The Joys of Summer

You know what I hate? Tug of War. I'm not talking about the rope-over-mud-puddle kind. I'm talking about the game my husband and I play with the air conditioning thermostat. As if marriage wasn't difficult enough, this juvenile and passive-aggressive competition serves as an added annoyance and a reminder that men are from venus and women are perfect (I think that's how the saying goes).

I prefer cooler temperatures while my husband prefers it moderate -- err...I mean, blistering and hell-like. Throughout the day, we take turns nudging the thermostat dial. At the beginning of the day, we're within a few degrees of one another. But by the time the sun sets, we're so annoyed with each other that we're workin' on a 30-degree differential.

We do love each other. But our bodies are, well, different. He is lean, bald and sane. I, on the other hand, have a full head of heat-locking hair. And large amounts of estrogen pumping through my veins. And a brain that doesn't properly deliver seratonin to my neurons. And a body-fat composition that is the genetic equivalent to a Jimmy Dean sausage.

Have you ever cooked a Jimmy Dean sausage? Did you notice how long it took to cool down before you could eat it? I rest my case.

I'm generally a pretty low-maintenance wife. But summers in Phoenix turn me into swelter-bitch with bloated bratwurst fingers. Why does the heat make my fingers swell to Twinkie-size? Does anyone else suffer this problem? And about those panties... will they ever dry?

Ahhh, the joys of summer.

Welcome to my BBQ; Have a Seat

You know what I hate? Birds. And I'm afraid they've found out about my ill feelings.

Okay, so I don't actually hate the little egg-laying bastards, but I must say that they rank pretty low on my "pets adding value to my life" scale. My two birds, Cindy and Birdy Stockton (the married couple hanging in my living room), don't do much except drop downy feathers that float away when my robotic vaccuum comes by to suck them up, shit on my walls, and squawk a bunch of really annoying nonsense when I'm trying to take an important phonecall. They can't even say 'hello' or 'polly want a cracker' or anything, the dumb retards.

Anyway, I wasn't aware that I'd vocalized my feelings toward my little feathered foes prior to this. But apparently I must have. I mean, why else would I have been the target of a very, very, VERY ruthless drive-by explosion?

I found this in my backyard, just minutes before my sister and her family arrived for a cook-out at our house. I thought I'd go outside just to "tidy up" a bit when I came upon this desecrated adirondack chair. Clearly, this is not a one-bird job. I do believe that the entire North American fowl populace was involved in act of vengeance. And I am pretty sure that they all feasted on Chimichangas beforehand.

In addition to the diarrhea, I noted menstrual leakage, two mucous plugs and a half-eaten placenta (apparently, they were Christian Scientists). With only 5 minutes before my sister was to arrive, I panicked at the gravity of this clean-up job. I even went to the Queen of Clean's website and typed in "exploded bowels" but came up empty-handed on advice.

Against my better judgment (and perhaps some EPA guidelines), I ended up scouring the adirondack chair with a combination of paint thinner and muriatic acid, just in time to host my bar-b-que without making anyone vomit.

The next day, I truced with Birdy and Cindy Stockton by hanging a few paperclips in their cage and buying a new perch (for them to chew down). Idiots. Ooops. I mean, cute, smart and talented little sweetie pies.

Missing, but not forgotten

You know what I hate? When news stories make about as much sense as a senile grannie on crystal meth.

The other day, I saw a small blurb on a website about a girl who'd been abducted at age 2 in Tempe, only to be found 10 years later, alive and well. This interested me! I wanted to find out how this poor thing fared after 10 years of abduction. Would she be a street walker? One of the 15 wives of a church deacon in Colorado City? A strange hari-chrishna type character in a long white robe? I wanted to know more!

So, I googled her name to find the actual news article. Here's how it began:


Go ahead. Re-read that first sentence because I know it ain't makin' sense to you right now. That's right. Read it. Yep, you read it right: "Eight years ago a sweet toddler turned 11."

