2010: Can I Get an "Amen?"

Thank the ever-lovin' Lord it's finally New Year's Eve. Because seriously, I am ready to kick 2009 in its crappy, worthless, bad-luck-having, hard-knock-bringing ASS. In the grand tradition of such a heinous year, these last few days have draaaaaaagged by. It's like when you tell your kid to go to his room, and he goes, but he takes his sweet time and shuffles his feet and like runs his fingers slowly down the hallway wall on his way. This year might be going away, but it sure isn't exiting gracefully. It's all, "Fine, I'll leave, but I'm going to poop on your floor on the way out."

I wish I could divulge to every one of you why this year has been one of the worst of the 29 I've spent on this planet. But you know what? That's too much pain and negativity, and this ain't that kinda blog, yo. Suffice it to say that my grandmother's unexpected death, the piss-poor economy, and the final sad realization that my biological father is indeed the biggest asshat that ever walked the face of the earth all played a part. And I'm so done with '09. It gave me my little Coby, but that's about it - so I'm takin' my baby and running headlong into 2010. Better times, here we come!

Happy, happy New Year everyone - thanks for being a part of my life thus far. Lots of love and wishes for a bright and beautiful new decade!!!

 

Fart-fetched

So I was looking through the archives of an old blog and found this. I wrote it almost exactly a year ago, but its timeless and universal subject matter - the fart - and the invention of a solution for the resulting embarrassment begged revisiting. (Wish I'd had one of these handy when this happened!) Anyway:

For thousands of years, the Chinese have brought us profoundly life-changing inventions. Paper. Noodles. The compass. The toothbrush. And now........


.... a fart silencer.

I came across this little tidbit during my daily orgy of Internet news and thought it was too great not to share. The fart silencer - yes, it's real - was invented in WuHan, China by a dude named ... Big Chicken Mushroom. (Hey, I couldn't make this stuff up.) Anyway, it looks like this:

Apparently you stick this little gem where the sun don't shine, and then fart freely, undetected. Stealthily, if you will. You can even add a perfume-soaked cotton ball to maximize the effect, masking offensive odor and all. ("Wow, is that Chanel No. 5 I smell?") 

But here's the kicker: according to what I read, you're supposed to insert it when you feel a fart coming on. I can see the practicality of this device if you, like, wear it around in there all day - tamponlike - but how practical is it to abruptly stop what you're doing, drop your draws, and shove a tube of plastic up your ass? You're telling me that would be less embarrassing than accidentally letting one rip?

And I'm sorry, but when I need to fart, I need to fart.* No squeezing it back while I attempt to plug the hole.

*Apologies for those whose illusions of me as a proper lady have been shattered. Ah, who am I kidding, no one thinks I'm a proper lady.

I say we could all cheaply and easily make our own fart silencers by purchasing rounded toothbrush cases and punching a couple extra holes ... or if you're more, uh, delicate you could use a more slender apparatus such as a pencil case. Either way, problem solved - farts duly silenced, with no need to export from China. I do like the discreet pastel color choices though ... if only they made them in festive holiday colors as well. ('Cause y'all know how Christmas food can wreak havoc on the ol' digestive system.)

So ... who's rushing right out to buy one?

Must-See TV?

This is my husband Curtis, watching TV. As you can see, he's clearly riveted. On the edge of his seat. Note the look of serious concentration on his face, the intense watchfulness in his eyes.

To prove how deep his level of concentration is, here's another picture. Those blurs in the foreground are the kids running around like wild animals - yet Curtis is fixated on his program despite the flurry of activity around him. His focus never falters.

One might assume, based upon his interest in what he's watching, that it's a breaking news story .... or a hard-hitting interview with a politician ... or, at the very least, an action-packed cop show.

But no, my friends. This is the face of a man watching ...

... a "Toot and Puddle" Christmas special.

We don't mess with Daddy and his preschool cartoons, y'all.

At least he got up to play "robot" when it was over.

Twitter Does Me Dirty

I'm a writer. A mommy. A blogger. A mommyblogger, if you want to cleverly combine the two terms. But if you go to my Twitter page? You might just think I do something different for a living.
... Something dirty.

