Turkey Day

The first tradition we have for Thanksgiving in our household is the annual "Turkey Dive" wherein we all go shopping for our turkey and all but climb into the turkey bins in search of the biggest bird we can find at that particular location. Anything less than 20 pounds is automatically tossed back. It's just bragging rights on the line if you are the one who finds the biggest bird, but the way my kids and I go at, you'd think there was money involved...

So this years Tom Turkey weighed in at 22.3 pounds- and I was the winner! Not that we needed a bird that big- we weren't having any company other than my friend ChaCha, but I wouldn't know how to cook anything smaller. I was again reminded of this fact as I finished making a vat of mashed potatoes that could feed an army and a boy band.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I do this every year. Since I have been making Thanksgiving since I was 17, it's the only way I know how. Even when I had one child. I cook the same dishes with only a few changes (fresh green beans instead of moms canned ones, homemade cranberry relish instead of canned cranberry ala sauce, for example) and remember the stories behind who liked which best growing up. I still make gross yams because they were my sisters favorite, I have to have Lipton Onion soup mix French Onion Dip with Ruffles because it's what my mom let us snack on until it was time for dinner.

In short, I'm cooking for ghosts. I am cooking for the siblings who haven't shared this holiday with me in over 10 years, for my mom who is gone, for all the family I wish I had to share this day with and don't. It's my way. It's what I do. I won't cry about it, but I will cook the hell out of that 30 pound turkey I hope to find someday.

If you ever need a place to go for Turkey Day, please stop by. I always have more than enough- and you know I'm going to be sick of turkey reeeeal soon.

Dear Fat Cat, Sell-Out NASCAR Execs....

Dear NASCAR,

First of all, it is bulls%#* that I even have to write this letter. The fact that this bitch wasn't officially locked up weeks ago is ridiculous. How do you decide to just up and change the points system on a sport after 50 some odd YEARS? All the stats for the veterans, the founders of that sport, are under one system. How can you change the record books like this because people say they're bored? WTF? If an NFL team went undefeated and kicked every one's asses through a whole season AND the Super Bowl do you think they'd change the system?!?! GAH!

Under the true NASCAR points system, Jeff Gordon would not only have already hoisted his 5th cup, but locked this 6th one up 2 weeks ago!!! And as a Jeff Gordon endorser (and by that I mean #1 fan) I call BULLSHIT on NASCAR for this rewriting of records. For selling out to the friggin phone companies that are changing the name of the GD cup every year, (Yes, bitches, we went from Winston Cup to NEXTEL Cup to Sprint Cup next year) for not cherishing the history of this sport, for growing it into something it was never meant to be. You have turned your back on the fans, you have eliminated the heart and soul and you have negated the traditions that have made you the rich fat cat assholes you are.

It's been coming awhile- and taking Jeff's chance of tying Earnhardt's 7 Championships away was the last straw. If you're going to make the past and all it's stats null and void, why don't you go back and refigure all those years under your new rules to put us all on an even playing field? How many championships does Dale have then? Does Kulwicki never get that storied championship at all? Does Mark Martin have 4 or 5 trophies coming his way?

It is not our fault that Matt Kenseth bored the hell out of everyone and they tuned out for awhile. You know what, you should have told them to suck it. This is how it's always been. There are years guys are going to run away with it and years guys are going to have to go head to head, rubbin'-is-racing, fender knocking, slingshot maneuvering down to the last lap of the last race. but you didn't. You gave us all the finger, took away Rockingham and told us to deal with it while you ran off to catch a ride in your solid gold plane with diamond encrusted seats that would take you to your billion dollar houses where you dove into your pool of money...

I can only pray that Johnson chokes on Sunday and the rightful owner of this years Championship is crowned- despite you, not because of you.

Mobsters

So in the news today, I read that Salvatore Lo Piccolo, a Casa Nostra mob boss, was arrested outside of Palermo (Palermo!!!). During a raid of his home police uncovered a coded paper revealing the "Godfather's Ten Commandments"...

"Magistrates believe the elder Lo Piccolo, whose Mafia nickname is "the Baron," took over the reins of the crime organization after the arrest last year of former "boss of bosses" Bernardo Provenzano.
Interior Minister Giuliano Amato said the latest arrests, following that of Provenzano, showed the Italian state was able repeatedly to dismantle the leadership of the Sicilian Mafia."

Do paragraphs get any hotter than that??!

First of all, anything Italian (with the exception of my mothers disgusting, gross, asshole last husband) is sexy. Second, I know it's wrong, and no, I don't agree with all the murdering and whatnot, but seriously? Mobsters are sexy. I am fascinated by the whole thing. The American Mob scene in the 20s & 30s, Al Capone, the Valentine's Day Massacre, John Gotti, Tommy guns and speakeasies. I LOVE it. I have always been jealous that my friend, Kristin, who is Italian and has a very Italian last name, can say cool stuff like "You just don't fuck with someone who's last name ends in a vowel!"

I've never seen one episode of The Sopranos because I don't want big 'ol sweaty James Gandolfini ruining my perception of sexy, dark haired powerful Italian men in the mafia. Because I like to think that given the opportunity, I would totally be a mafia wife. Or mistress... But I digress.

The "Commandments" include barring mobsters from hanging out in bars, from befriending police and being late for appointments. It also bars them from "taking possession of money that belong to others or other families."

How to treat women also features in the Decalogue.

"You shall not look at wives of our friends," says one entry. "You shall respect your wife," says another. However, the Mafia comes first, as the fifth "commandment" orders a mobster to "be available for Cosa Nostra at any moment, even if your wife is about to give birth."

The last part of the list sets out application rules, saying that those who have a very bad behavior and no moral values cannot join.

See? Yes, they may be embezzling, murderous killers, but dammit they have morals and are loyal! And better than that, it's a guy whose ass is on-fucking-time for his appointments to whack someone! THAT is what I'm talking about!

2007 WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS!

Because there just are no words to describe how proud...how happy...how ecstatic I am...

Two Down...Two to Go

We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Colorado...

Either way will pretty much suck for you.

We can kick your ass with our awesome ass ABs that will leave you crying from the top to the bottom of the order, (okay, except for Lugo...but whatever) or we can bring the big guns out from the bullpen. OR our outfield will catch everything your mom ever even thought of hitting and get out that way... Make no mistake- we're going to get you.

Sorry I can't seem to focus on anything else but baseball right now- as soon as my boys have the big shiny trophy, I'll be able to blog about something else. Until then, World Series Drama is what you get.

The BEST part of last nights Game Two was when Matt Holliday was up and belted one that knocked our boy Paps off the mound. He all but skipped his way to first base with that "Lallala, I'm a badass and got on against the Papelbomber." smug ass look on his face. Paps was fine, dusted himself off and promptly picked Holliday off by a mile at first base. Inning over- suck it, bitches.

I cried like a little girl when Curt tipped his cap to the crowd when leaving the hill. I adore the Schill. I am so upset that I wasn't around to see him years ago and can only hear the stories and see the old photos.

I would love to say that we'll see him in a Sox uniform next year, but chances are high we won't. Thank you for everything, #38.

Don't know what I'm going to do with myself on the off night tonight. Something fun to relieve some stress before Game 3, I hope. Because as sure as I have been since Spring Training that this is our year.... The waiting is the hardest part.

The Joy of Sox

Call me sex deprived... or sex obsessed, but I was thinking last night how watching these different baseball games are like different rounds of sex.

There are games where anticipation builds for nine innings...your muscles tense, you get sweaty waiting for the climax... and either you are rewarded with an explosive ninth inning or let down by a loss and leave feeling unfulfilled with so much pent up energy you don't know what to do with yourself.

