Winter, you beggarly, benumbed wench, Leave us.
Somebody had a little too much XTC in their Special K this morning.
Really Looking forward to Spring in Chicago. March 25, 2008
The Shopping List. March 23, 2008
My fucking Easter Grocery list.
DAYUM, I had a day. I am not going to bore you all with the insanality of Mike and I trying to prepare for our family Easter Birthday party at our house tomorrow. Let’s just say, today involved a lot of snot, fevers, hangovers, cleaning, shopping and me army crawling under a car on the wet slushy ground to try to get my fucking Easter grocery list.
To protect the innocent i.e. my children, I will refer to them as (Kid A: male. 8 in two weeks) ohhhhh, let’s call him….Apple. No, that’s gay. But if he is we will love him anyway. Let’s call him…Alpha. That’s masculine.
The middle one (Kid B: Girl. 6 years old. Insane like her mother) will be Bambi. The little one, kid C, the runt of the litter shall be herein entitled Cracker. (Cause she’s crazy like her mother)
Alpha and Cracker (this is already a disaster) are having birthdays in two weeks. Cracker was born on the date of the month the day before Alpha, insuring him a life time filled with resentment, misunderstanding and jealousy. And speaking of Jealously, Bambi, literally the Most Jealous Person In The World, is very lucky that the other birthdays fall near Easter, so for a lifetime, she will be showered with Cadbury bunnies, useless stuffed animals and all the peeps Bambi can shove into her little mouth, all under the guise that “she is special and deserves presents, too.”
But back to the fucking Easter shopping list.
I leave the kids with…Mike. Oh well, I already outted him and he is not so innocent anyway. Oh, and one thing, I always forget my lists. I will spend hours on a grocery list, categorizing them by aisle sometimes, for ultimate efficiency. I have been known to actually type them up in an endearing little word document, complete with bullet points. I start these lists sometimes moments after I return from a previous grocery run, when I need to add all the things that I forgot to get on that trip. Needless to say, I work hard on these lists and I quite literally always forget them. I leave them on the counter or shove them in my coat pocket and leave my coat in kitchen. Often, it makes it to the car but it gets lost in the Mcdonalds bags, outdated Mapquest directions and ye ol’ forgotten grocery lists of times gone by…
The point is, I rarely have a list when I get into a store. Then I get in the store and I roam the aisles aimlessly and in a very unorganized fashion, as I drool and mope and give dirty looks to the people who are crossing off things on their little fucking lists with their little fucking pens and I hate them and I always forget at least three things.
Well, I threw this list together today. I think I even wrote it on the back of a Chase deposit envelope on the way to our 5 million dollar Costco run this morning. It wasn’t neat, it wasn’t alphabetized or categorized by aisle or expiration date, but God DAMN it, I was gonna remember to bring that fucker IN with me. Super T (Target with food, The Ultimate Tarjjjayyy) was ridiculous. I got the last possible spot in the last possible corner of the very impossible end of the mall. But I grabbed my fucking Easter grocery list and I went a-walkin. I was chatting with my cousin….Apricot….and I was bitching about how much money we have spent already and WHHHHHHOOOOOOOSHHHHHH
a gust goes by and I’ll be damned if that fucking list didn’t blow right out of my hand. And now watch me as I chase after it because It.Will.Not.Defeat.Me.It.Will.Not.Define.Me.It.Will.Not.Bring.Me.Down.
And it lands literally in the exact middle of the undercarriage of a car parked in a handicapped spot. If I got out a ruler or measuring tape or some sort of Numb3rs Charlie Eppes math graph and figured out the exact middle point of the exact piece of inch that is directly in the middle of under the car, I could not have gotten closer. I CANNOT REACH IT. My cashmere sweater and my jeans are all wet and I am starting to laugh a little like a loon.
I KICK THE CAR! I SPIT ON THE LIST! I TRIP THE OWNER OF THE VEHICLE!
I do not of these things but I want to because I am PISSED.
I didn’t even see the owner of the car, but come ON, it snowed yesterday but now it was sunny and all the snow was slushy and melting and awww man, do I have to get DOWN there on my hand and knees? I am still talking to Apricot who I hang up on by mistake when I have to fucking LAY DOWN on the ground to try to reach the fucking Easter grocery list.
There is a lady staring at me. I feel compelled to explain my situation and I am happy to have an audience.