See, it all started when I had the brilliant idea of designing my own Twitter background. Except for one teeny-tiny factor: I know little to nothing about design. You know those people who can't type and they s-l-o-o-o-o-w-l-y do that one-fingered peck, pause, peck at the keyboard? I'm like that except instead of typing, that's my speed at piecing together webstuffs (← word o' the day). So I Googled and trial-ed and error-ed and finally put together what looked - at least on my computer screen - like a background that fit perfectly on my Twitter page without being partially obscured. I even did an informal poll here on the ol' blawg, and only one or two people said that it wasn't displaying correctly on their screens. (Plus I was tired of working on it, dammit.) So anyway, here's what the part about me is supposed to look like:

It looked perfectly fine on my screen for a long time. And then the other day I went to my Twitter profile, and I saw this:

Yeah. Something has changed, whether it's within my screen or on their website (and I'm too computer-stoopid to tell what). But wherever it originates, my Twitter page has me phonetically advertising that I "blo."

Hey, even us "working girls" have to keep up with the times.

Ho Ho ... Whoa!

Slacker-mom confession time: I didn't take my kids to sit on Santa's lap this year.

I know, I know. I can practically hear your phones dialing Child Protective Services. How dare I make my children miss out on one of our country's best-loved Christmas traditions? But seriously, I've got three kids now. That's, like, a family of near Duggar-esque proportions. (Okay, maybe not - the Duggars are on, what, child number 19?) But still. I've got three kids four years old and under, so sometimes taking them places seems like a monumental task - even with Curtis's help. Getting them all dressed and bundled against the cold, buckling them all into the car, schlepping them to the mall, waiting in a seemingly-infinite line while they whine that they a.) are hungry  b.) are thirsty c.) are tired d.) have to pee, and then paying an arm and a leg for a single photo in which they will most likely be crying ... well, it's not the most ideal scenario.

And I'm all for ideal scenarios.

But you wanna know one of the biggest reasons I didn't take the kids to see Santa?

"Santas" skeeve me out. For real.

It seems like the department-store Santas out there fall into one of two categories: they either sit there like they despise their job and every kid who sits on their red velvety lap, or they're all creepy and pedophile-y. (I'm pretty sure pedophile-y is a word. Look it up.) Either way, they all look like they belong on the Sketchy Santas website.

Don't believe me? Then check out this photo of Colin and Cameron with Santa last year. I may have shown you this before, but damn it, it's a Christmas classic.

Yep: Kris Kringle is flipping me the holiday bird, and I don't mean turkey. Maybe he's mad because Mrs. Claus found out he's been ho-ho-ho-ing around? Whatever the reason, this not-so-jolly old elf is in need of a serious attitude adjustment.

So that's why this year, Santa will quietly make his "appearance" to fill the kids' stockings while they're asleep. They don't need to see him face-to-face to know that he exists. He'll be real enough for them when they wake us up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning to see what he's left behind.

Let's just hope it's not a lump of coal ...

Best. Present. EVER!

One year for Christmas, I got a Himalayan kitten. That was pretty sweet. And once I got a pair of Smurf skates that strapped on over my shoes. Jealous? Thought so.

But the present I got from my husband last Christmas was the most spectacular gift of all. It trumps the kitten, the skates ... even the bright-green vinyl beanbag I got when I was ten (sorry, Mom ... er, Santa).

Wanna know what it was?

... This.

Yep ... he may have been born in September, but our little Coby was conceived somewhere between Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. *bow chicka wow wow* (I'll wait as you try to erase the mental image. You're welcome.)

As far as Christmas gifts go, Curtis will never top that one. And frankly? I don't want him to try.

Three boys is enough. I'll settle for a sweater or something. :)

My Glasses ... Those Asses!

Call me a geek, but I love my glasses.

I got them way back in 2003, when we were living in Germany. So that makes them even cooler 'cause they're, you know, like souvenirs I can wear on my face. At first I wasn't sure about their thick black frames, because I didn't want to be mistaken for Buddy Holly. (See the photos below; I've conveniently labeled them so you can tell who's who. You're welcome.)

But when I put them on for the first time, Curtis raved about how great they looked - which was simultaneously foreign and flattering - and so I began to see myself as chic rather than geek.

