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.