Now that's some good FREAKIN' journalism there!

Lookit -- I got my degree in journalism and even wrote for a newspaper for a few years and let me tell you something: This article SUCKS! Do they re-read this stuff? Is anyone in the office still sober? Is the editor porking the court reporter in the broom closet? What the hell has happened here? How did this article get through?

I might add that this was on a reputable website. Meanwhile, I can't get a content editor job to save my life and am finding it increasingly difficult to live off of $214 dollars per week (courtesy of our lovely gov't -- thanks guys!) Oh well, it could be worse: at least I don't have an 11-year-old toddler to feed!

That Ain't No Bull

You know what I hate? Well-hung stuffies. "Stuffies" is how we refer to stuffed animals in my family. "Well-hung" is how we refer to, um... well, you know. Geez. Don't make me blush by having to say it out loud.

My kids inherited an endowed stuffed bull from their grandpa, who had gotten it for free when he purchased a car from Earnhardt Dodge. Here he is. Pretty cute, right? Until you spread his stiff little stuffy legs...

...and discover this:

It took the kids about a week to figure out that something was protruding from "down there." I told them it was a handle. They've been carrying the bull around by his sack ever since.

I'm a little perturbed over the anatomically-correct stuffed animal! I mean, come on. Barbie, Bratz, Polly Pocket -- there are no nips, no hoo-has, not even a butt-crack to be seen on these ladies. They're smooth and private-less. And that's how it ought to be. I don't want to be having 'the talk' when my kids are 5 and 7. I need a few more years...

Beasty Princesses

You know what I hate? Insufficient product testing on the part of large companies who make the shit I buy for my kids. Insufficient product testing, otherwise known as "being a cheapskate," has led to many a tragedy. Accidental drownings, strangulations, suffocation, and nightmarishly ugly princesses.

My daughters love princesses. They're so light. So airy. So perfect in every way. Smooth skin. Good tonality. Ne'er a blemish to be seen.

Like this:

In case you didn't know, that's Snow White. She's yet to be painted, but looking pretty good, in a Faber Castell-ish, monochromatic kinda way. This is how she's shown on the box of the craft kit. This is what led me to purchase the craft kit. How hard could it be, I thought to myself as I made my way to the checkout line. You mix some powder and water in a little cup, then turn it over and it oozes into the Princess mold of your choice and you wait 10 minutes, then VOILA! You have a beautiful mold of a princess, ready to be painted!

Again, how hard could it be?

Dammit! I wanted a smooth and beautiful princess, not a pourous, crumbly Venus-de-Milo knock-off! What's pathetic is that this is my best of three! The other two lost their heads completely. This poor thing cracked at the waist, but I put her body back on before she dried completely. She'll never walk again, but at least she's still standing.

Let's take a closer look at the princess on the box, compared with my princess (shown in front of the box):

Is it just me, or does she remind you of the sad, beast-like girl waiting to be asked to dance at the 7th grade formal? I remember those girls. They are a pitiful reminder of the superficiality of our society. AND I CERTAINLY DON'T WANT THOSE FEELINGS COMMEMORATED VIA A BEASTY PLAY-DOUGHESQUE PRINCESS!

Needless to say, I ended up throwing the entire kit away. It's 15 bucks down the drain, not to mention the co-pay for the many psychiatrist visits I'll have to take the kids to. It's not easy seeing your heroine, Belle, develop elephantitis before your very own eyes.

Shame on Disney for putting out this product without ample testing. Clearly, this product was never tested. At least, not successfully. Granted, nobody was injured, maimed or killed as a result, but I can tell you that I'll never again capture that "magic feeling" when watching Beauty and the Beast.