At first my glasses were just for wearing in the evenings after I'd taken my contacts out, or with the occasional outfit that I thought they coordinated well with, or when I thought I needed to look "smart." (Because everybody knows that people who wear glasses are, like, really brainy. And good in bed, like sexy librarian good. ... Okay, so I just made that last part up.)

But eventually, as the years and the children descended upon me, they became what I wore instead of contacts. Like a part of my face. And there they've been perched, Buddy Holly-like, through some of the most important times of my life. For example:

Don't you just love my hair?

Anyway, three days ago, those little traitors turned on me. They broke. And not just a little something that could be fixed with tape - 'cause let me tell you, I'm totally not above wearing taped-up glasses. The entire left earpiece fell off. I'm not even sure exactly how it happened, but it was heartbreaking. I held them up by their single remaining earpiece, and a lone tear slid slowly down my cheek.

To add insult to injury, my contact lenses have long been dried to shriveled plastic discs in their case.

To further complicate matters, my eye doctor only comes in two days a week - and he's booked until the first of the year.

But then - oh, ray of promising heavenly light! - I tentatively put my beloved glasses back on my face. And they stayed!!! *insert Hallelujah chorus*

So now I'm going around rockin' the one-earpiece glasses. Yeah, I'm not ashamed to admit it. I wouldn't love any of my children less if they, like, suddenly went missing a leg or something - so although I'm a little hurt by my glasses' betrayal (I thought we'd be together forever, you guys!), I'm glad I can still wear them.

Well, until I bend over, or shake my head around too fast. Then they fall off. But anyway.

We've had a good run, my glasses and I. And I suppose I should look forward to the future, to some new and possibly improved glasses, but it sure is going to be hard to say goodbye.

... Even if they are missing an earpiece.

The Blue-Crayon Blues

Somebody in this house (*coughCameroncough*) has in his grubby possession a blue crayon. And I don't like it. I've confiscated it like a hundred times, but somehow it keeps finding its way back into his evil clutches and marking up every available surface when I'm not looking.

I think the blasted blue crayon is multiplying, which would explain how he always seems to have a piece of it. First it broke in half. Then I think it may have broken into thirds. And each piece gets carefully stashed somewhere by my conniving little almost-two-year-old so that it may be brought out later and used when Mommy's back is turned.

Here's a sampling of some of the places I've found blue scribbles:

All I have to say is ... thank God it's washable.

Mustachioed Mama

Chicks with mustaches. We've all seen 'em. You know how it goes: you'll be talking to them and your eyes keep inadvertantly creeping toward the very visible peach fuzz - or sometimes full-on handlebar 'stache - that adorns their upper lip. And you can't fully concentrate on the conversation because in your head, you're wondering whether or not they realize that their lip looks like the armpit of a pubescent boy and whether anybody has ever pointed that out to them and if so then why for goodness sake have they not like taken care of the issue?

Listen, I'm not dogging on females with facial hair - as you know (and read through the archives if you don't) I have a beard. But I keep it in check, y'all. Thanks to my arsenal of de-fuzzing goodies, people talking to me won't be distracted ... unless, of course, it's by my smokin' hotness. Right?

*cricket, cricket*

Anyway, point is, I pride myself on keeping my facial hair at a minimum. Which is why I was a little disturbed yesterday when Colin drew this "No Grumpiness" sign:

I mean, it's obviously me. The crazy hair, the round face, the big feet, and - most importantly - my very favorite word, "No." So what, then, is the mustache-like apparition hovering above my downturned mouth? I was immediately nervous. Am I one of those women who indeed does not notice that I'm sporting a 'stache? Have my conversations been overshadowed by my five o'clock shadow?

Luckily, when I asked Colin about it, he said that my nose was wrinkled up because of my grumpy face. So it wasn't a mustache after all - just part of my overall bitchy look. (Which, obviously, I've perfected in my son's eyes.)

I waxed my upper lip just in case, though. You really never can be too careful.

PS - Have you entered the giveaway yet? Only two more days!

Tree-asco, Part Two

I know that putting up a Christmas tree is great fun for the kiddies and whatnot. But for someone like me - someone who detests disorder (ironic since my house is usually the definition of disorderly) and haphazardness - the tree has been a great source of distress this year. Why? Because it looks like a holiday store took a massive dump in the corner of my living room, that's why.

