Cover that ass up

Have I blogged about cellulite already? I'm too lazy to go check, so if I did then too bad - I'm doing it again. I was watching Rachel Ray once (literally, one time) and one of the little segments was about cellulite. She had a doctor on who does some goofy treatments and I think wrote a book or something and he said that a couple things you can do to decrease cellulite is to wear panties that don't cling to your butt, thongs, or just go commando. What the hell? Who is this guy? I think it's a conspiracy, possibly concocted by my husband to get me to wear thongs. So of course I fell for it and have been in a panic about how my underwear clings to my butt and is therefore producing cottage cheese on my thighs. I went out and bought various types of non-clinging panties only to find that if they don't have elastic around the bottom they're going to be riding up mine (bottom that is). And I have tried thongs, several times, mostly to please my spouse (see what a good wifey I try to be...occasionally...okay, only for special occasions like holidays and birthdays and such), but I can't get over the feeling that everytime I sit down I have a major tight wedgie that is dying to be picked out. Plus, I don't think my ass is in any way attractive in a thong. It's all just hanging out back there - a big pale moon. And let's just say that my skin complexion isn't exactly clear either, and when I walk all I can think of is the residual ass-jiggle that seems magnified by the fact that it is not confined by fabric and elastic. How is that possibly sexy? As for that last option of going commando I've only got one word to say - pubes. Zippers and short-n-curlies do not belong near each other, not to mention the just general ickiness that goes on "down there." So, I guess I'll just be unattractive in my cotton bikini briefs, complete with panty lines and cellulite.

Men, can't live with 'em, can't...well...that pretty much sums it up.

My previous blog cut me off! I don't know what the hell I hit on the keyboard but it posted before I was done, and before I had time to title it! Apparently the powers that be had had enough of my bitter bitchiness. Anyways, I just spent the day putting up Chrismas decorations and grouching about the shit constantly laying around the house, in case you're wondering about the Hillary Clinton-ness male bashing atmosphere suddenly clogging up my blog. And I know that she doesn't really do any male-bashing (in public), so all you Hil's supporters can pull your panties out your asses and sit comfortably.

ps. does anybody know how to edit a blog once it's posted?

I really need to study up on the bible. Maybe it will explain why women seem to have gotten the short end of the stick. I mean, I know about the original sin, blah blah blah, but wasn't Adam at fault just as much as Eve? I mean, I think we all know that he kind of talked her into it (c'mon ladies, think about your first time. I bet it wasn't exactly YOUR idea.). So why is that we're the lucky ones that have the crazy hormonal reproductive systems? Biology of course has a reason for everything, or at least those people at the Discovery Health channel seem to know what they're talking about. I mean, males are in charge of the hunting and gathering, so it doesn't make sense for them to be caring for and nurturing the young. It would really stink to come up against a dinosaur and be 7 months pregnant. And I know that there are reasons why we have those wacky hormones, but doesn't it seem like men got the better end of the deal? They have what, testosterone, which makes them horny all the time (not a bad thing), and it increases their metabolism (and muscle mass) so that they can eat a ton more, not need to exercise very much, and not gain weight. They're not really fighting dinosaurs anymore (and if they are it's something they chose to do, plus women are now fighting alongside them), so it's not like they have that whole "I'll do the dangerous stuff so the little lady doesn't have to" going for them. And they don't have all that nurturing crap floating around their brains 24/7 like women do. They only think of one thing (sex) at a time. I can't even imagine what that would be like, well, I'll try. Picture this: (whistle the tune from "The Andy Rooney Show")
Wake up in the morning and think "must shower and dress for work" without thinking about what undergarments need to be worn with that particular blouse and if you have any clean pantyhose.
Go to work, do your job
Come home, think (or say if your wife isn't homicidal) "what's for dinner?"
Change, maybe play with kids for a few minutes, eat dinner
put kids to bed, watch TV
go to bed without a care in the world
Even before I had kids I had constant "to-do" lists running in my head, now with two kids I sometimes wonder how my brain doesn't physically explode and run out my ears. And I can't turn it off! I think that's the thing that I most jealous about in regards to men - the fact that their minds are so blessedly empty of all that clutter.
My husband and I once had a conversation about a similar topic while I was pregnant with my second child - I asked him if he was jealous in any way of the fact that I was the one that got to experience pregnancy - his answer of course being a whopping "NO!" I think most men would answer the same way. I could ask TGD if there was anything about being a woman that he was jealous of but I already know his answer - boobs. It almost makes me want to play with mine more as a big "F You!" to manhood.