“I am having a day. (Crazy person laugh) I dropped my shopping list and it went under this car and I can’t reach it and blah blah blah blah blah (interspersed with crazy lady laughing)”
She stares at me for what is a really kind of an uncomfortable amount of time. She says nothing but goes into her trunk and pulls out this thing. This glorious, beautiful, long, pointy thing. I think its an extendo-broom.
She’s says, “I use to clean house, yes?”
God love her.
She squats down and grabs that little fucker and I am jumping up and down in the parking lot like I need to be parking in my own handicapped space for mental reasons. I actually think I may have hugged her, I am too embarrassed in front of myself to try to remember exactly what I did but I think I said things like,” you are an Easter gift” and something about Jesus. I don’t know. Don’t make me look back, but the point is…
I got the fucking Easter shopping list.
It made it into Super T and for the first time like…ever…I FORGOT NOTHING.
Happy Easter.
Her Skin Grew Over the Seat… March 13, 2008
There is a very sad woman, who was just recently removed from a bathroom she has not left for over 2 years.
“A 35-year-old woman who sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for so long that her body was stuck to the seat had a phobia about leaving the bathroom, the boyfriend said. ‘She is an adult; she made her own decision,’ said her boyfriend, Kory McFarren. ‘I should have gotten help for her sooner; I admit that. (DO YA THINK???) But after a while, you kind of get used to it.’” Full article here
DUDE.
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I can’t even find the words to type how insane that is that he let her stay in there, sitting on the toilet. Bringing her clothes and food to her everyday. “They had conversations and had an otherwise normal relationship”…
People are FUCKED up.
On a lighter note, I love Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. He would never let her ass mold to the toilet seat. They are the Once couple and they are dating in real life.
I am slightly obsessed with them. I google them a little bit too much. My husband and I are in love with that movie and “Falling Slowly” has become our song. I promised Mike that I wasn’t going to blogtrash him if I started this blogging thing, but I can’t help it. He totally man-cries when we listen to that tune. And I don’t blame him – it’s totally emotional for us. For whatever reason, does an emotional thing to our souls. Jesus, that is a stupid description. But seriously, I almost want to stop listening to it, to avoid ever getting sick of it. My 6 year old daughter is learning the song and I am accompanying her really badly on her $34 pink rock and roll ToysRUs guitar. It’s a kick ass version soon to be sweeping the charts over at youtube.com – look out for it.
There is a video of Glen and Marketa performing on Michigan Avenue and there is like, NO ONE THERE. There are maybe 2-3 people looking at them at the end, like who are those fucking people? Don’t bother me on my lunch hour.
Here is the link to the video…
What the FECK. If Mike and I knew about that, we would have not only been there, but we would have been FREAKING OUT. In a totally embarrassing and inappropriate way. We may have even tried to make out with them, I don’t know, but it would have been strange, weird and cool as hell.
I sang last night with a friend at Maxime’s downtown and I got home tooooo late. I woke up with my eyes fastened shut by my fake eyelashes. I was in my bra and underwear and I passed out still wearing my fake bling jewelry. It left little indented marks all over different areas of my skin. I am a hot mess and I need to go take care of myself before the girls think Courtney Love has now become their mother.
Who’s The Old Wheezing Bag with the Mic? March 10, 2008
I am getting too old and no one will hire me.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, I am still working, of course. And I get to perform in cool places like the Plush Room in San Fran and Chicago’s Drury Lane Water Tower. But let’s not sugar coat, this, Blanche: I am a lounge singer. Nothing glamorous. A girl’s gotta work cause baby needs a new pair of shoes. Quite literally.
We move out to Bumblefeck and there is NO WHERE to play. I sit in every once in awhile as the house vocalist at Pirro’s in Woodstock and I have the random job here and there, but other than that, there is not a whole lot going on. I am used to working at least once a week, if not more.
And this is not me trying to book Carnegie Hall people. We are talking about me trying to get a booking singing in a measly corner of a 3 star restaurant singing Besame Mucho will you gnaw on your calamari. But lately, I can’t get arrested. I know for certain that it’s not my voice because vocally, I am sharp as a tack. Process of elimination points out that it must be the way I look.