In case you missed it, you might want to read over my initial post on this subject here. If you're all, "No way Rita, I don't have time to read any more of your goofy ramblings," then let me just give you a sampling of what happened when we put up our tree:
- It was dripping wet
- Half the lights didn't work
- There was someone hiding in the branches

So anyway. For the longest, we had a half-lit, undecorated tree. It just sat there looking like this:

But we figured we'd better buck up and finish it. After all we'd gone through to get it up in the first place, there was no way we were just letting it sit there all pitiful and half-nekkid for the remainder of the Christmas season. So we got rid of the crappy unreliable lights and got some brand new LED lights! They use far less energy (told you I was saving the earth, y'all!) and never get hot. Awesome. And once the tree was lit, we could put the rest of the decorations on. The ribbons. The bead garland. The ornaments. The star.

I thought that would be it. We'd decorate the tree and bask in the shining glow of its beauty all month long. But what I didn't take into account? Is that this is my first Christmas with:
- a four-year-old who doesn't listen
- an almost-two-year-old who is mesmerized by all the shinies
- two curious cats
- a three-month-old who steals my attention while the aforementioned crew is WRECKING the TREE

Yep. Our fully decorated tree, in its entirety, was pretty for about 2.5 seconds. And the top half still is ... for the most part. (Nan, this picture is for you, my friend!)

Now let's take a gander at the bottom half of the tree, shall we?

Mm-hmm. This is what happens when a tree is repeatedly pillaged by kids and cats and whatever else is probably living deep within the recesses of my carpet. And when a grand total of seven ornaments have been broken or otherwise rendered useless.

I was seriously thinking that someone needs to invent some sort of (attractive) barrier that keeps kids and animals and carpet-pests out of Christmas trees. Like one of those screens you put in front of your fireplace, you know? Anybody inventive and crafty out there? You can totally steal my idea and patent it and make millions. 'Cause it's, you know, brilliant and stuff. As long as you'll send me a freebie.

Because if anyone ever needed a Christmas tree guard?

It's me.

Crap-booking

In high school, I had the most awesome. English. Teacher. EVER. Her name was Susie Baruffi, and she was young and hip and treated us like we had some sense - while simultaneously not taking any of our crap. And best of all, she introduced her classes to the concept of daybooks: blank books in which we journaled, pasted pictures from magazines and news headlines, and wrote down random thoughts and quotes. Pretty much like a scrapbook, although less "cutesy" (no page layouts or embellishments, just random stuff). Keep in mind, this was in like 1230 B.C. (or maybe it was 1995 or so), before the whole scrapbooking craze hit - so really, it was ahead of its time. Revolutionary.

Thanks to my daybooks - which I kept religiously from about sophomore year on - I have a hilarious chronicle of my high school life. Such as my obsessive adolescent love for Marilyn Manson, who at the time was a relative newcomer to the music scene. (If you can read my handwriting, you'll see that I was excited that he spit on my arm during a concert. Good times.)

Or the immortal pieces of crap that I taped to its pages. Like the mercury my lab partners and I whipped up in chemistry class (shoutouts to Beth and Jenn, if you're reading this!). And a piece of chicken fried rice, the same dish that I ate everysingleday when I drove my best friend Betsy to her after-school job at Wang's Chinese - complete with a lengthy running commentary by both Betsy and me:

And the Beavis and Butthead spinoff cartoon I drew, featuring Betsy and myself and a partial photo of the Butthead pinata I made in Spanish class (that's the thing to the right of the TV).

I was such an angelic child. Notice I'm not the one with the cigarette. Or the horns. Take that, Betsy's-mom-who-still-hates-me-because-I-was-a-bad-influence.

*ahem*

Anyway, over the years I amassed an impressive collection of eleven daybooks, each full of the snippets and tidbits that made up my adolescence and young adulthood. So you would think that I'd be the kind of woman who scrapbooks, right? That my kids would also have a detailed account of their births and toddler years?

Well ... not so much. I tried scrapbooking, but after years of doing daybooks, I found it too prissy and orderly for me. And so I stopped. And although my kids have the requisite baby books with blanks for their names, birth weights, milestones, etc., there's not much in them.

That's why I'm so glad I have my blog. It will be around forever ... Google willing. And how else would I remember that on December 10th, 2009, I found Colin "cleaning the snot" out of his nose ... with his brother's toothbrush?

