Monday, November 26, 2012
The Post Office, AKA The Tenth Circle of Hell
As a mother, there are many places I can no longer go on a regular basis: the bar, the strip club (because, you know, I went there all the time before kids), the movies and the post office. Something about this federal building of doom causes my normally cute children to become screaming, whining, tantruming terrors. As soon as we walk in, they bolt and start scaling the wall of locked post office boxes, ripping displays of priority mailers apart, and playing child versions of Japanese obstacle course game shows with people's legs and packages. Now, I have good kids. They're polite and loving and generally don't make childless people want to rip out their reproductive systems. But the second we walk into a damn post office they become these completely different people whose only goal is to make people look at me like I should be on Toddlers & Tiaras feeding my kids Mountain Dew and Pixie Stix smoothies. Is it the smell of mail and stamp glue? The disgruntled employees? The irresistible boxes with their endless playtime possibilities? Whatever the case, I now have the perfect idea for a career once my kids are grown- mobile post office. I'll do things the mail carrier won't, like sell stamps, weigh and accept packages and come straight to your door instead of sitting in the car honking like an asshole until you come out.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Smile For The Camera
My husband never smiles for pictures. Most people see a camera coming at them and immediately put on their biggest, cheesiest smile. Not my husband. He immediately puts on his "I'm going to be completely emotionless" face. I've noticed that many men do this and I'm wondering if it has some macho reasoning behind it. Show no emotion, show no weakness. Or something. I just don't see the weakness in enjoying yourself. For example, here's my husband at the museum with our baby:
This picture should say, "I'm at the museum with my family and having a great time!" Instead it says "I'd rather be pretty much anywhere than this." Which may or may not have been the actual case.
Another example, this time a little more exciting. My husband had the opportunity to spend a month in Hawaii for a training exercise and got to enjoy the beach, Luaus and clubbing every night (while I stayed home with two kids, grossly pregnant in Alaska thankyouverymuch. But that's a different blog post I'll never get to because it's not funny at all). Here's the proof:
Here's me on our last date. We don't get dates very often. Or ever. So it's a big deal. This is my reaction to being sans kids for the night. I'm pretty friggin' excited. And now here's my husband:
He's equally excited, and yet very different pictures. Our kids are going to grow up and ask why Daddy was never happy. Here's him at Disneyland, the happiest fucking place on Earth:
This picture should say, "I'm at the museum with my family and having a great time!" Instead it says "I'd rather be pretty much anywhere than this." Which may or may not have been the actual case.
Another example, this time a little more exciting. My husband had the opportunity to spend a month in Hawaii for a training exercise and got to enjoy the beach, Luaus and clubbing every night (while I stayed home with two kids, grossly pregnant in Alaska thankyouverymuch. But that's a different blog post I'll never get to because it's not funny at all). Here's the proof:
This picture should say, "Holy shit! I'm on the beach in Hawaii, eat your fucking hearts out, losers!" Instead it says "Hurry up and take the picture so we can go home."
And now, the latest. My awesome cousin who's kind of a big deal recently came to Kansas for a NASCAR race and not only got the entire family tickets, but also got us garage and pit road passes. My husband is a big NASCAR fan but has never been to a race... until this day:
Instead of saying, "OMFG I'm standing next to Junior's car!" it says "Mehhhh.... here's a car." In reality he was jumping up and down and squealing like a little girl (for those of you that have the honor of knowing my husband, you'll know I'm exaggerating slightly) but as soon as I turned the camera on him, bam. No emotion.
Perhaps you don't really see the big deal and need a little comparison of equal enthusiam portrayed two very different ways.