There are games that blow wide open so hard and so fast in the beginning that the rest of the game is just playing for fun. Good parts over...let's just play some more just 'cause we can. Sox are up 10-1 in the 5th? Fahk... Let's just run the bases and laugh for another 4 innings. It's like teasing... Last night's Game One was just like that.

What about the games that are so evenly matched that it's down to the wire every inning? You score 2, we'll score 2... 2 more in the 5th? You think you've got it won? NO! They'll score 2 more in the 6th. You tense up and feel relief every inning just to go through it again, and again and again...hoping you are the last one to feel it and their fans are the ones going to bed with no happy ending.

Thank gawd I've got at least 3 more games before the bats get put up for the winter....

No One Ever Saw This Coming...

Few people in this world I've never met before bother me as much as Kid Rock or that Mystery guy from The Pick Up Artist. Perhaps Donald Trump, Ricky Martin, J-Lo, Pamela Anderson, maybe even Brittany...But Kid Rock holds a special prize for being able to piss me off just for breathing.

I can't stand how any one so talentless has so much friggin money. It makes me crazy to see him all stringy haired and butchering the English language and on TV... Or up on stage where people came to see him. Why, someone tell me, do people want see a white trash train wreck covered in sequins? Why?

So it is no surprise to me at all to open my Yahoo news and see Mr. Rock was arrested last night.

At a Waffle House.

Of course it was a Waffle House! Do you think he'd ever be arrested at the opera? The ballet? Maybe an art exhibition? How is this news to anyone? So he comes in, probably in no tshirt with a few big boobed airheads on each arm, someone starts talking shit and so our friend Kid has to get all, "I'm from Detroit and wish I was Eminem" on him, so a D-town type, hillbilly brawl ensues and everyone ends up covered in sticky syrup residue from rolling on the floor. You know someone went home with a waitress who thought she was the shit because she saw Kid Rock that night...

I've seen such brawls. My family is from both Detroit AND Tennessee. Not pretty I assure you. But on him, it works. I think next we should expect a brawl at a Piggly-Wiggly, a Winn Dixie or maybe even a Farmer Jacks. I'm sure next time there will be mud wrestling and horseshoes involved...

World Series, Bitches!!!

I didn't write anything for awhile because I was so paranoid and superstitious about saying, doing or thinking anything that might jinx us.... Okay, until I see Youk or Paps making out with that damn big ass trophy, I'm still a little freaked out about it.

But I will say this... Hell YES, we DID just kick ass on our way into the World Series. And in awesome fashion. My boys made me proud- more than proud this weekend. The entire order stepped up. We didn't need to bring in Beckett as our last hope and prayer. Everyone got out there, stepped on some Indian throats, twisted their arms behind their backs until they cried uncle and took that WS spot by force. Then we left them crying for Mommy in the dugout while we danced in a beautiful "Fuck-yeah-champagne-takes-good-at-home, Garko!" fountain.

The Rockies may be on a hot streak, they may be good, they may or may not have taken 2 of 3 from us in inter league play... I'm not saying it'll be easy.

But I am saying WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! It'll damn sure be fun!

Pitcher for Sale!

Granted he sucks- and he seems to have the anti-Midas touch because everything he touches turns to crap, but there has got to be some use for him somewhere other than Boston... Hey D'Backs, do you need a ballboy? Anyone want to use him for target practice? Maybe he could be a satisfactory waterboy somewhere...

I couldn't even post a picture of him in the Sox uniform because I'm too ashamed. Can you imagine how hard the Mets or the Yankees are laughing knowing they were smart enough to pass on this joke?

Honestly, for the life of me, I can't figure out why in the hell anyone let him near the mound until after we had already won it all, when during the regular season he showed us that no matter how big a lead, how dominant we'd been, if we turned it over to him, he'd find a way to fuck us.

So we have our big cushy lead Friday night and Terry lets him come out so he can feel good about himself...and he loads the bases. And with one swing of the bat, our night could've turned to crap. He didn't let it get quite that far, but anybody who had watched this disaster happen the past few months was waiting for it. Last night when we were tied, then behind by two, I yelped with physical agony when I saw him headed out. THIS? This is who we're going to count on to help dig us out of a hole? The man is seems to be a professional gravedigger? As soon as I saw him, I said. "Well, we're done now."

And we were. He's brought nothing to the table and I want to know what in the hell that 2.1 million bought us. Don't quote me stats on what he did here or there.... Put up or shut up, Eric. You can't claim to be a badass and pitch like a PowerPuff Girl.

But prove it next year (if we can't find a way to unload your ass). For the rest of October, grab some pine and watch how the big boys play ball. Take notes.

Dear Neiman Marcus Santa...

So Neiman Marcus has unveiled the 2007 Christmas catalog full of insanely overpriced purchases only the truly whacked-out would dream to wish for.

We are talking a $1.4 million submarine, $110,000 for a portrait made from chocolate syrup, $70 slippers, $500,000 for a tree tent, $73,000 for a diamond encrusted cell phone, a private concert with the Kirov Orchestra for $1.6 million or $1000 for a pair of Prada tennis shoes.... Tennis shoes. Like the kind you run in? Would you strap $500 to each of your feet and walk around in them? I don't think so.

But in the spirit of whacked out, craziness that I do so admire, I have assembled my own wish list for this mythical Santa who brings over the top gifts to especially good girls and boys...

Personal Tour of Fenway from the Sox- I don't want the standard tourist crap either, Santa, I want the real deal. I'm talkin' affirmative visual confirmation of locker room towel snapping, a tour of the inside of the Green Moster with Manny, BP with Papi's arms around me teaching me to swing. I want to watch tapes with Tek and try on his mask, eat hot dogs with Youk and his goatee while we make fun of Alex Cora. I want a walk to the pitchers mound with Josh Beckett on one arm and Curt Shilling on the other. (I'll work on the whole kissing Mike Lowell thing myself while I'm there, so don't worry about adding that in)

I'd also like to meet Jeff Gordon- (Naked, on the hood of his car if possible) If I must meet my future husband, Mr. Gordon, in a socially acceptable environment, I'd like to have him take me for hotlaps at Bristol.

One of everything from Tiffany & Co. No really. Just one. I know that it's a different store, Santa, but if you're handing out 1.4 million dollar submarines, I figure this isn't too terribly much to ask.

Instead of asking for that $500,000 tree tent, I think I'll ask for, I dunno, a HOUSE with foundation and bathrooms. I'm thinkin' half a mil could buy a pretty nice one of those...

Instead of that orchestra, I'll take a silver Mercedes. Convertable would be cool, but I'll take what you're giving in the silver- Mercedes family.

One last thing, please give ChaCha a pony.

I promise I have been a very good girl. (Kinda) Love, Me.

Commander Kick Ass

I like nicknames. Sometimes it's how I remember certain people when encountered with large groups. On vacation, I have named people Deliverance (he was from Alabama), Shades (dude who wore sunglasses that wrapped around your head), Boston, Boston's brother, Hot Guy, Ugly chick, Pu-ssy Girl (chick who used that word continuously), on and on...

I call my kids turkeys, my baby ducks, my rotten brats, my tribe... I know people named ChaCha, Moe, Gravy, Mimi, Duh-dud-uh, Handsome, Sweets and Big Victoria.

But my all time favorite nickname right now is what the boys over at survivinggrady.com call my Josh Beckett: Commander Kick Ass of the Fuck Yeah Brigade.

