random acts of crazy… the new year addition

{Beware, there is a serious bad attitude awaiting you on this post.  If you are remotely bi-polar, or on any medications please skip this little joy ride to hell.}

Every so often… okay, most of the time… I post something that’s a little random and a little on the bat-shit crazy side of the tracks.  Thus, I shall now institute a yearly installment of all the random acts of crazy that roam my brain.   (If I am ever faced with a New Year’s Eve without plans again.)

It’s 9:37 pm on New Year’s Eve and rather than braving the glam world of Moses Hole in my hooker heels and sparkly tunic I’m watching a fat man play XBox and two of the most adorable assbag children run AMOK waiting for the balls to drop out of the sky.  I am armed with a never ending supply of Russian vodka and coconut rum.  I had no intention of needing it, but at 9:29 decided I could progress no further without a little help from the cabinet above the refridgerator.  If up to me, I’d be in bed with my book.  Apparently that’s just not good enough for the little ankle biters so here we are.  This is the longest introduction to nothingness ever scribed by a half drunk fat lady. {Not really half drunk.  It’s only been 12 minutes.}

Here’s a few things I think you should know…

I recently watched a little movie called “The Other Guys” with one of my all-time favorite crushes Marky Mark and his pal Will Ferrell.  You Need To See This.  It is hilarious.  I seriously peed my pants.  I love almost every second of this movie.  I have a constant loop of the genius one-liners running through my head.  It might be the one thing that gets me through this night, actually.  Go and watch it right now.  Or after you finish reading this. Whatever.  I got all night to wait.

My best pal is currently at a Lesbian wedding, eating tacos and fried chicken, doing the cha-cha slide.  I passed up being her date to see Yogi Bear and eat Japanese food with my kids.  Sometimes being a mom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  I really wanna watch fried chicken stuffed lesbian brides to the cha-cha slide.  I really, really wanna.

I might be in the midst of a bit of a depression.  Maybe the booze wasn’t such a stellar idea.

I’ve been home, not working, and recovering from this joyousness for the past week.  It’s taking it’s toll on the sanity I might have had once.

Oh, here’s a fun little story you’ll appreciate.  Or not.  A few moments ago I got a little text from a local friend telling me her plans for the evening had fallen apart and wondering where the party was at.  I respond with this little blurb, feeling a little sorry for myself and my current situation, “Don’t know. We didn’t really hear of anything so we’re just playing games with the kids.  You’re welcome to join that party.  ;)”  A moment later, my husband asks me what the hell I just sent that text to him for?  HUH?  After inspecting my phone I realized the text I thought was just to me was to half my friend’s contact list and I just sent my assy response to all of them.  What’s a girl to do?  Oh, I know!  Send two more texts to the same damn group on accident.  Hey guys, listen… If you have my cell number, please just refrain from sending me your group texts.  I’m obviously not equipped to handle an orgy over 3G.  I’m smart-phone handicapped.

I might be drinking straight rum right now.  Something that’s never ended well for me.

Okay, this is obviously torture for you.  I have nothing to talk about.  Except that as much as I loved this Rockin’ Family New Year’s Eve up until around 9:28, the wheels fell off and I just wish I had some hooker heels on and a Cher soundtrack to dance around to.  This Dick Clark Rockin Eve is just straight shit. These people obviously lip sync 99% of the time.  Someone just put them out of my misery.  And why is there a need to wear stunner shades in the middle of the night?

Oh, and I hope you’re all being super safe out there.  But probably about a third of you will drive after drinking too much and you should just be shot for being idiots. 

Tomorrow, or sometime in the near future, I’ll post something uplifting and exciting… like my New Year’s Resolutions.  And those will be AWESOME.

holly jolly disorder

{I’d like to preface this by saying, I actually have a few disorders (which are probably real and serious.)  I’m not making light of any true and life-altering afflictions by writing this.  If you suffer from a disorder, I ask you to see this for the fun-poking satirical post it is, and not get your panties all in a wad about my non-disorder.}

 

I Clark Griswol’d the shit out of Christmas this year.  If you’re not a fan of the movie “Christmas Vacation” that may not mean a lot to you so I’ll just break it down like this:  I overdid pretty much everything.  And that, in and of itself, is the way I like to do things.  I can turn the most simple of activities into an epic event.  There will be color-schemed outfits, an itinerary and matching scrapbook templates for whatever situation I choose to  make a family memory out of.  If you’re involved in said event, you better plaster a smile on your face and pretend to enjoy it or I will TAKE YOU OUT.  That alone is a disorder.  What I  can do with that affliction around the Christmas Holiday/Winter Solstice Extravaganza is a damn derangement.

Here’s how it all began… Not once in our nine years of togetherness had the Hubbs and I spent a holiday entirely at home.  There are three families to juggle and at least one of them always feels left out.  So… we RUN.  Some time in the recent past one or more of the kids asked us if Santa even knows where we live.  That was it for me.  The Hubbs and I decided, family drama be damned, Santa’s fitting his fat ass down our chimney this year.  {Nevermind our fireplace is gas.}  Sometime around Halloween it was official and I began planning.

We invited one side of my in-laws to join us – mom, dad and two sisters-in-law, plus an awesome golden lab type dog.  {I dunno- she’s big and lopey and cute.}  This was going to be EPIC.  (That word just cracks me up when used to describe… pretty much anything.)

In case I forgot to mention it, I’m totally Clark  Griswold.  I’m Clark on a year that we won’t even be home.  A year when I get to be hostess and my home is the North Pole of family Christmas gatherings?  Well, I’m just fucking nuts!  We had the most gorgeous Christmas trees.  (Yes, that’s plural.)  I spent my kids’ college funds on gifts I’m pretty sure they still haven’t even seen yet.  I spent THREE DAYS pouring over cookbooks and websites determining our Christmas Eve and Day Menus.  I can’t say it any way other than I lost my freaking mind.   AND IT WAS EPIC.