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| "I'M SO FUCKING HAPPY RIGHT NOW!!!" |
Here's me on our last date. We don't get dates very often. Or ever. So it's a big deal. This is my reaction to being sans kids for the night. I'm pretty friggin' excited. And now here's my husband:
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| "I'M SO FUCKING HAPPY RIGHT NOW!!!" |
He's equally excited, and yet very different pictures. Our kids are going to grow up and ask why Daddy was never happy. Here's him at Disneyland, the happiest fucking place on Earth:
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| "I just killed a big-ass mouse, now where's the beers?" |
Okay, so that's a badly photoshopped picture of him with a fake horseshoe mustache. But seriously, that's probably what it would look like if we actually went there. He looks like he's about to open fire on a crowd.
I really don't get it. My husband actually has quite the charming smile. Unfortunately none of you get to see it because he's a douche who wants to be remembered as a surly asshole. Which is kind of true, but nonetheless I'd like for people to actually think he has a good time when we're out making memories and memorializing them photographically for all time. You may hate every part of your existance, but if you smile for pictures people will look back and think "wow, the dude really enjoyed life!" and wow, look at the joke you just played on them! You're so clever. And all you had to do was smile.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
How I Went to Venice But Didn't
A blogger I frequently read (MamaDweeb if you're interested) recently posted a picture of herself in Venice on her honeymoon a few years back. It brough back some memories I had long supressed of my own trip to Venezia.
The story begins Fourth of July weekend, 2006. We were living in Germany at the time and frequently made last minute trips around the country. This time, however, we decided to be adventurous and go to Italy. We knew we could make it down there in just a few hours (Austria is, like, way small) so we figured we'd have more than enough time to drive down, see Venice and hopefully get a place to stay at the military base in Vicenza that night.
So we pack up the Explorer (a mega-beast of a car in Europe, we were practically screaming "WE'RE AMERICANS!!") and our 2.5 month old baby girl and start driving. Southern Germany is freaking beautiful, as is Austria, although I could do without their tiny two-lane roads up and down mountains in the rain. Anyway, we make it to Italy late in the morning and drive straight to Vicenza to get gas.
This is where the story gets interesting. You see, in Germany, the military bases have gas stations on them with cheaper-than-what-the-Germans-are-paying gas. In Italy, they give you coupons to use at Italian gas stations. Not only that, but apparently they are super stingy with their coupons. You only get so many- after that, you're screwed paying $10 a gallon like every other paisan. Also, if you aren't stationed AT Vicenza and you aren't on official leave, you can't even GET the coupons. This is where prior planning may have come in handy. Luckily we found someone who took pity on us and gave us a few gas coupons. Next we went to the hotel and guess what?! No available rooms. Again, planning may have helped.
At this point we're getting pretty low on gas, so it's off to find an Italian gas station. After driving around for quite some time (and let me tell you- Vicenza? Not so nice. Lock your doors), we finally find a gas station. There are two options- "gasolio" and "senza piombo."
I tell my husband "why don't you ask someone to translate?" and he says in typical male fashion, "ehhh...." and starts pumping gas.
Suddenly I hear some loud Italian and look up to see a sweaty fat man waving his arms and my husband yelling "WHAT??" Apparently "gasolio" is DIESEL. So before we can go anywhere, we have to have the diesel drained out of the truck. We can't even start it. The gas station owner calls a tow company and we specifically ask for them to bring a truck that will seat us all. "Okay, okay!" he answers. We push the truck over to the side and wait. Oh yeah, and did I mention it was 2000 degrees that day? Italy gets pretty hot. It's kind of like Mordor only with pizza and the orcs are actually really, really tan farmers.
About twenty minutes later a tow truck pulls up and the guy starts motioning for me and the baby to get in. It's the size of a pickup truck. There's no way three adults would've fit, let alone three adults and a properly restrained baby seat. So I tell him that I'll wait at the gas station, thinking it'll take 10 minutes to drain the tank. Luckily, an American family saw our plight and offered me and the baby a ride to the mechanic. And yes, I took it. I got into a car, with my baby, with people I've never met. It's amazing how being in a foreign country will give you a ridiculous sense of faith and trust in your fellow countrymen. Anyway, they didn't kill us, so we're all good. In fact, they gave me their gas coupons for when we had to refill the tank with unleaded. Nice people.