And if you want to know why, you clearly didn't see him pitch last night. Not only did he win 20 games during the regular season, he saved a perfectly executed shut out for the post season. It was friggin' beautiful.

I think it's illegal in some states to be that damn awesome.

Here's hoping my ol pal Matsuzaka, aka Dice K, can just do the same tomorrow night.

Who Knew?

That Dustin Pedoria was so friggin' cute in civilian clothes? Damn! And if this is how my boys are getting ready for the post-season, bring it on! AL East Champonship? Check. Whiskey? Check. Ready to kick some ass and take some names? Done.

Not just yeah...but HELL Yeah!

You see, a little faith, goes a long way...

I am so proud of you, boys! We got the pennant, now let's go get a damn trophy for the other hand!!!!

Don't Stop Believin'.....

*Insert Journey song as background music here*

Maybe you all are unfamiliar with my tenacity. I will hold onto something like a rabid friggin' dog if it hurts me to let go. In small words for some of you, I don't let go easily.

You think this little late September slump has me giving up? Hell to the no. I have not watched 7 months of baseball to quit now when things are just getting good. I have not cheered these boys on, snuck out of weddings to check on games, quoted stats to New York boys who thought girls in Texas couldn't know shit about Red Sox baseball, to give up on them now. I am not one of those chicks who dons the pink hat to look cute next to her boyfriend at a game. I'm in this bitch for the long haul.

You think telling me every day day how close the Yankees are to catching the pennant will all of a sudden have me jumping on the ARod train? You must not understand my desperate unrequited love for Mike Lowell or know the awesomeness that is Josh Beckett. If you think for one damn minute I'd ever consider not believing in the power of our Captain, you don't know my respect for Tek. And you damn sure don't understand what it's like to see Papelbon pitch... I KNOW how many games we've lost since Labor Day. Tuh-rust me, I know. But this team is far from done. My boys are feeling the pain that comes from KICKING ASS for 7 months- that will, in fact, catch up with you, I don't care who you are. But it's okay. We'll let them get close, let them get a little cocky and then squash them. My Manny is coming back soon.... Youk? Is going to get off that bench with a score to settle. If I were the Yankees, I'd be very afraid.

It's far from over, my friends. Don't give up now, the fun is just about to start! Now quit your friggin crying and get ready for OCTOBER!!!!!!!

The Final Showdown

Here we go, boys and girls. The final showdown of the season and it could not come at a better time for me. I have been running around like a crazy person with events and to-dos. I have chauffeured kids, worked, gone to games and appointments. My butt misses the feel of my couch. This Red Sox/Skanks matchup is Gods way of telling me to slow the hell down and watch some damn baseball.

Screw everything else. I am leaving work in 30 minutes, going home, getting in my jammies and settling in for what I know will be a damn good game. I say I'm settling in, but really, that's only for 3 innings before I'm standing in front of the TV and screaming. Or pacing. Hopefully jumping and dancing and doing my Fenway Home Run Happy Dance...

I've put my friends on Red alert. Do not call my ass tonight. I will not answer. I've told my kids- you want to go somewhere? You better find a damn ride, cause this taxi service is closed tonight. What's his name that lives with me? Make your own damn dinner. Chef's off tonight. She will be unavailable until tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a lot more of the running around and football games, taking kids to birthday parties, attending a wedding- everyone PRAY I get to catch most of the game.

Sunday is well. The 3rd of a 3 game series. You know where I'll be.

But don't call.

GO SOX!!!!!!

Brides Smoking Crack

Once upon a time, I too was a bride. No, really. With a veil and everything. Granted, that was 12 years ago. When I was 20.

Even at 20, when people said "Go register", I knew to go scan things I could afford too and things I needed. When was the next time people would buy me gifts for no reason? So I did. Towels and plates I would use everyday, a blender, a toaster, maybe a pretty frame for a wedding picture. The end.

I have recently perused a registry for a friend or two or 5 that are getting married soon....

And now I want to know what kind of amazing, delicious, delusion-inducing crack these bitches are smoking.

Are you fucking kidding me? A $200 gravy boat? A $175 place setting of china? And you want TWELVE of them? Bitch, you KNOW you eat more Sonic than the fry cooks who work there- why in the holy fuck do you need over $2 grand in china??? They would probably say Thanksgiving. *Eye roll* Whatever. Big screen TV, $1200 BBQ pit, $40 each for a bath towel???

Where is it written that because you are having a party where you wear a big white dress that you are entitled to a $400 mixer?

The other thing that contributes to my confusion is that these are all second marriages. Which is fabulous. It didn't work the first time. You are brave enough to try again. But you're supposed to be smarter! Not try to get more shit for the second time around. Bitch, I gave 10 years worth of blow jobs to the same man. THAT entitles me to $400 worth of something, but no one buys you gifts for that.

I get it. You're a pretty, pretty princess- it's your special, special day.... Again. Some more. You are doing it again and want things better and different than last time. That part I understand. Kinda. But damn. Shouldn't you have to earn this stuff? Why do we give wedding gifts anyway? Earn your shit and get anniversary presents. THAT deserves reward. You stay married 10 years? Here's your gift card for $2000. Go buy what you KNOW you need, not what you think you might need, but actually sits in a cardboard box in the back of your cupboard for 20 years. 20 years? Here's $5000 for a vacation you probably need waaaaay more than a TV or a friggin gravy boat that sits in a curio cabinet.

So here's my plan. I'm going to buy wine. Bottles of it. Because when you start coming down off the crack and back to Earth after your veil comes off, you're gonna need something to ease the headache.....

A Prayer

Dear Baseball God, Lord, sweet, tiny-baby Jesus/Allah/Holy Spirit/ Insert Deity of Your Choice Here....

I don't mean to come to you with evil in my heart, but if you could see your way to maiming Alex Rodriguez in some way, I sure would appreciate it. I don't mean kill him, Lord. No, even I have to admit he's got some talent... But just for the next, say 6 weeks or so, if he could just suddenly come down with a case of explosive diarrhea, or maybe some wicked bad hemorrhoids- so bad he can't walk, much less lift a bat, well... that would just be swell.

You see, those damn Yankees are only continuing to bother me because of this one man. If he were somehow removed from the situation, they would cease to even be a worry to me- I'm sure of it! Instead, they are like a cockroach. Always coming back. Even when I think it's been squashed, it keeps coming back. It's maddening!!!!

I don't ask for much, Lord... And I apologize that I seem to come to you often in the 9th inning. I thank you for all the times you've helped my boys this season. Thank you for continuing to assist my sweet Mike Lowell to kick ass and for Clay's no hitter. Thank you for back-to back-to back-to back home runs. Thank you for helping Papi start to hit like Papi again.

I look forward to your reply. No note necessary, I will know you have answered me when A-Rod runs off the field with poo running down his uniform...

Amen.

Going to a Happy Place...

So over the past few weeks I’ve developed an eye twitch that will not stop. Terminal? No. Annoying? Yes. Annoying as hell. It comes whenever it pleases- my right eyelid jerks like its being electrocuted. People have told me it’s barely visible and only when I point and my eye and hold them down to stare at it. “LOOK AT IT!? CAN’T YOU SEE IT?!?”

I’m told that along with my nail biting and affinity for chips and other crunchy snacks, this is a product of my stress level. Even the sweet little nurse I called from my insurance company said that all these other symptoms I’ve had lately sound stress induced. (Insomnia, hair loss, muscle soreness in my neck and shoulders, lots of fantasizing about running away from home) Stressed? Me?