Perhaps it’s just something small like restaurant managers being worried that servers may trip over my sagging breasts, or that my gnarled, rugged and scraggy skin with turn people off from ordering the Veal Piccata. Perhaps it’s my distended and paunchy middle-aged housewife form, that is, time and time again, shoved in a black cocktail dress like haggis.
Not that I am NOT working on that. I wash my face, brush my teeth with whitening toothpaste, bathe and exfoliate every day. I shave my legs every once in while too. But I live in a land where finding time to pee without a toddler on your lap is a challenge, so taking care of myself is pretty much on the bottom of the list.
Example of daily to do list:
- laundry
- Clean bathrooms
- dust shutters
- Make dentist appts.
- birty party invites
- wipe asses
- remove crusty snot off cheeks
- do 5,000 things, then, if there is a few minutes before bed
- make time to poop
I have been dieting and have lost 15 pounds already, thanks to a great support group of my online mommy friends. I am not exercising yet because frankly, I am too busy blogging.
At this point, I am virtually a solid so I need to get moving and shaking a little bit. Instead of being one of those dieters that hangs a fridge picture of Pauline Porizkova (See how feckin old I am?), I mean Kate Moss (gawd, she’s practically geriatric now, too) Mary-Kate Olsen, I can hang up a picture of Bette Midler in Vegas.
She’s still working. Big time. If I hang her up on the fridge, surely I will thing twice before going in there and making my typical lunch: a cheese sandwich, with cheese soup, mac and cheese with a side of cheesecake.
I am going into the studio Tuesday with this new guitarist (who I will from now on refer to as Dracula to protect the innocent) that I have been working with, some 24 year old guy from Transylvania, who RIPS it up, seriously, he is so good. I am optimistic that we can get some work together as a mother-son duo.
Dracula and I need to think of a name. Here are some ideas:
Liza and Gest
Old Vampira and the Young Transylvanian
Depends
Senile Sally and the Caregiver
What do you think? Well, listen, you let me know if you have any ideas. D and I are open to suggestions.
Yesterday, when I dressed to go on a family Costco run, I noticed that I have a corrugating, puckered, wrinkled mess on my neck. This is a serious situation we have here. I actually and I shit you not, put on a silk scarf around my neck that would have made Diane Keaton weep with pride.
After our studio session, Dracula and I are going to have a promo pic photo shoot soon. If that doesn’t work out, I should actually send this picture and see how many gigs we get
I gotta wrap this up here so I can go kill a duck and rub the lard on my new neck wrinkles.
Pineapples, Cottage Cheese and 4 Million worth of plastic. March 8, 2008
(Insert 50’s housewife music here)
OhNoTheyDidn’t.com, my source for this delightful day in the life piece, states, “Don’t know who Jocelyn Wildenstein is? She’s a New York socialite who’s reportedly spent over $4,000,000 on plastic surgery over the years to keep her husband” To read about who in the hell she actually is, Click here
I just…I…
Hm.
Dear Peter Bogdanovich, if if you ever decide to do a remake of your sensational 1985 Oscar winning Mask and would like to replace Eric Stolz because he’s to busy filming Howl, please look no further.
Feck. March 7, 2008
FeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeck
I love the word, fuck. Love it. But since it’s St’ Patty’s time, I like to say FECK. Feck Feck feck.
I am going to write a book.
I have decided this. My life is and always was, excessively goofy. It is pretty much a daily occurrence for something ridiculous to happen to me. And I think I owe it to my children to write this shit down. I am working on the outline now and I have already run unto a problem. I am getting to the high school years and now I don’t know what to do. I need to make a call here because there is some FECKED up shit and do they really have to know everything about their mother? I mean, I don’t know half of what my parents did and frankly, I. Don’t. Wanna.
Do they need to know about how I lost my maidenhood or how I scaled my wall drunk at their grandfather’s 40th birthday party? Do they want to read about how I chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels and peed on Sean Gorley’s living room carpet, only to wake up in his soccer uniform (shin guards included)? Must they hear about me trying to make out with a hot BBQ and do they really need to know about my crazy Boulder band daze?
I think not. So I will have to be really selective. But that crazy stuff. That’s the shit that I want to remember, too. It’s good for me. It puts hair on the chest. Reminds me that my kids are never going to be allowed to leave the fecking house. If I had my druthers, they would all be put in a convent until college. But then they might come out weird.
And so what do I call this blockbuster? Oprah’s next book club selection and the reason for my future Pulitzer?
