly applying makeup and deodorant simultaneously while yelling at Carl to stop yelling at Annie, who is yelling at Carl to mind his own business while she stuffs her mismatched socked feet into a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that are 3 sizes too small and have been given away 10 times at least but keep reappearing on her feet. Rushing, whining and sweating, out the door and into the truck we go when I remember that I had actually set the clocks 10 minutes ahead last week during a similar apocalyptic morning as a cushion just for disasters like this. Glancing over at Annie who's hair looks like a cow licked her from forehead to collar and Carl who is giving me an Oscar worthy scowl I start seriously considering changing our breakfast meals.
Jello Shots anyone?
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