I only have 4 children. Who are involved in football, cheerleading, student council, UIL, athletics, underwater-basket weaving etc… I work at a hotel that is much like the money pit right now and we are in the process of renovation. I go to work not knowing which wall will be missing on any given day or which ceiling it will be raining from. During all this, I am to pamper all my clients as though they have arrived at Trump Towers.

My marriage, well, let’s just say it… Is in the toilet. I worry about money every second of the day. One of my friends is getting married this week- which would normally be a good, happy thing, except I have had to listen to every detail in minutia for at least 3 hours a day for the past 9 months. AND I’ve spent my own time and money (LOTS of it) completing my own responsibilities as Maid of Honor.

Okay, maybe a little stressed… But I hate to admit it. Because there is always someone else who has a real reason to be stressed. Like living in a box… or has cancer….or a Yankees fan who still thinks they’re going to the playoffs (couldn’t resist)….

So Nancy, the sweet little nurse from my insurance company says if I don’t want to go see a doctor, (I don’t. They freak me out) I should just try to take a few minutes each day to be alone and quiet and relax. She jokes, “Go to your Happy Place.” (Sidebar: That reference immediately made me think of the scene from Happy Gilmore when Adam Sandler sees Chubbs playing the piano and his Grandma running around with loads of money.)

So I think- Where IS my happy place? I could say on a beach, all by myself listening to waves crash and someone handing me a froofy drink with a pineapple wedge and a pink umbrella in it, but really, how can I focus on something I’ve never had?

So I chose my happy place from places and times that could have actually been and would have stayed if time could be frozen….

I am sitting at a table in a clean, beautifully decorated room, the windows are open and a cool breeze is coming in. Baseball or NASCAR is on a big TV. There are two other people in the room- people I could sit and hang out with for hours and hours and they don’t stress me out- they make me happy to be in their space. In front of me is a bowl of homemade clam chowder. (It is very important that this was made by someone else- for me) I am eating my chowder and drinking my Cape Cod (also made for me) and being happy… And for those minutes in my happy place, no one is demanding anything of me but to sit there and enjoy. I can JUST BE. I do not have to take care of anyone or insure their happiness. My only job is to sit there and know that for those brief moments, EVERYTHING is right with the world…

I feel the breeze. I hear the gentle background noise of the game, but mostly just the laughter from these people and myself. There is no phone ringing, no arguing or yelling. I can relax and let everything else go.

And look at that- just typing about it, my eye hasn’t twitched at all the past 10 minutes. Maybe that little Nancy is onto something…

Randomness...

Tighten your seat belts, ladies and gents, because this one will be a wild ride. There is no rhyme or reason to this post, just a trip down the swirling, slip and slide that is my thought process lately...

I myself embrace the diverse nationalities I am surrounded by on a daily basis. I work in the damn rainbow coalition. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian. People from Mexico, Puerto Rico, Germany, Minnesota... I love learning about my friends' cultures and foods, languages and customs. But can someone 'splain to me why in the hell my Latin friends seem to have a necessity for HICKEYS????

First of all, I am embarrassed by visible bruises I get on accident, so I don't understand why in the name of GAWD you would proudly show off some nasty purple blotches all over your neck and chest that people know you got on purpose.

Are these things supposed to say, "That's right, bitches, I had someone sucking on parts that DON'T DO ANYTHING last night"? Maybe, "I have someone that likes to attach themselves to me like a hoover and break blood vessels"?

Really now. I thought we all did that once or twice in high school before sticking the spoon in the freezer, applying it to the affected area and praying it helped lessen the affect before our moms noticed it... Some guys did it when they were 16 as a badge of "I was making out with someone last night". Whatever. I'm just saying it's a little more excusable when you're a 16 year old idiot than when you're 30-something and just look ridiculous. Am I wrong in saying that if some one's going to suck and lick the hell out of you that hard, it damn well better be on a body part better suited for such activities???

And they don't attempt to hide it. No, on the contrary- it's time to unbutton that shirt just one more button to show off the islands of Hawaii hickeys near your left nipple. WTF?? I just don't get it. Anyone more enlightened than I?

****************

I found this new blog: http://www.survivinggrady.com/ I am cuh-razy for this guy. Not only does he do me the courtesy of posting almost every day, but he thinks just like me! Bravo!!! And anyone who can doctor up a Mike Lowell photo with a hot quote next to it is tops in my book....

***************

Got a request at work from a group called NWA. Now before we "Raised in the 90s" kids get all excited about a reunion tour, let me be the first to give you the sad news~ It stands for National Watermelon Association.

I know. I didn't know either. *Sigh*

***************

And yes, Yankee assholes, my Ralph Lauren high heels were quite tasty. Now suck it. Tampa Bay took your asses downtown to Chinatown while we kicked Baltimore butt. Kiss your WildCard goodbye, bitches....

All Kinds of Wrong...

My super keen powers of observation have led me to notice several different layers of wrongness in this world lately. There's Obviously Wrong- stealing, wearing black socks with sandals, being a Yankees fan or grown ass women wearing the word "Juicy" on their asses. Things of that nature.

Then there's Very Wrong: Calling your boss a lazy asshole, eating nachos without margaritas, mullets, talking to me about anything during a tie 9th inning, 2 out, bases loaded at bat, or anyone over a size 16 wearing a thong.... that sort of thing.




Wrong on 3 Different Levels would include: Smoking crack in front of your babies, torturing animals or pouring a bottle of Jameson down the toilet. All horrid, punishable by death offenses.

But last night I was witness to two new kinds of wrong. The first was a GD Johnny Damon 5th inning, 2 run homer against my beloved Sox. That turncoat bastard. We should all spit when we are forced to say his name. *Pa-too, pa-too* Maybe whisper his name like old ladies do diseases. You know... "Stella, she got the cancer, bless her..." "Someone had to pull Jeter off that Johnny Damon's butt again last night." I myself usually automatically add the prefix, "that GD" before having to speak his name. Traitor. Money hungry sellout. Heartless bastard.

But I digress...

It is just wrong that the baseball Gods made us witness that shit. I can only reason that I was forced to stomach it because the victory will be that much sweeter when we kick the collective Yankee ass tonight and tomorrow..

The last and most confusing Level of Wrongness that I have uncovered is the idiot seen above. While nursing a broken heart and flipping channels after the game last night, I stumbled across VH1's reality show "The Pick Up Artist", where the idiotically dressed man above, named "Mystery", teaches 8 young dorks how to walk, talk, dress and play women to sleep with them.

Yeah. It's so stupid, I can't even make this up.

The first thing wrong with this picture is this: How in the HELL does THIS asshole get chicks in the first place? Hello? Fuzzy hat? Goggles? Black fingernail polish and more eyeliner than 6 of my girlfriends wear? Purple leather duster? I would like to see what qualifications this skinny douche has for giving anyone advice about waking up in the morning and not shooting yourself in the face, much less how to pick up women. What makes this guy an expert and who the holy hell are the women that he picks up?!?!


My second question on this astronomical percentage of wrongness is where did they find 8 guys pathetic and sad enough to listen to this guy and hang on his every word on TELEVISION?

I know reality TV is not exactly the prime example of people with dignity, but FOR REAL? "My nickname is "Cosmo" and I have a dude named mystery talking in my ear telling me how to score bitches... Wanna make out?"

In last night's episode, the boys took kissing lessons from 2 hookerific friends of Mystery's. Then, after lesson was over (I shit you not!) they had to take a test to be graded. The test was each dude kissing one of the girls in turn. She lined them up and frenched each one back-to-back.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Honestly, if you want to boggle your own mind, check this show out. I'm not saying you won't want those 30 minutes of your life back- you will, (not to mention the fact that you will be more stupid just for having watched it) but if you are bored or drunk or bored and drunk, take a gander and see the 7th Wrong of the World....