Beer good

I've recently re-discovered the joys of getting drunk. Okay, not fall down on my butt, "talking on the big white phone" drunk, more of a giggly, "everything is great" drunk. Maybe tipsy is a better word, but it's a dumb girly word and I don't want to use it. I haven't been a "drinker" in a long time, what with all the baby making and being the DD for my husband (who likes his beer). Plus I sort of overdid it my freshman year of college - you know, that first semester away from the 'rents, going crazy drinking the nasty mixes only college kids will drink, whoreshly locking lips with many college guys (maybe that was only me but I'm sure there's some other kissing sluts out there). Anyways, it's taken me a long long time to not shudder at the thought of alcohol (hence the current enjoyment of such beverages). However, I have noticed that I get the embarassing "second thoughts" the day after having a couple drinks. You know, the "crap, was everything I said hysterically funny or was I just being loud and obnoxious?!" In my befuddled alcoholic haze I think I'm pretty witty and tend to get the giggles, and I'm pretty sure my speaking voice goes up a few decibels (for some reason when I drink I think people can't hear me very well so I tend to shout like I'm talking to my Grandpa), but I'm drunk so everything is great. It's only the next day (sober and usually not hungover) that I think "shit, I was a total asshat." But I guess that's part of the fun of having a few drinks - I can act like a dork and chalk it up to being drunk, a perfectly reasonable excuse for poor behavior.

Screen name scrabble

I signed in tonight thinking I was just going to make a quick post but then, as in so many other nights, I found myself afloat in the vast sea of Bloggerland. There are some really cool ones out there (they make mine look like a big steaming pile of crap) - such as the To Do List, which I guess is now a book. The featured list tonight was of "awesome screen names," my favorite of which was "gun-slingin' pimp." Now why didn't I think of that?! There were also a few that were in a box because they weren't cool - "Eskimo Man" and "Bread Boy" were in the box. I dunno, I think "bread boy" is pretty frickin hilarious. Makes me think of a little superhero..."I am Bread Boy, here to satisfy any carb craving you may have!"

Fakey Fakerson I am not!

TGD keeps laughing at my picture because he says it's too serious, which, I know, it doesn't really fit this blog. But honestly, what was I supposed to do? Stick out my tongue? Cross my eyes? Wrap my fingers under my chin and make an eye mask using my thumbs and index fingers? I can't help it that my "natural resting face" is serious and slightly bitchy looking! Nobody walks around smiling all the time unless they're high on something (and if you just thought "yeah, high on life!" then you need to go out and sing "do re mi" with the woodland creatures before I deck you).

Wanna know something that does make me smile? Front butt. Not the actual occurance (that's really more sad and depressing, although I can make front butt by squeezing all my stomach fat together into two folds) but the name - front butt. I need to find more ways to work it into everyday conversation.

The strange activities of people trapped in a small town

So a little birdy (non-suicidal) told me that apparently my trampoline (yes, we have one and I'm aware of the dangers, so just keep your condescending gasps of horror to yourselves) has been used for things other than the innocent jumping activities of my 4 year old (and by "things" I mean SEX). Got your attention there didn't I? You were just going to skim through this post and that word in capital letters just drew your eye like a lazor beam. Sex Sex Sex. It's a very powerful word. But I digress...Yes, somebody (two somebodies actually) did the nasty on my tramp! Can I get a big "eeeeeeeeeeewww" from the studio audience please?! When I first heard this I was outraged! "How dare they! People have no respect for other people's property, my kids jump on that thing, that's just disgusting, etc!" No, I didn't actually exclaim "etcetera!" (but I think I will from now on because it sounds kind of funny). Then I started to wonder, if I was younger would I have had the same reaction, because honestly I was sounding a little curmudgeonly and that was scaring me. So I went to some friends to see how they reacted, and after the initial "gross!" they thought it was funny. Of course, maybe if it was them having to disinfect they're own trampoline they might not have found it so humorous. I decided that I'm not going to say anything to the perps (or a better word might be "pervs"), but I do think some motion lights are in order...