Mama was a Slut but now she makes a mean PB and J? Mommy is bad with money and let me tell you why? How to fuck up a perfectly privileged childhood and education by Mommy? Hmm…Not so much.
I think I will focus on the fun stuff and remember that my children, even if full grown will be reading this and while I want to give them a true account of the many faces and places of Mommy, I want them to respect me. And so I guess I have to respect myself and leave out the scary crap. Maybe I should do and unabridged adult version. Entitled Mom does Porn.
Oh, this will be fun. One more thing for me to fit in my already insanely busy day.
Feck.
The Pogues Made Me Blog, Love Aunt Barbara. March 6, 2008
There. I am officially doing it.
Last night, I had a moment of clarity when I realized that here I was, almost 40 years old and moshing with smelly men, and that I needed to start a blog.
Why not, everyone else is doing it. And who the hell is going to read it anyway?
So, about my night…
I went to the Pixies WHOOPS I mean Pogues show last night (I bought last nights tickets as a Christmas present for my husband, I thought I was buying him Pixies tickets…when he opened them, he wasn’t going crazy. I said WTF, honey, Merry Christmas, he said, cool, you love these guys. I was so excited that I guess I subconsciously bought the wrong ones.)
WOW. What an interesting night. Now, I love the Pogues and I saw them at a summer music festival in the late 90’s, Shane McGowan was not in the band anymore. He is a massive drunk who is an amazing artist but man, google his image. He drank so much he…just…forgot to deal..wit his teeth. Whoops. Eventually he was kicked out of the band in the 1990’s. That festival that I saw was pretty tame for some reason, anyway I don’t remember it being to out of control but you should have seen the oldest member of this boardblog site in the irish MOSH PIT last night.
Shane was so drunk that they made the audience wait an hour and a half before they came out. That sucked. (I heard the next day that he was late because they couldn’t find him. They couldn’t FIND HIM. God, I love that about him.)
I realize that I am an old fart, but I thought I looked kinda cute and I certainly thought I was fooling everyone with my cute little mini skirt, boots and peekaboo top. Until some guy bumped into me and said, “Oh Hey Aunt Barbara. When did you get here? At least you boobs still look good.”
THUMP.
OMG.
I literally was crying in the bathroom. Then I was crying because I was crying in the bathroom. Then I realized how gross the bathrooms are and I cried because everything is so different now, I mean, I NEVER cared about how gross the bathrooms were. Now, all I wanted were some baby wipes and antibacterial lotion.
When, seriously, when did I get old?
I am going to be 40 next year and I literally feel like I am still in my 20’s. I have such a warped sense of self.
Also, I miss smoking. The ban has created a whole other problem.
People stank.
Even before the concert started, as we all piled in like cows to the slaughter, I am smelling the nasty of all these people around me and I realize, I miss the smoke smell. I can’t handle the guy in front of me who clearly has not showered for days after, let’s see (I analyzed his stank for the better part of an hour) curry, beer burps, a random beer fart here and there, uh, and the worst smell, that make me throw up in my mouth a little bit, did someone get a little somethin somethin lately, DUDE. BATHE. O. M . GAWWWDDD.
Then the band started and Shane was spitting and practically puking on everyone through the nubs of his 4 remaining teeth and then people started to sweat. (By the way, the band was amazing. Shane is fucking insane, but he is stilll awesome. Love Spider. And Phil Chevron was back in action after battling throat cancer and it was the highlight of the evening to see him singing “thousands are sailing” – quite amazing. And so ends my mini-review)
I am a little damaged still from the whole scent experience. Lift the ban so I can fill my lungs with smoke instead of stinky drunk Irish college boy.
Speaking of drunk Irish college boy, 15 years ago, this kind of a scene was like a candy store for me. I LOVE drunk Irish college boys. Well, I did but man, it’s hard to look back at what I used to find hot. I was a total tard.
The funniest thing all night was Mike and this other older guy blocking me. They were my bodyguards, shoving and punching people away from me. Mike has his leather coat on and never took it off. We had to leave a little early because we thought he was going to have a coronary.
Feck, we are old.
But the date ended perfectly when we went to our most favorite city hang out, The Green Mill, and drank a dirty martini and listened to Gypsy Jazz…. A great, if not incredibly stinky night. Merry Christmas to me.