Bring it on, Bitches!

So as a Red Sox fan, I've been taught one thing first and foremost...

It ain't over, til it's over.

I get that. Not counting chickens before they hatch, not finding a spot for my pennant before it's handed out, blahblahblah... But seriously? We have had the best record in baseball all friggin' season. We have handed asses to several different teams on a silver platter. We have been 14 (now 8) up on the Yankees with a month of ball left to go. We have just come off a sweep of the White Sox and now...

We head to the Bronx, baby.

I am so excited for this series. I know, everyone is excited about Yanks vs Red Sox, but this feels different. Even if we take just 2 of 3 from these mo-fos, we're still up 10 games!

So tonight we have DiceK and Pettitte. As long as our bats stay on a roll, this game is soooo money. Tomorrow is a battle of the generations (thank holy Jeebus it's on ESPN 2 and I don't have to stare at my tiny computer screen). My Texas boy Beckett takes on the old man Roger Clemens. And Thursday afternoon (when I will be watching at my desk at work and trying to look like I'm actually earning some pay) is Curt and Wang. Wang? Please. My boys started something in Chi-town. Papi is warming up just when we need him. My future husband Mike Lowell? No rut to be found- just pounding them when we need them. You want a single? He'll give you a single. Double? No problem. Manny has even learn to run a little bit! Jeezus Pete!

Even if I have to eat my 3 inch, Ralph Lauren, camel colored, leather high heels on Friday, today I am vibrating with excitement. Bring your best, bitches. We 'aint scared!

Putting it out there...

This is the first song that came on as soon as I pulled away from home today. I can't get it out of my head or my heart facsimile. So, here's hoping I can exorcise the demons...

And So It Goes

Lyrics Artist (Band):Billy Joel

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along

I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose

But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break

And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows

So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break

And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows

Mommy's Little Man

Allow me my Paul Reiser "Parenthood" moment, if you will...

Seriously, I have THE cutest kids on Earth. For real. And there's a reason God and my own personal body made them so friggin cute.... It's so I won't kill them.

From the 3 year old who REFUSES to actually poop in the potty as opposed to on himself, to the 12 year old who is convinced her 32 year old mother is a damn dinosaur and has no clue about anything. She rolls her eyes and slams doors and is convinced she is abused because she doesn't have a cell phone yet... In between is the 8 year old girl whose habits include habitually lying, sneaking food off and leaving the wrappers stashed around the house and screaming as if she's being beheaded at the drop of a hat. And then there is the 6 year old boy...

He is my third child but my first born boy so everything he does is pretty much new to me. I have never been a 6 year old boy so I truly don't get the obsession with dirt bikes and 4 wheelers. I don't understand how I can start the day with "Hi, Buddy, did you sleep well?" and get "Yeah, I'm hungry....could I ask Grandpa to buy me a dirt bike?"

Conversations take a turn like this all day long.

Q: "So Monkey, what do you want for dinner?"
A: "I could ride a four wheeler in the backyard, you know"

Q: "Want to go swimming today?"
A: "Jeff Gordon was 5 when he started to race go karts. I'm already 6!!!!"

Q: "Can we not talk about 4 wheelers and dirt bikes today?"
A: "If I promise to not go on sweet jumps until I'm 15, can I have a dirt bike?"

Six year old boy language is very random and very specific at the same time. And where the kid gets some of his material is questionable as well. An excerpt from a real conversation from this weekend:

Me: "Hey kiddo, I'll miss you tonight. Have fun with Daddy, okay?"
The Boy: "So I think Daddy and I should get our own monster truck."
Me: "Ummm...kay. Why?"
The Boy: "So we can ride around in it... Maybe pick up some hot chicks"
Me: "Some what?!?"
The Boy: "Hot chicks... to ride in the back"
Me: "Wha? Who?"
The Boy: "Ya know, GIRLS, Mommy? Hot chicks are girls."
Me: "So you want girls to ride in the monster truck?"
The Boy: "Yeah, hot chicks in the back."
Me: "Why do they have to ride in the back? Won't that be uncomfortable?"
The Boy: "They gotta ride in the back if me and Daddy are in the front. But I'll get 'em like a couch and a blanket and a microwave...."
Me: "Sounds like you're pimpin' your monster truck..."
The Boy: "What Mommy?"
Me: "Nothing, honey...Nothing."

So he's six and obviously thinking ahead to engines and hot chicks. Six!

I look at this boy and see the sweet face baby I so proudly marched out of the hospital with. He was swaddled in blue from the tiny baseball hat to the tiny booties. I wanted no one mistaking the fact that I- I was bringing home my son. Not that boys were preferred over girls, but after 2 beautiful pink daughters, this was a huge moment for me. I was puffed up like some Italian mafioso. -And not just from all the IV's and drugs from childbirth either. I used the word "son" like some women use the word "fiance" after just being engaged. As a new word that tingles on your tongue... a word that has a lot of meaning behind. When I said "son" what I meant was "HA!! I finally have a BOY! And we get to buy BLUE STUFF! And someday I will get to watch him play sports. And he is PERFECT and BIG and STRONG!"

And so now, this tiny boy, this sweet faced baby of mine says he wants to pick up hot chicks??? He wants to put his body (that I made!) on a four wheeler and drive it off "sweet jumps" so he can break his head (that I made too!!) open??

How do mothers do this? Girls are so much easier. Control the make make-up, keep boys away, take them shopping. Done. Slumber parties I can do. The most dangerous activity there is painting your toenails blue. Not being crushed by a dirt bike. Gah!

I am in love with this boy. Would do anything to make him happy... He is a charmer, and funny as hell and smart and precious with his little glasses and blue eyes, but if anyone sees him, tell him girls don't like dudes who have monster trucks, dirt bikes, go karts or 4 wheelers, okay?

The Last Fling Before the Ring...

Bachelorette Parties are interesting things men cannot understand. Much like women, periods and the difference in my 8 pairs of black shoes... Guys have bachelor parties and you don't see them stick a crown on the groom-to-be's head with a necklace covered in little plastic vaginas. They do not run around in packs downtown seeing who can be the loudest Woo-hooer, the sexiest dancer or blow whistles at hot men as they stagger down the street. The boys version?

Show me boobs. Give me beer. Done.

You gotta respect the simplicity of it, really. (I do want to give mad props to the bachelor party group I witnessed Saturday night who had taken a blow-up doll and handcuffed it to the groom... That. Was awesome.)

Women would be a bit less than satisfied if you handed a bride-to-be a box of wine and had some naked boys gyrate their wangs in her face.

(At least MY friends would've been anyway...)

So instead, we women plan days at the spa or dinner out dressed up with the girls... The we go out and get rowdy and drink. We stick a light up tiara on the chosen ones head, parade her all over town, making her as big a spectacle as humanly possible. For what? Free drinks? The attention? Maybe a bit of both. Maybe it is in the spirit of needing that connection with other women and feeling like we need to justify it with an occasion. Which is sad, really.

We shouldn't need an excuse to cram 8 girls together in one hotel room to giggle and talk about random things. We shouldn't need a reason to drink an obscene amount of liquor, dance our butts off and laugh at each other. And I'll be damned if we really need to have a reason to get all hopped up at 3 am to go get in the hotel pool in bras and panties. (Speaking of which, we should've sold tickets to THAT part of the night to pay for the alcohol portion! Duh! Why didn't I think of that before??? And there we were, a bunch of suckers, givin' that kind of show away for free?!? GAH!)