Photoshop can kiss my ass

Hey look! It's a picture of me! I took a picture of myself - which involved learning the timer on my camera and lots of height configurations (oops, it's a picture of my boobs, and here's a picture of just my forehead). I also discovered that my face looks really round and fat when I smile (it's the "triple chin" effect). So after many BAD pictures (which nobody will ever see because I immediately deleted them) I decided to post this one, which I was going to call "a study in introspection" or "bird suicide watch" (they like to off themselves by running into my picture window). So, here I am....looking all serious....because, you know, this is such a serious blog and I am a no-nonsense type of gal. None of that frivolity here folks.

And yes, I realize there's a big white strip off to the side that I need to crop off but I can't figure out how to do it! Damn Photoshop with it's too hard crop tool! I hate you Photoshop!

age cometh, and you can smell her a mile away

My mom has always said that when she gets old we have to tell her when she starts to stink and needs to take a bath, because apparently your sense of smell deteriorates as you age and she's paranoid about smelling bad. I think it's very wise and accepting of her. I plan to pass on the same order to my own kids (hoping that I live long enough to start getting stinky).

I watched the Oprah show today (yes, I'm a SAHM and I watch Oprah, might as well pass me the bonbons to complete the image) and it was about dressing age-appropriate and how to do it with style. I'm a sucker for a makeover show (and I especially love how they give the "low-end option" - you know, "this jacket is only $300 instead of $3000, isn't that a great deal?!"). I turned 30 this year (which is either really young or really old depending on who you are) so I've become a little more "age-conscious." I didn't think I would. I felt like I was 30 during my later 20's (having kids and the belly and boobs to prove it will do that), so I didn't think turning 30 would be a big deal. But here I am, starting to notice the stray grey hair (thanks Dad!), examining my face in the mirror for more lines, and hoping that I can dress "age-appropriate with style" when I'm 60. I really don't want to get caught up in worrying about the future so I'm trying to resist the occasional paranoia that wants to set in (I need the age-defying eye cream RIGHT NOW!). I think my mom's approach is much better. I'll be fine with grey hair, I'll be fine with wrinkles, I'll be fine with elastic waist pants (I'm actually looking forward to those) - that's all inevitable. I just don't want to be stinky.

Real Live Desperate Housewives in IA

My friend recently emailed me about her new Schwan's man, who is apparently smokin' hot. See, this is big news when you're a stay at home mom, seeing as how our interactions with the opposite sex consist of those we have with:

our spouse - while loving, not exactly lust-inspiring on a daily basis

the guy at the meat counter - the innuendos (salami anyone?) are too laughable to be flirty, especially when the kids are whining/screaming/(fill in your favorite verb here).

the home delivery man - not condusive to flirtatious banter (even though I giggle at all "package" one-liners I can think of) since both the dog and the baby try to escape out the door while the preschooler is yelling "I went poopy!" in the background. Plus these visits are sporadic and tend to happen when mommy is looking like death in a puke T-shirt.

So you can see how desperate we are that the thought of ordering ice cream from a hot Schwan's man is even remotely scintilating. Because unlike the regular home-delivery person, a Schwan's man is on a schedule, therefore we can put on jeans instead of our sweats and pretend to be non-repellant. We can put a movie in to give the appearance of calm and having it all together. Then maybe we can offer a flirty smile and for two seconds while we order some more frozen lasagna we can feel *gasp* attractive!? It's pathetic, I know, but it's all we've got.