So we get to the mechanic and they're closed. We're sitting there thinking "oh my god. What do we do now? Camp in the truck overnight??" when the owner, who lived right next door, walks over with his very pregnant wife. Or maybe his daughter. Could've been his sister. My husband is trying to explain what happened (to much uproarious laughter) and I try to have a conversation with the slowly growing crowd of women who want to ogle my baby. "Piccola!" they say. "Bella!" It was cute but insanely awkward and I'm pretty sure the mechanic and his friend (or brother? Son?) were more busy chatting it up with my husband than working, because it took like two hours. They gave us just enough gas to get back to the gas station and we were on our way.
"What the hell does this have to do with Venice??" you may ask. I'm getting there. I promise. So we go get gas and get back on the road, heading east to Venice, which we decide is too close not to go, and we'll just find a place to stay there. We're about halfway there when traffic stops. And I mean STOPS. No one is moving. Then cars starts driving in the opposite direction on the shoulders. We think they're just impatient people trying to find their way around, but no. A polizia walks up to our car and tells us to turn around, Venice is closed.
"VENICE? Like... the whole city??"
"Si, si. close-ed. You go now."
Uhhhh... okay. Husband looks at me. I look at husband. There's nothing else we can do- we just have to laugh at our incredibly shitty luck and turn around. We got back to Germany late that night, exhausted, sweaty and embarrassed, but by god! We saw Italy! And that's my overly explanatory explanation of how I went to Venice but didn't. The End.
The story begins Fourth of July weekend, 2006. We were living in Germany at the time and frequently made last minute trips around the country. This time, however, we decided to be adventurous and go to Italy. We knew we could make it down there in just a few hours (Austria is, like, way small) so we figured we'd have more than enough time to drive down, see Venice and hopefully get a place to stay at the military base in Vicenza that night.
So we pack up the Explorer (a mega-beast of a car in Europe, we were practically screaming "WE'RE AMERICANS!!") and our 2.5 month old baby girl and start driving. Southern Germany is freaking beautiful, as is Austria, although I could do without their tiny two-lane roads up and down mountains in the rain. Anyway, we make it to Italy late in the morning and drive straight to Vicenza to get gas.
This is where the story gets interesting. You see, in Germany, the military bases have gas stations on them with cheaper-than-what-the-Germans-are-paying gas. In Italy, they give you coupons to use at Italian gas stations. Not only that, but apparently they are super stingy with their coupons. You only get so many- after that, you're screwed paying $10 a gallon like every other paisan. Also, if you aren't stationed AT Vicenza and you aren't on official leave, you can't even GET the coupons. This is where prior planning may have come in handy. Luckily we found someone who took pity on us and gave us a few gas coupons. Next we went to the hotel and guess what?! No available rooms. Again, planning may have helped.
At this point we're getting pretty low on gas, so it's off to find an Italian gas station. After driving around for quite some time (and let me tell you- Vicenza? Not so nice. Lock your doors), we finally find a gas station. There are two options- "gasolio" and "senza piombo."
I tell my husband "why don't you ask someone to translate?" and he says in typical male fashion, "ehhh...." and starts pumping gas.
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| The skull and crossbones sticker was an omen |
About twenty minutes later a tow truck pulls up and the guy starts motioning for me and the baby to get in. It's the size of a pickup truck. There's no way three adults would've fit, let alone three adults and a properly restrained baby seat. So I tell him that I'll wait at the gas station, thinking it'll take 10 minutes to drain the tank. Luckily, an American family saw our plight and offered me and the baby a ride to the mechanic. And yes, I took it. I got into a car, with my baby, with people I've never met. It's amazing how being in a foreign country will give you a ridiculous sense of faith and trust in your fellow countrymen. Anyway, they didn't kill us, so we're all good. In fact, they gave me their gas coupons for when we had to refill the tank with unleaded. Nice people.