So I hereby second the motion for annual Bachelorette Party Night. Even if we don't pick a fake bride. I swear it's not to see the Hottest Boy I Have Ever Seen again... It's not for the free drinks being a group earned us... It's not even for the hilarity of seeing my drunk friend get on more than one stage with a crooked plastic tiara and veil on her head. It's to see you hot bitches all wet in your undies, dammit! ;-) No, I kid, I kid... It is our right- nay, our duty as women to get the hell away from the guys on occasion and do whatever the hell we want. And let them do whatever they want.

Even if it is boring old boobs and beer.

Keepin' it Classy...

It happened...Again.

I worked all day, ran around the hotel for 7 hours in heels making every detail for someone's event perfect down to the last carrot stick. They left, I cleaned up and then went immediately over to a friends house for a cocktail party I was hosting as a couple's wedding shower.

I had spent weeks planning the food, the decorations, the festivites. No detail went unattended. I bought dozens of pieces of glassware so there were no paper cups, I fought a hard battle over plastic anything. I wanted it beautiful and classy and perfect. So I'm cooking, and cleaning and setting up, I throw on my little black cocktail dress, have people lighting candles... I'm making drinks, people are oohing over the food- I am aware of a drink in my hand, but too busy to be concerned with it.

Things are rolling along, everything is on schedule, Sinatra is playing and all is right with the world. Until I realize I have downed 2 cosmos and 2 lemon drop martinis without even noticing...until my head is in the toilet. Nice.

Way to keep it classy...

Gah! Why does this always happen to me? It seems no matter how hard I try I cannot ever time it right. Nothing ever goes as planned. What am I doing wrong???

Boys who talk funny....

As a rule, I think most women like men with accents. Some chicks love the English lilt, or Aussie ruggedness, maybe a Scottish brogue. Some women are ready to drop their panties for men who speak any of the Love Languages. We all have some imaginary Pretend Boyfriend who whispers something romantic and foreign...maybe in French or Italian. But no. Not me.

I am a sucker for boys who drop their R's.

So no, it's not 'foreign' so to speak.... certainly not fancy or rugged. But what is it with those boys from the northeast and their sexy letter skipping accents that makes me crazy?

One of my very best friends always tells people when I finally do get to Boston I'd probably be happy to just listen to random men speak- read the phone book even. It's true, too. I'm afraid to take myself to Boston for fear of pouncing on dark haired boys who happen to say hi or ask me how I am. ("How ah ya?") Just thinking about it makes me giggly and beside myself. Some sweet waiter will want to take my order and I will kiss him... A gentleman will ask me if I want a beer and I will practically dry hump him. Gah!

I will be out of control. I will get my ass beat by some local chick for drooling over her boyfriend while I listen to him on his cell phone! But it's not even the young ones. Old guys talkng like that is the cutest damn thing ever. And the more they cuss, the better. I can't wait to go to a bar and hear a whole crowd of them yelling, "FAHK!"

That shit doesn't get old for me either. I have had one friend who drops his R's and three years later, I'm still begging him to say "clam chowder" one more time. Is he annoyed by it? Probably. Tells me I've got to learn to play it cool, but I swear this is some kind of sickness.

But at least I know any man who speaks like that could kick the shit out of your English Pretend Boyfriend...

Bad Mommy!

So I was dropping the oldest girl off for a slumber party and the mommy of the friend comes out to chat. She tells me she and her husband are going out for a few hours, something they do every Thursday. "It's a spiritual group."

I immediately am sent into a panic- as any kind of conversation teetering on religious beliefs makes me do. So I am off kilter when she says,

"Do YOU belong to a Spiritual Group?"

My immediate, no thought process involved reply?

"Sure do- but it's a different kind of spiritual. It's the one that comes from a bottle!"

She did a double take and my 12 year old yelped in embarrassment, "Mommy!"

Yep. I'm tellin' you... Mommy of the Year for that one.

The Way I See It...

So NASCAR has decided to make a venture into other worlds and one team has even teamed up with my very own RED SOX as owners. Formerly Roush Racing, now Roush-Fenway Racing. They even had a special paint scheme this past weekend at New Hampshire to commemorate the joining of the two.

If you know me, you'd think I'd be a little more excited about this marriage of my two very favorite things on Earth. But the problem is this: I cannot stand Jack Roush.

I love NASCAR. It has been a sports staple of mine for years. I fell in love during a 1996 Rockingham race and have never looked back. (Anyone else remember Rockingham?) I love the drivers, the drama, the intricacies of these three dollar parts determining million dollar paydays. Silly season, crew chief swapping, rivalry making, bump drafting, road course, super speedway, short track, engines blowing, tire rubbing, I LOVE it.

I adore Carl Edwards- he is truly a genuine, happy, grateful, enthusiastic driver. He is talented, he is funny and personable. He does BACKFLIPS off of his car when he wins for gawd's sake! He's fabulous.

Jack Roush? Total a-hole. And I can't endorse or become enthusiastic about anything that furthers his bid to become a dominant owner. Anything that adds credibility to his company. He spent a good portion of the late 90's calling Ray Evrenham a liar and a cheat because he truly couldn't catch up. Screamed that Ray soaked the tires or expanded the gas bladder! Even NASCAR went over those cars with fine toothed combs. They took samples to labs. Ya know what was in those tires? "Air, Jack."

He could not concede that Ray was an amazingly brilliant man who was a genius with those cars at the time. To this day I say Ray and Jeff Gordon were such a dominant force because they were so far ahead of the competition at the time and the competition just finally caught up and leveled the playing field.

It was a feeling among most people in NASCAR that yes, we all loved Mark Martin, but not his owner. He was a whiney baby who cried when his cars didn't win.

But then he got in the airplane accident and almost died and all of a sudden he's a damn saint. Whatever. Kenseth wins a championship and it's supposed to look like a Cinderella story. Screw that. I'm not buying.

So yes, I love the Sox. I should be beside myself with glee that my sports 'had a baby' so to speak. I should be able to take my eyes off that 24 car for 2 seconds to check on my Red Sox car. But I can't. The wrong dude owns it. But that's just the way I see it....

29 Questions About: 1994

I totally stole this from Christel. Who stole it from Lola who stole it from Ann. Because I'm bored and had a bad weekend, but it's too emotionally draining to think, much less write about. So here's some light and fluffy...

Fill this out about your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be.

1. Who was your best friend? Tistel
2. What sports did you play? Ummm... '94? Is sex a sport?
3. What kind of car did you drive? I didn't
4. Where were you on Friday nights? WalMart or Quebe's or the Park
5. Were you a party animal? uhhhh... we partied. not so sure about the "animal" part. ditto
6. Were you considered a flirt? No. I was considered the dumbass who always had a stupid boyfriend. Or mooning over someone I wanted to be my boyfriend
7. Ever skip school? yep.
8. Were you a nerd? still am- though kinda in a sexy way now... ;-)
10. Did you get suspended/expelled? no...
11. Can you sing the fight song? Yep
12. Who was your favorite teacher? Mrs. E or Mrs. Reagan
13. Favorite class? Newspaper or Theatre
14. What was your school's full name? Georgetown High School
15. School mascot? eagles
16. Did you go to Prom? 3 of em
17. If you could go back to high school and do it over, would you? Not just no, hell no.
18. What do you remember most about graduation? Being sad I had nobody to hug on the field because none of my friends were there with me.
19. Favorite memory of your Senior Year? I don't have a 'one'. It was an accumulative effort resulting in my lifetime group of friends.
20. Were you ever posted up on the senior wall? the wha? I am unfamiliar.
21. Did you have a job your senior year? yep. Wal-Mart Girl.
22. Where did you go most often for lunch? the Park, DUR. Home of the Infamous Wall of Food courtesy of Daniel Lee Hoglan. Amen, sister! Though I must add, we went to Sonic or Taco Bueno a lot.
23. Have you gained weight since then? yep. But 10 pounds per kid isn't sooo bad. Oh, wait...
24. What did you do after graduation? Worked my ass off, had a baby, got married.
25. When did you graduate?1994
26. Where are most of your classmates? we are all still in town
27. Are you going to your ten year reunion? Went against my better judgement. Won't be making an appearance at the 20th.
28. Who was your home room teacher? homeroom teacher? what's that?
29. Who will repost this after you? Any random stranger who happens upon this and is bored too.