That old bitch called Karma

"Karma karma karma karma karma Chameleon..." Was anyone else confused by Boy George in the 80s? I could not figure it out - the whole boy/girl thing. I mean, his name was BOY George so he had to be a boy, but then he kind of looked like a girl. Then again, I was a just a kid living in a small, rural town. I couldn't pronounce "androgyny" let alone tell you what it meant.
Anyways, I was thinking about karma last night as I sat in bed coughing, and coughing, and coughing. You see, my husband (who from here on out will be referred to as The Good Doctor, or TGD for short) recently had a cough that lasted for about two weeks. Two looooonnnng, very annoying (I'm not much for sympathy) weeks in which he would not take any medicine or see one of his partners (clinical not sexual, we're not that type of couple). It was constant coughing, even leading up to our annual weekend without kids. He had taken to sleeping in the basement (or just not sleeping) so he was very tired (and looked it, which only made me mad, not very nice of me). I was getting more worried and more desperate. I finally told him that he "HAD to get better because I really NEEDED to have sex!" This doesn't happen very often. TGD will tell you it is an extremely rare occurrance that I'M the one who's feeling a little desperate. And it really wasn't his fault. He could be going on no sleep for 3 days and still be "up for the job." But honestly, all that hacking was so not attractive. Needless to say, I made my point and he came home the next day with some drugs. And we had a very, er, fulfilling weekend away. So here I am, two weeks later, coughing my lungs up. Funny thing about Karma, she'll bite you in the ass every time.

Camera phobia

I was thinking (I do that from time to time) that I would try to put a picture of myself on this blog, since it's well, uh, basically about me (which my sister thinks is slightly narcissistic, but I'm okay with that). The last picture that was taken of me was when I was in the hospital after the birth of my second child. Yeah, if you think I'm posting that you're crazy. I do not look like those women who come out of childbirth looking great, ready to jump back into their size 6 jeans and get home ASAP (I like to affectionately call those gals "crazy bitches."). No, I look like a doped up, puffy marshmallow person wearing sweats, trying not to cry when the nurse informs me it's time to leave. So no, I will not be posting that picture. Which makes me think it's time for me to get my picture taken. Yeesh, even the thought makes me shudder and recoil in horror. Cuz here's the thing, even if I think I look good on that particular day I'll get the picture back and think "Crikey! THAT'S what I look like?! Good grief! Why didn't somebody tell me I have no chin, my forehead is enormous (and I'm obviously parting my hair all wrong), and I look 5 months pregnant in that shirt." I'd rather live in oblivion, unknowing of the exact nature of my looks. Either that or someone needs to teach me how to Photoshop the heck out of all my pictures.

another porntastic post

Sorry for that last boring post. I vowed when I started this blog that I was going to try and not write anything dull OR go on and on about my kids (there's too many of those blogs, and yes, kids are funny, mine not excluded, but I just get so sick and tired of ONLY hearing about what the damn kids said! I don't care!). My only excuse is that it's late, my contacts are sticking to my eyeballs, and my brain is starting to shut down for the night. So here's a topic that's a bit more interesting (to some) - men and porn. Now some women get their back all up at just the mention of porn. Me? I could care less. I mean, it's not like I can be jealous that he's finding those women attractive. Hello?! They are not cute. It's not like Jessica Alba decided to make a career change into porn, so I'm not threatened in that respect. What I don't get is that men watch it together...as in groups. That's just weird, and gross, and a little pervy. But then again I guess that's a fairly accurate description of most men: weird, gross, and a little pervy.

Emily Hegarty

Have you ever googled yourself? It's weird to find out there's people out there with your name. I googled both my married name and my maiden name, and for some reason I thought it was a little more strange that somebody has my maiden name. Maybe that's because it was the name I was born with, my "true" name, if you will. It's the name I grew up with, the name I carried through all those awkward growing up years when I was figuring out who I was and who I wanted to become. And it's not like I have a very common name that one would expect to find many listings of in the phone book, not that it's super unusual either. Still, I was somewhat taken aback that there were people out there with MY name. One of the persons with my name was a girl on a varsity athletic team, listed as a freshman. I feel like I should give her some advice, like she's some younger version of me, and really that's just ridiculous. Still, it's interesting to think about.

I am going insane.