And then… Christmas came and went in a fucking blur.  There is just no other way to put it.  I started decorating the house a couple of days after Thanksgiving and I finished on Christmas Eve.  I spent the holiday season running around like a damn lunatic.  I loved every moment.  Never you mind my back was so out of whack I couldn’t even bend over without looking like Betty White after the Boston Marathon {oh yah- she’s a runner}.  No need to even mention I had a bit of a cold coming on and was in severe danger of being the Typhoid Mary of the birth of the Christchild.  None of it mattered.  I existed on four hours of sleep and the adrenaline rush of being Mrs.  Claus and Betty freaking Crocker all rolled into one.  AND IT WAS EPIC.

Then… it happened.  The final meal was consumed.   Most of the Christmas mess was somewhat contained.  And I fell apart at the seams.  I developed the Holiday Hangover from Hell.  {I only had one glass of wine with dinner.  Oh- and a couple of mimosas earlier.  None of that is of any consequence.}  This was a Holly.Jolly.Hang.Over.

The Hubbs calls it my Post-Christmas Depression.

That cold I’d been staving off hit like a mac truck.  My back literally just fell right out of my ass.  I sat around on the couch for two and a half days looking dazed and confused and I still can’t walk from one room of the house to the next without wondering why the hell I came in here in the first place.

I can’t bring myself to take down the Christmas decorations because I just can’t believe it’s over.  My Christmas tree consists of bare branches with a pool of needles at its base and it looks lovelier than ever with the ornaments just tinking in the wind.  Never mind it could go up in flames at any moment because I refuse to turn the lights off.  It holds the memories of laughter and HOLY-SHIT-HOW-MUCH-MONEY-DID-WE-SPEND and marks the first and BEST Christmas we’ve ever had as a family at home.  I freaking LOVED having Christmas here.  I know I became a prisoner of materialism and overdoing it.  I promise to tone it down next year {maybe}.  I’ll try not to have a holly jolly hangover for three days.  There are no guarantees.  None.  I just can’t wait to do it again.

I hope your celebrational debauchery was equally hangover inducing.  Happy New Year.  I look forward to sharing my resolutions with you.  #1 on the list will be… earn real hangovers.  {okay, maybe not #1}

a few tidbits…

First of all, tidbits sounds kind of like a dirty word to me.  I don’t know…

So I have been writing blogs in my head for days now, and none of them are well formed pieces of artwork but I have to get them out of my head before I explode.  This is going to be the most random and ill formed blog post you ever read.   Raise your hand if you’re surprised.

Let’s start with the most ridiculous.  And inappropriately, horribly, TMI.  (which I kind of feel bad about.)  Saturday night, late, I started my period.  Again.  God, why won’t it just go away?  I’ve been in menopause for three years now.  GOD.

Anywho, for some godforsaken reason I didn’t have necessities. Neither Jim or I were in a position to be driving to the store in the middle of the night.  Because we are lazy sloths.  So, I decide I’d use one of the 500,000 diapers that I have hanging around the house as a horribly sucky necessity {not sure why I can’t just say the word} for the night and then swing by the store on the way to church Sunday morning.  {I know, crazy.  We actually made a repeat appearance.}  I got the crappiest night of sleep ever. Probably because I can’t even wear a pad so why the hell I thought I could wear a freaking diaper is beyond me.  But, I suffered through it and schlepped the family to church Sunday morning.

We, of course, were running behind so I decided to just take one for the team and not stop at the store.  I was sure the church would have one of those machines in the bathroom and I could just deal with it once I got there.  Apparently, the Presbyterians don’t believe in necessities because there was no goddamned machine.  Whatever.  Jesus wouldn’t mind and I was kind of getting used to the thing.  And I was all hopped up on pain killers.

I’m pretty sure there are saints in heaven based on the sacrifices they made to get their heathen family into God’s house.  Add little old me to that list.  I win.

So… while we’re on the subject of the lord, I’ll just say that I am pretty darn proud of the impropers for our rediscovered devotion to the jesus.   Whatever.  We’re still just us, but we like going to this church.  Except for the fact that I am just an emotional wreck 100% of the time that we’re there.  I cried like a freaking moron during most of the thing.  I am totally not a crier.  Anymore.  I think I was just teary because I was sitting in a diaper.  Who wouldn’t cry whilst sitting in a diaper in God’s house and taking communion.  Duh.

I did come to peace with something at some point after my diaper clad communion experience and I think you should know this too.  In case you should ever, you know, need to know this about me.  Like for a pop quiz or something.  I am a real pain in the ass when it comes to rumors.  If I hear something about someone I know, I always have to investigate.  I need to know if what I’m hearing is true or not.  And if I know something I’ve heard is not necessarily the most accurate of information, I can’t rest until I know that it’s squared away.  I guess it’s because I know how much it can really hurt if people think they know something about you and really don’t know the half of it.  Or don’t know the why.  Or whatever.  I just have a hangup.  OKAY?!?!  So I’m not really a good person to tell secret information to.  But I am a kick-ass pal to have around if someone didn’t get their story straight and it needs to be resolved.  So just put that in your hat and wear it around like a feather.  The Hubbs says that I just need to relax and mind my own freaking business but I have a hard time with that.  And I don’t know for sure that it’s something I really want to spend my energy to change.  I think it’s a reasonably good quality.  Especially when I’m wearing a diaper.