A Little NASCAR Gloating...

"Hey Jeff, let's go kick some ass and take some names, Boss!"

That's right, bitches. WE OWN HIS ASS! WOOOOOO!!!

It's a banner day in NASCAR and we Jeff Gordon fans are giddy and beside ourselves with glee. You see, it hasn't been us booing your driver. No, no. We haven't thrown beer cans when your golden boy Earnhardt Jr. has won. A, because we have more class and B, because, oh yeah, he hasn't won in over a year, but I digress...

So while I've never jumped on the Jr. bandwagon, I can say I've never hated him. He's been a fun, amusing dude who looks like someone you'd totally want to have a beer with. -As long as he didn't talk about his Daddy- who I couldn't stand, but have respect for what he did for the sport... The only reason Jr. fans hated Jeff was because they were jealous- we never had anything to be jealous of. And now, (write it down!) June 13, 2007, Dale Earnhardt Jr. comes to join Hendrick Motorsports. "Why would he do that?" you may be asking yourselves.


Because he knows that's where he's got to go to win.


Duh. And so now, when he does win, when/if he goes on to win a championship, he will have Hendrick beside him. He will never have to beat us- he's joined us.

And what's even more fabulous? Jeff Gordon is all but 50/50 partners with Hendrick in all endeavors and most assuredly will be so when he retires. A+B= Jr. will soon be driving FOR, not with Mr. Jeffery Michael Gordon. Soon he'll call him Boss... Omg, I love this game...

I'm sorry. I know. It must hurt. I swear I will only rub this in for today. I will only do my evil chuckle a few more times today and then back to business. I will only dream about Jr. thanking Jeff and Mr. Hendrick for the opportunity a little longer, I will only giggle a little at the idea of now learning to root for Jr. because I will be able to see what he can do in quality equipment surrounded by the most talented teams in NASCAR...

But I will laugh loudly AND point at you dumbshits with the number 8 tattoos if he becomes the #5!!!

People will ask what this does to NASCAR, and I say "Who gives a crap?" It's the same as any other driver swap. Jr. fans will still be pissy if he loses, Gordon fans will still want Jeff to go after those 3 more trophies. Any other team had the same opportunity to court Jr. but he chose Hendrick for a reason. This is his last chance to prove he's not the O word he hears so often- Overratred. If he can't win here, he can't win. And all the hype that has surrounded him since he got to the Cup level is just that. A bunch of hoop-la about a so-so driver with a big-ass last name. I hope he does well.... I can now.

Welcome to the Hendrick Family, Jr. We are happy to have you onboard. Now get your driving boots on, it's time to go win some races....

A Word on Alcohol...

So one of my very best friends is getting married- and so of course that means meeting new people and her new family. Amazing the kinds of people you discover you've never met before. People from other states or countries, people from all walks of life, people of different religions, people who don't drink....

Whoa-waitwaitwait, wha?

Yeah. For real. And I don't mean a 90 year old Bible thumper either. I have met a gorgeous young woman who doesn't drink at all. And that is the craziest talk I have ever heard.

That's like saying, "Sex? No thank you- I don't have sex."

"Air? Oh no, really. I'm fine, but thank you."

Seriously? I assure you I am not an alcoholic by any means- I can even find people who will vouch for me. But the thought of never drinking EVER... That would drive me into a mental institution. I get that everyone has their thing. Some dumbasses have to smoke pot to relax, some people must smoke cigarettes. But never a glass of wine (or seven) at a party? Not a lemon drop martini on a hot summer night? Not a Jager bomb after a few glasses of whiskey?

Drinks are like lovers... You get to choose which you are in the mood for on any given night. You think about them, crave them, then lovingly wrap your hands around them and slowly take that first taste... You can take them slowly, savoring each sip- making it last longer, or you can take it quickly, barely taking the time to enjoy the flavor, but getting satisfaction immediately.

If you don't want to be with the same drink all night, try another one- or another. No one is counting. Maybe you skip from wine to visit liquor. Maybe you are true blue and go with bottle after bottle of the same beer. Maybe you cheat a little on your beer with a shot or two... Naughty...

I cannot imagine not having this love affair with alcohol every now and again. What is it like to just choose to never have her in your life- especially when you've never experimented with her? Never to know the warm feeling of happiness slowly wash over you until you can feel your worries and stresses just slide right off your shoulders?

Okay, yes, you'd miss out on those rough nights where all those ladies meeting in the nightclub of your tummy start fighting it out and someone gets thrown out (er..up) but how often does that happen after your 25th birthday, really? Maybe it's the fear of loosing your inhibitions and doing or saying something stupid. That happens to me... A LOT. But usually it's funny stories like that that weave together the tapestry of my friendship with a lot of people.

I just don't get it. Do you, my sweet little Jameson bottle? No, I didn't think so....

Holding Patterns

So all aspects of my life are on hold.

Like a blinking red light... Not being talked to, not being hung up on. Not taking action, not being inactive. Just kind of in limbo. Like a plane doing circles in the sky. Going no where, but not holding still.

And it's making me insane.

I have always been so...ALIVE. I do things, I feel things. But because I'm in this waiting room of life, I feel nothing. I do nothing but see myself move on auto-pilot. Get up, go to work, come home, cook dinner, play with kids, watch baseball (the ONLY thing that makes me feel anymore) go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. That's all I do.

So I wait. For more money, for more time, for someone to DO something first. It's my home life where nothing is what it looks like... It's work- where I am stuck until I get xyz years under my belt, or until after the renovation, or until I find something better...

And all the books say "Take control, only you can make it happen....Blahblahblah". That's great and all, if YOU can make it happen without money...or if YOU can make it happen with no family or if YOU can make it happen with four children who depend on you for their happiness. That is a lot of weight to carry around by itself.

So I need a book. Or some smart ass friends... To tell me how in THE HELL you find your own happy when 4 little people depend on you for theirs and those may not always coincide. How you take control and "make it happen" with no dollars, damn near no sense and without hurting people who don't want ANYTHING to happen holding you down.

Crap. I just wrote those stupid introspective blogs that I hate... Fahk.

A moment of mush

And another thing about my baseball weekend... Just an itty-bitty bit of mush and then I promise no more...

I want to be caught by the KissCam on the Jumbo Tron. And by someone who knows how. And by someone I want the whole wide world to see kissing me... And I was depressed beyond words to realize I may never get that.

LET'S GO RED SOX!

Back to work again after a fabulous baseball weekend in Arlington. Took my monsters up to Ameriquest Field for the Rangers vs Red Sox games Saturday and Sunday. Went on a tour of the ballpark too!