I couldn't find the peanut butter yesterday morning for my daughter's daily pb toast fix. I always put it in the same cupboard, same shelf, easily accessible. I asked G if she knew where it was (she likes to eat it plain sometimes and is known for hiding things under the couch). She said she didn't know. I briefly wondered if Hubby took it to work for some odd reason (needed some morning protein?). That wasn't it either. My house has a tendency to eat things so I finally just chalked it up to the house must have been hungry again. Then this evening I decided to do a little cleaning (cuz I'm crazy like that), looked under the sink for the cleaner when, lo and behold, there's the peanut butter....under the sink....next to the Lysol wipes. And the thing is, I have vague recollections of putting it there when I was talking on the phone. It's also not the first time such a thing has happened. I once opened the fridge and there was a box of cereal in there. I shudder to think of what I will be like in 30 more years.

Computer Illiterate

So I added some videos to the blog - some of my favs from YouTube (sucks me in like a swirling vortex of crap). I don't know why there are four screens and I couldn't figure out how to make them all different. So if you want to check them out (beware: vortex of crap) look at the top screens of each group.

Keyboard 101

What's the deal with no punctuation in emails? Every day (and this will give you a clue as to my level of dorkdom) I check the headlines on AOL to see if there are any interesting articles to read (honestly, this is how I get my news). Then after reading an article ("Swedish study shows correlation between suicide and breast enhancement!"), people can post comments (I am ashamed to admit that I have done so, an offense for which I should bear a scarlet "D" on my shirt for "dumbass"). Anyways, I have noticed a startingly lack of punctuation in these comments, and in other forms of digital communication. Are people too lazy to hit the 'shift' key and capitalize a letter? And that '.' key certainly must be too much of a strain for all those ring fingers. Or could it be that the only people posting comments (besides me) are a bunch of 13 year old hooligans (riff-raff and their crazy shenanigans) who obviously haven't taken Keyboarding class?

The big brown bear jumped over the lazy fox. Or was it the fox that jumped over the bear? Either way I can still type it without looking at my fingers. Can I go play Oregon Trail now?

boob envy

I used to have great breasts. They were perky, full, and actually stuck out farther than my stomach. These days they only way they'll do that is with the super deluxe padded push-up bra from Victoria's Secret that costs a million dollars. I keep telling myself that someday when I'm done having kids (and that day seems really far off right now) I'm going to buy me a nice set of boobs, just like the ones I used to have (okay, maybe bigger).

I wish somebody would have told me to appreciate them while I still had 'em. I would have bought more cleavage baring Ts.

Trashy Magazines Anonymous

Hi, my name is Em and I am addicted to celebrity gossip. It's been one week, two days since my last purchase of In Touch Weekly. I haven't really felt the urge to purchase another one except then I saw all the news about Britney Spears and the OK magazine photo shoot. I heard it comes out today and I'm having a very hard time not running out to the store. Fortunately my sponsor (aka my husband) is holding me back with his sarcasm and overall disdain for my addiction. However, he does occasionally feed it when he goes to the store and comes home with an Us Weekly just for me. I can't decide if he's just being nice or wants to get into my pants. Probably both.

short-term memory

Oh short-term memory, how I miss you! We used to be so good together. Remember when we we could walk in a room and you would tell me exactly what I needed to get? I'd start folding the laundry on the floor but you would remind me that's not what we came to do. Remember those times at the grocery store when I'd want to leave, but then you'd tell me I needed to get the hamburger for that night's dinner? Those were good times, short-term memory. Why did it have to end? Why did you have to leave me? Now I'm lost in a sea of to-do lists, wandering aimlessly from room to room, wondering what the heck I went in there for.

the bearded lady

WTF is up with this hair on my upper lip?! What the heck am I supposed to do with it? Grow it out into a full-blown Fu Manchu? Not really the look I'm trying to go for here.

THAT mom

Just to clarify a few things here - I am not THAT mom. You know the type, the moms that sign their kids up for every activity under the sun, make sure they know how to read before Kindergarten, get sad at the thought of leaving the kids for a weekend, and NEVER admit to harboring any negative thoughts about being a parent. In fact, I'm pretty much the antithesis of THAT mom. I'll begrudgingly sign my kid up for an activity, only to miss half of it because we all wanted to sleep in instead, my 4 year old doesn't recognize letters and in fact calls them all numbers, and I salivate at the idea of leaving my kids for the weekend.