So we get to the mechanic and they're closed. We're sitting there thinking "oh my god. What do we do now? Camp in the truck overnight??" when the owner, who lived right next door, walks over with his very pregnant wife. Or maybe his daughter. Could've been his sister. My husband is trying to explain what happened (to much uproarious laughter) and I try to have a conversation with the slowly growing crowd of women who want to ogle my baby. "Piccola!" they say. "Bella!" It was cute but insanely awkward and I'm pretty sure the mechanic and his friend (or brother? Son?) were more busy chatting it up with my husband than working, because it took like two hours. They gave us just enough gas to get back to the gas station and we were on our way.
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| His "I finally put the right shit in the tank!" face |
"What the hell does this have to do with Venice??" you may ask. I'm getting there. I promise. So we go get gas and get back on the road, heading east to Venice, which we decide is too close not to go, and we'll just find a place to stay there. We're about halfway there when traffic stops. And I mean STOPS. No one is moving. Then cars starts driving in the opposite direction on the shoulders. We think they're just impatient people trying to find their way around, but no. A polizia walks up to our car and tells us to turn around, Venice is closed.
"VENICE? Like... the whole city??"
"Si, si. close-ed. You go now."
Uhhhh... okay. Husband looks at me. I look at husband. There's nothing else we can do- we just have to laugh at our incredibly shitty luck and turn around. We got back to Germany late that night, exhausted, sweaty and embarrassed, but by god! We saw Italy! And that's my overly explanatory explanation of how I went to Venice but didn't. The End.
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| The only picture I have of me in Italy and THIS is what I look like. Figures. |
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
I Fucking Hate Sweatpants
Some of you may know me, either in real life or online, and may know that I fucking hate sweatpants. Sweatpants are the fugliest thing a person can possibly put in their body. I'd rather you wear a spangly light-up sweater vest than sweatpants, because then you'd at least be humorous.
Sweatpants are especially bad if they're elasticized at the bottom. These remind me of gym class, and there's nothing good about gym class.
Sometimes they have writing on the butt. This is not okay. Sweatpants make your ass look HORRIBLE. Why would you want to draw attention to that??
Even celebrities don't look good in sweatpants, and yet they continue to leave the house looking like hobos despite the fact that we all know they can afford designer clothes.
To be totally honest, I don't even think sweatpants should be worn at at home in private, let alone at the gym where other people can see you. But every day I see people out and about, wearing sweatpants to the store, dropping off their kids at school or standing in line at the bank. You don't look good, you're just being a lazy ass. Put some real pants on. I'm a mom of three with a husband who is gone a lot for work (read, I don't have a lot of help) and I still manage to put on PANTS every day. It's just as easy as pulling up sweatpants but you don't look like a sloppy fuck at the end. You're welcome.
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| I could make fun of you in this |
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| Not attractive. |
Sometimes they have writing on the butt. This is not okay. Sweatpants make your ass look HORRIBLE. Why would you want to draw attention to that??
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| Men are not looking at this thinking "yes, hot butts!" They're shuddering. Violently. |
Even celebrities don't look good in sweatpants, and yet they continue to leave the house looking like hobos despite the fact that we all know they can afford designer clothes.
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| I don't know who any of these women are, but apparently they're famous. |
Sunday, November 4, 2012
How Exercising Almost Killed Me
We made a huge cross-country move this summer, Alaska to Kansas, and as a result my fitness has suffered. Not only did I pig out once we got to the lower 48 where they have REAL restaurants, but I also stopped exercising. Mostly because we were stuck in the car all day long. A little bit because I was too lazy to go running after sitting on my ass all day. As a result, I gained a couple... few... several pounds and now all of my cute skinny clothes don't fit. Not acceptable.