The 12 year old and I went Saturday night and had a blast. We got rained on and didn't care, we yelled and clapped and chanted and woo-hoo'd. We moved down to awesome seats around the 8th inning and were about 5 rows up from the Sox dugout. Can I tell you how in LOVE with Mike Lowell I am? Seriously, if you EVER need anything done, that dude just does it. He's not flashy like Manny or a big power hitter like Papi, he just gets in there and gets it done. And he's so...dreamy... *sigh* (I totally just lost all my guy readers, didn't I?)

It was a fun night, Sox were hot, Texas was not, no one messed with me- not even the a-hole with the frozen margaritas who I begged for and he never materialized. Paps closed the show- good Lord, he is impressive. We watched the tape back and I didn't even realize I was telling my daughter, "Just look at him, watchwatchwatch how he looks at the batter" over and over again.

Sunday was rainy at first, but we made our way out with all 4 kiddos. My boys were in awe of how big everything was. At 6 & 3, I can just imagine. They were all a little disappointed that Papi was sitting this one out, but Tek was catching, so it made up for it a little. Our seats were wayyy to high for my liking, but what made them bad seats was the giant bastard who sat behind us. So my Sox are introduced and we are all cheering. My kids are thrilled to be at a "REAL" game, hearing the names they've only seen on TV. Then this ass-clown starts BOO-ING behind my 6 year old little boy.

"Mommy, that man is booing" he says. So I say to my son while looking at this ass, "I know honey, some people are not good sportsmen. You are 6 and have more class."

AssClown then proceeds to make every tired ass Red Sox "Curse" comment known to man. "They just sucked for 90 years, it was fake blood, they're whiners, blahblahblah." Fortunately for him and his wife, I was with my kids or I would have beat him just on general principal.

So we get our 3 run homer (Woooooooo!) and I make sure to have my kids up on their chairs and squealing good and loud. (We went on into the next few pitches, but I wanted to make sure he knew how happy we were). The Rangers came back with their own 3 run homer and I had to listen to AssClown hoot and hollar. I was waiting for a banjo and a 21 gun salute to go with the dip and fat ass completing the red neck ensemble, but I had to settle for the "YEEHAW--- THAT'S HOW WE DO IT IN TEXAS!"

No, bitch. That is not how we do it in Texas. Ewww.

So we are up on them again and I look to see who's warming up in our bullpen. YESS! It's Okie! Wooohoo! So I tell my kiddos and they are excited. AssClown hears me and says very loudly to his wife "Must be that Jap pitcher they bought for a billion dollars. They're the Evil Empire, you know."

Oh. No. You. Didn't.

I had to say something. I wanted to say something with a LOT of f words in it, but I had witnesses... But regardless if my children bore witness to it or not, I had to set him straight...

"No, actually. That would be the Yankees. And that pitcher is an amazing closer. You'd know that if you paid more attention to baseball than turning the game then drinking beer until you passed out. Who you might be thinking of is Matsuzaka, who is a STARTER and does not make a billion dollars. Any more questions?"

He just smirked, waited until I turned around and called me a bitch. Whatever.

My 6 year old boy is the funnest person I have ever been to a game with. He was taunting the Little League players in the next section, he was screaming "LET'S GO RED SOX" at all the wrong times, he was standing in his seat cheering at every ball that looked like it might be a home run- even if it was a pop up. He is awesome. I let him be as loud as he wanted and I'm sure he annoyed AssClown behind us a lot. He deserved it. Needless to say, we won and that jerk left quickly and quietly. We stayed and cheered for our boys until the section cleared out.

We do love our Sox even down here in Texas.

Martini Miss

I LOVE this picture. I am not usually a big fan of nudes, but this picture speaks to me... This woman speaks to me. She's saying... "Yeah, I'm in a giant martini glass- so the fuck what?"

No. Seriously. Not just that. She is not perfect. And I love that. See her cute little rolls? Her not hugly inflated boobs? But she is naked and doesn't care. Maybe she dove into that giant martini and drank it all. But she is completely unapologetic for any of it. It doesn't hurt that she also kicked those friggin olives outta there- I would've too.

You can make up your own story when you look at her. Who is she trying to seduce? Is he watching her? Has he already been seduced and now he's looking and appreciating her? Or maybe she is just there for herself. Look at her... just look at her for a minute.

This woman is beautiful and powerful and fearless. She's my new hero. Maybe someday she'll be me.

There's no crying in baseball!

But damn...after the 0-14 red-headed stepchild asswhooping we took last night, I kinda wish there was....

It wouldn't have been nearly as painful if I hadn't danced around the house yesterday after my Red Sox beat the Braves 13-3 in the first game of the double-header. So I danced and woohoo'd, I shook my butt at the TV, I sang "weeeee are the champions...of the wooooorld!"...and then three hours later we got our asses handed to us in an extremely embarassing fashion. A shut-out? For real?

We still have the best record in baseball. We are still friggin amazing. Guess everybody needs a little reality check when they are that awesome...

Speaking of awesome, I have tickets for next Saturday's Sox game vs the Rangers! I am so excited!!! I haven't seen my actual boys since Spring Training! Now they are coming to me here in Texas! So I will pack up the car, drive 3 hours, see the game, drive back home 4 hours later and be blissfully happy about. Not just happy, but I'm even thinking about driving back and then doing it again Sunday so I can take my kids. My girls are d-y-i-n-g to see a 'real' game. And how proud am I that they don't consider it a 'real' game unless it's the RED SOX? I mentioned it to the oldest and her only words were "Oh my God....You mean I might get to see Papi...FOR REAL?"

*sigh* I got a little teary...

A different kind of blogging altogether...

So here is my thinking on blogging: Entertain me. Tell me funny stuff. Make me laugh or educate me on something I don't know about. Let me read actual writing that amuses and informs. I don't want to hear whining, or bullshit or about a that dog pooped in your yard, a bird that flew by or some random poetic, flowery sounding prose. You want to have a diary? Fine. Get out your emotions, your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams for the future or a 500 word page essay on how beautiful your kid is. Write all that shit down, and lock it up so no one else has to read it.

My thoughts on this stem from the fact that I myself have a VERY hard time blogging. I've tried my hand on myspace. Most of the time I come up with zip unless something particularly amusing has happened that day or I made a funny I felt compelled to share. I can't share with you what's in my head, my heart, my soul. I just can't do it. I share a lot. But that stuff is hard for me. And how is it meaningful if everybody and their perverted, ass-scratching Uncle Fred is reading about it on the www?

I'm not gonna blog in the traditional sense. My new Pretend Boyfriend Fitzy (www.townienews.com) is my hero. (Actually that's not even his real name...or person...but whatever- it makes him a better Pretend Boyfriend) He doesn't get in front of his camera to do a webcast and bitch about his mortgage payment or tell us how much he loves his wife. He gets up there and makes us pee ourselves with laughter. Yes, he loves the Red Sox almost as much as me... so I'm a little partial to him, but seriously? It is so friggin refreshing to look forward to someone who makes all your problems go away for 5 minutes and doesn't expect you to take their crap in return.

So this is the blog that's not. It will be silly stories about a 30 ish Mommy who trys to be classy and starts the night with martinis and perfect make-up...and ends up being the drunk chick singing into something and doing Jager bombs. (*Sigh* Dammit! Why does that always happen?) About the girl who loves baseball and her crazy 4 children and all the stupid stuff they do. I will not blog on my parenting methods, (I only have one of those and it's this- Don't Let Anybody Die) but I'll tell you how my son calls his penis his "peanut". I won't write sonnets about how beautiful my children are, but they are. I have no doubt there will a drunk story or two (or ten...thousand) but I promise no drunk love letters to anyone.....Except the Sox.