Social butterfly

So Hope and I have decided to plan a party. Whenever I start feeling down in the dumps it's time for me to throw a party, which is weird because I've always considered myself to be an introvert (you know the type, most nights I'd like to sit by myself and read a good book). Anyways, I love being social - most of the time. I think because I stay home and go many days speaking only to my kids and husband (and those times being constantly interrupted). So every so often I get the chance to socialize with other adults and attempt to show off my wit and charisma (HA!). And during the party I always think to myself "see, people are laughing at something I said. I'm not just a boring lump with nothing to say." But then after the party the self-recriminations start - "I talked nonstop! Why didn't someone tell me to shut up?! I'm a complete and total dork!" So then I vow at the next party I'm going to make an effort to NOT be a complete jabberbox. And then the social isolation begins again, then another party where I can't keep my trap shut....you see the cycle here. I'm like a jack-in-the-box, safely tucked away in my little box and when you let me out - bam! It's diarrhea of the mouth time.

pop and lock

After reading my last post I decided I needed to clear up something - I love to dance but I am not necessarily a good dancer. I made it sound like I was. I like to think I look a lot better than I really do. In my mind I dance just like those pop stars (young whippersnappers) but I'm sure I look more like Elaine from Seinfeld - complete with the "white-man overbite." And even when I do happen to learn a new "move" I still don't look cool doing it. And just like that episode of Seinfeld if someone were to videotape me (heaven forbid if there's one out there somewhere) and play it back to me I'm sure I would recoil in horror and apologize to all of those who had to bear witness to me getting my groove on.

do the robot

I really want to go dancing. I never get to, because honestly where am I going to go? The Jukebox (yes, it's an actual place in my town)? No, for me to go anywhere involves arranging childcare (HA!) and driving at least 2 hours (I live in the sticks). Not to mention if I want to go with my friends then we're talking at least a 6 month advance notice.

You want to know why I love dancing (probably not, right)? It makes me feel like a hot, sexy woman. Not a mother, definitely not a housewife, but a shade of who I used to be. And I can make believe that there are men out there who are watching me and thinking, "Dang, that girl can move," instead of "Dang, she needs to put on some make-up."

ballocks

You know what I like? British slang. Actually, I like any type of slang for that matter (hence the title of this blog, FYI). I pretty much just enjoy words in general, unless they are technical in nature (then my brain turns to mush).

Stupid belly

I have a hate/hate relationship with my belly. Ever since I had kids it has caused me nothing but grief. It's so NOT fair that women are the ones to get pregnant. I feel like I have my own marsupial pouch and maybe I wouldn't mind it so much if it would actually serve some purpose, but it just hangs there like a sack of goo. F-ing belly.

good grief

So after starting up this blog yesterday I decided to check out a few others. I went to a couple of the "blogs of the day" recommendations. Good grief! Half of them I couldn't understand (I was left feeling quite dumb) and the other half were all super-teched out. I'm assuming that there are others like me who just want to ramble on (and on and on...) about whatever and have no computer skills but I have yet to find them. Mediocre-bloggers unite!

You know, I'm somewhat embarassed to even tell people that I have a blog after reading what I just wrote.

I have no idea what I'm doing

So my friend Hope and I were taking a walk last night (a miracle in of itself since we both have kids and husbands, both topics best left for another post) and we were talking about how even though we are both SAHMs ("stay-at-home moms" for all of you who don't read Parenting magazine) we don't want our identities wrapped up in being mothers. This led us to our next topic of "what do you want to be when you grow up." In my previous life I did a short stint as a highschool Spanish teacher, a position I don't wish to return to (once again, a topic that will probably show up in another post down the road). So that begs the question - what the hell do I want to do instead of teaching? Oprah always says "do what you love," well what if you love eating chocolate chip cookies? I can't make a career of eating chocolate chip cookies (or could I? hmm...). Seriously, I love to talk, so my secret fantasy is to have my own radio show but usually when I tell people this they burst into giggles, including myself. My friend Hope (who might be a genius) told me that I should create a blog. Of course I then replied with a very intelligent "huh?" So after much research (about 10 minutes worth I'd say) on the internet figuring out how to create a blog I decided to take her advice. So here I am world! And all you English professors out there who hate my prolific use of parentheses and incorrect punctuation can stuff it.