So in September I started working out again. My grandma was out for a visit and she's pretty active, so at least 5 days a week I did workout videos with her and I kept it up after she left. A month later and I hadn't lost a single fucking pound. Lame. So I tried doing Slimfast as well, but I ended up eating the meal bars on top of my regular food rather than instead of. Apparently that's not how they work. Then I had got sick, found out I was pregnant, and lost the baby in the course of about a week. All diet and exercise went out the window. I was woofing down cake like Marie Antoinette.
So a week and a half ago I decided enough was enough. I am entering the Age of Me. Time to get hot.
I had the husband bring in the treadmill from the garage and set it up in the corner of the family room so that I could be close to the kids while they played. I set up an electric fence around it to keep them from getting too close. Just kidding, it's a baby gate. With razor wire. Not really.
Then I downloaded "Zombies, Run!" onto my phone and Monday morning I started running. I'm not a runner. I'm barely a walker. But when you have zombies chasing you, you fucking RUN. I don't care who you are. You know it's all pretend, but you can't help thinking that if there IS a zombie apocalypse, you're probably screwed. Now is the time to train, people. Number one rule is cardio.
Monday was pretty brutal. Tuesday I thought, "I can do better!" and I did. But it was rough. Wednesday seemed easier and I managed to push myself harder. Thursday I almost died.
You see, my treadmill has heart rate monitors built into the handles. Normally I don't give a shit, but I was pouring sweat, could barely catch my breath and my heart was thudding in my ears. So, out of curiousity, I put my hands on the bars and waited. 171. I'm pretty sure I nearly died. Now, I know the charts say the max HR for a 29 year old could be higher. Could be. But I'm pretty sure mine is lower and I'm pretty sure my heart almost exploded.
So now I face a conundrum: I can either stop working out and get eaten by zombies or keep working out and risk my heart exploding. Logic tells me to go the first route, I'm more likely to have a heart attack than to be eaten by zombies. But my heart tells me that when my neighbors turn into mindless flesh gobblers, I need to be able to outrun them. My heart is proud. It would rather explode on it's own terms than be eaten by those fuckers.
So in September I started working out again. My grandma was out for a visit and she's pretty active, so at least 5 days a week I did workout videos with her and I kept it up after she left. A month later and I hadn't lost a single fucking pound. Lame. So I tried doing Slimfast as well, but I ended up eating the meal bars on top of my regular food rather than instead of. Apparently that's not how they work. Then I had got sick, found out I was pregnant, and lost the baby in the course of about a week. All diet and exercise went out the window. I was woofing down cake like Marie Antoinette.
So a week and a half ago I decided enough was enough. I am entering the Age of Me. Time to get hot.
I had the husband bring in the treadmill from the garage and set it up in the corner of the family room so that I could be close to the kids while they played. I set up an electric fence around it to keep them from getting too close. Just kidding, it's a baby gate. With razor wire. Not really.
Then I downloaded "Zombies, Run!" onto my phone and Monday morning I started running. I'm not a runner. I'm barely a walker. But when you have zombies chasing you, you fucking RUN. I don't care who you are. You know it's all pretend, but you can't help thinking that if there IS a zombie apocalypse, you're probably screwed. Now is the time to train, people. Number one rule is cardio.
Monday was pretty brutal. Tuesday I thought, "I can do better!" and I did. But it was rough. Wednesday seemed easier and I managed to push myself harder. Thursday I almost died.
You see, my treadmill has heart rate monitors built into the handles. Normally I don't give a shit, but I was pouring sweat, could barely catch my breath and my heart was thudding in my ears. So, out of curiousity, I put my hands on the bars and waited. 171. I'm pretty sure I nearly died. Now, I know the charts say the max HR for a 29 year old could be higher. Could be. But I'm pretty sure mine is lower and I'm pretty sure my heart almost exploded.