Handicapped Harleys

You know what I hate? Cheaters. By this, I am referring to people who like to milk America's generous accomodations for persons with disabilities. Now, if you actually have a disability (I'm talking about a missing limb here not just some mild "tennis elbow"), then my condolences. You've earned your parking spot. But some 'special treatment' is just downright ridiculous. Like this:

It's a handicapped plate on a motorcycle! (This particular one was rigged up in photoshop cause I couldn't find a real picture, but TRUST ME ON THIS ONE PEOPLE. I've seen it with my own eyes -- three times in the past couple months!!!).

Now, could somebody please explain this to me? Because I don't understand. If you can't walk, then how the hell can you ride a Harley? And another thing: you already get to park in those little tiny spaces at the front of every lot, so why try to garner the extra perks? It's like you're double-dipping into the "privileges pot."

I think I'm going to bring a handicapped placard to the gym and hang it on my treadmill. My shin splints are really getting out of control.

Magical Washing Machine

You know what I hate? My magical powers. I actually didn't know that I was a sooth-saying wizard until yesterday. I performed the master of all magic tricks: I placed 20-or-so items into my washing machine, sprinkled in some Tide and a little abra-cadabra, and within a half hour, this super-sized load had morphed into a single item! Eat your heart out, David Copperfield!

Scroll down to see the results of this reality-defying act of hocus-pocus...

Okay, so it's not magic after all, but rather a very, very over-zealous washing machine. What the hell? It's going to take me a month to unravel this mess. I could solve the rubik's cube faster than I could untangle this "puzzle."

That's my oldest daughter holding up the bewitching concoction of expoded pillow, various running shoes, backpacks and some other items that I'll find "in the core" as the month progresses.

Here's a tighter shot of the laundry cyclone after I liberated a single Adidas. He'll be reunited with his right-sided brother sometime in July, according to my calculations.

I'm not sure if these pictures do this thing justice. Here's an even closer shot into the eye of the storm.

God only knows what's in there. The good news is that if Anarchy ever breaks out, I have a washing machine that can create for me the perfect A-bomb!

Mealtime at Grandma's

You know what I hate? Mealtime at Grandma's. Now, let's get something straight: I really love my grandparents. But come on. They can't cook worth a shit. It's one thing for me to suffer through it for years, but now my kids are involved. And it hasn't been pretty.

Have you ever noticed that grandparents seem to have stuff in their fridges and pantries that we younger folk have never even seen on the store shelves? Like, chocolate fudge soda and pickled green tomatoes and weird lettuce that they call "collards". What the hell is wrong with them? Why can't they eat like a normal American?

The other day, they invited my family over for lunch. I panicked, because not only is their food strange, but my kids are incredibly picky eaters. And I've completely allowed them to stay that way. If it ain't made with flour or cheese, my kids pretty much won't touch it. I probably needn't continue, but I will...

The menu consisted of: frozen lasagna (Stouffers made it; difficult to screw it up but it did have lots of veggies, which are the kids' enemy), green beans (did I mention boiled in butter?), and green salad (when I say 'green,' I mean 'white' as it was predominantly made of onions). My poor children. They're just sitting there looking at it wide-eyed, the same as they would be if a dead rat was sitting on their plate.

I tried whispering in their ear that it was okay to "leave some" (some = all), but Grandmas, even though they're usually deaf as a post, are always tuned in when someone is rejecting their vittles. Grandma's sudden acute awareness leads to the mother of all avalance questions.

"What's the problem?" she says, in a very accusatory tone. At this point I have to divulge that my kids are indeed food sissies, that I am the world's shittiest mother for making them that way, and that I in fact do know that there are people all over the world starving who would love to sink their teeth into a nice onion salad!

After all the pain and suffering, there is usually a meal-topping reprieve in which Grandma usually whips out some home-made dessert of incredibly high caliber. Texas Sheet Cake, a Strawberry Cake made from real strawberries, homemade pumpkin pie. But alas, this was not our lucky day. Dessert was a blueberry jello spread into a cake pan with walnuts mixed in it and some yellowing cream cheese on top. Yum!

Needless to say, we stopped for some Happy Meals on the way home.