So now I face a conundrum: I can either stop working out and get eaten by zombies or keep working out and risk my heart exploding. Logic tells me to go the first route, I'm more likely to have a heart attack than to be eaten by zombies. But my heart tells me that when my neighbors turn into mindless flesh gobblers, I need to be able to outrun them. My heart is proud. It would rather explode on it's own terms than be eaten by those fuckers.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Joe Manganiello is a Cyborg
A lot of people have seen True Blood. If you haven't, you probably should. Maybe you read the books and were kind of like "eh" so didn't bother. Slap yourself. This isn't about the plot line. This is about a bunch of sexy people mostly naked and sometimes covered in blood. Watch it. Maybe you don't have HBO. Slap yourself. Rent it from Netflix like a normal person. Maybe you have standards. Slap yourself. See first example.
Let's just assume you have watched it and are familiar with Alcide Herveaux, the tall, dark and handsome werewolf friend of Sookie, played by actor Joe Manganiello. If you're a chick, chances are you've wiped up your fair share of drool while watching this man. Scratch that, you probably have if you're a guy, too. Because even DUDES think this guy is hot, as evidenced by his role in What To Expect When You're Expecting.
He's like a really tall, beefy lumberjack with great hair. Did I mention he's tall?? Yeah. try SIX AND A HALF FEET. Normally when a guy is over six feet tall he's a scrawny beanpole with acne and a hunchback.
Before I get too far into this, I should really explain that I am not in celebrity-love with Joe Manganiello. I mean, good lord the man is hot, but he's not even on my list of Top Ten Famous People I'll Never Meet So I Can Joke About Cheating On My Husband With. Granted, he could probably crush my entire list with his giant calves alone, but don't worry Ben Stiller, I'll protect you.
Anyway, I started thinking about Joe today and about how he's so tall and hunky and an all-around beefcake and I realized- no man is really like that. Okay, yes- there are tall men out there. But like I mentioned before, they're either really weird creepers or Jack Skellington. And there are definitely hunky guys, we all know that. But they aren't 6'5" and built like a pro-wrestler. As for the beefcake, most guys do not look like this:
And if you find a guy who's really beefy, he's usually taken it too far and looks like his head is three sizes too small for his body.
So Joe is this manly package of awesomeness and I'm like, there's no way this man is real. He has to be a cyborg. I'm pretty sure he was made to be some rich lady's pet and then escaped into Hollywood. Or maybe he was built for manual labor by a gay man. Either way, stop drooling folks. Because otherwise you have a weird robot fetish and you probably need help.
Let's just assume you have watched it and are familiar with Alcide Herveaux, the tall, dark and handsome werewolf friend of Sookie, played by actor Joe Manganiello. If you're a chick, chances are you've wiped up your fair share of drool while watching this man. Scratch that, you probably have if you're a guy, too. Because even DUDES think this guy is hot, as evidenced by his role in What To Expect When You're Expecting.
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| I'm pretty sure he's picturing Davis while he's hugging that pole. |
Before I get too far into this, I should really explain that I am not in celebrity-love with Joe Manganiello. I mean, good lord the man is hot, but he's not even on my list of Top Ten Famous People I'll Never Meet So I Can Joke About Cheating On My Husband With. Granted, he could probably crush my entire list with his giant calves alone, but don't worry Ben Stiller, I'll protect you.
Anyway, I started thinking about Joe today and about how he's so tall and hunky and an all-around beefcake and I realized- no man is really like that. Okay, yes- there are tall men out there. But like I mentioned before, they're either really weird creepers or Jack Skellington. And there are definitely hunky guys, we all know that. But they aren't 6'5" and built like a pro-wrestler. As for the beefcake, most guys do not look like this:
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| Jesus, what was I talking about?? Oh yeah... |
So Joe is this manly package of awesomeness and I'm like, there's no way this man is real. He has to be a cyborg. I'm pretty sure he was made to be some rich lady's pet and then escaped into Hollywood. Or maybe he was built for manual labor by a gay man. Either way, stop drooling folks. Because otherwise you have a weird robot fetish and you probably need help.
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