Rockin' Around the Cuss-mas Tree

What gets you in the mood (...for the holidays, you pervs)? For me, it's definitely Christmas carols. Nothing helps get me into the holiday spirit more than some classic Bing Crosby or Brenda Lee. And speaking of the latter, her version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" is probably my all-time favorite Christmas tune - but not for the obvious reason.

I like it because it makes use of one of my favorite words: the F-bomb.

Okay, so it obviously isn't intentional. But as we were listening to the song a couple Christmases ago, Curtis pointed it out, and sure enough - there it is:

"Later we'll have some fuckin' pie and we'll do some ca-ro-ling!"

The line is technically supposed to say "pumpkin pie" ... but once you've heard it as "fuckin' pie," I swear you'll never hear "pumpkin" again. It never fails to make me laugh so hard I pee a little cry. In fact, I have it on a Christmas music CD and it has become somewhat of a tradition for Curtis and I to put that particular section on repeat and howl with laughter until tears are squeezing from our eyes and we can barely breathe. Good clean holiday fun!

Anyway, for your listening pleasure, I've included the song here so you, too, can "have some fuckin' pie." The line is only about 29 seconds in, and only happens once - so listen carefully or you'll miss it!



(Or, like us, you can replay ... and replay ... and replay.)

The best part is, you don't have to turn your speakers down for fear someone will hear "the dirty word" - even if you're at work! Just tell your boss to shove it, you're spreading Christmas cheer. And unless they're tipped off to the secret profanity that lies within this squeaky-clean carol, no one will be the wiser.

Happy effin' holidays!

Guess What?

I didn't want to be one of those blogs. You know, the ones you enjoy reading until all of a sudden they're reviewing this, or giving that away, and you're like - hey, where'd the funny stories go? But if you blog long enough, and a few people stick around to read it regularly, you start to get offers from companies who want to put their product in front of your readers.

When it started happening to me, I was all, "No way!" Because honestly, I started this blog just to find other people who were in the same boat as me - women desperately trying (and largely failing) to retain some of their pre-baby persona - not to give things away and do product reviews. But people were offering me stuff to give to you guys. Cool stuff. Stuff like Christmas decorations and baby toys and products that de-funk stinky washing machines. And I thought, if I can give you not only a laugh - but a chance to win something just for reading - why shouldn't I do it? It's like a way to say "thanks for wasting time on reading my blog."

So if you'll recall, I tested the waters of your receptiveness with an awesome giveaway from the talented Jennifer of jbpaperdesigns. And you liked it. And so I put a poll up on my sidebar: "Would you be interested in reviews and giveaways?"

Many of you answered, and I took each of your opinions into consideration. Only one person voted no; the overwhelming majority was in favor. But every opinion matters to me: yes, no, or otherwise. And so the solution is this ...






Yep, a new giveaway and review page! You can find the permanent link at the top of this blog, in the left-hand sidebar. It's separate from my regular blog, and always will be. That way, those of you who want to win cool stuff and read honest, candid reviews can click on over - while those of you who don't give a hoot, and just want to read about poop and facial hair and everything else my daily life entails, can just stay on the regular old FOF. You'll have to excuse how the new page looks for the time-being ... it's under construction, and will be until I get a substantial block of time without children.

(Ha. Hahahahaha. Ha.)

If you're not interested in giveaways, perhaps it's a good time to click through my archives (wanna know how to prevent teen pregnancy? Or why I'm jealous of Giada? Or what made me question my husband's sexual orientation?).

I'll have a fresh and funny post tomorrow ... until then, check out the new page if you're interested - because I've got something totally sweet for its premiere giveaway (and I'm seriously going to be jealous of the winner!).

Who Pissed on My Pillow?

Motherhood has a lot to do with cleaning up other people's bodily fluids. I know this. I accept it, even. I've  cleaned certain things off carpet, tile, walls, toys, clothes, and sheets without batting an eye. But when it comes to my pillow ... there are no bodily fluids allowed. (Unless, of course, it's my own drool.)

Yet it seems that some as-yet-unidentified culprit? Has urinated on my effing pillow.

UR-I-NA-TED.

Last night when I went to bed, I noticed that my pillow was on the floor. The kids play in our bedroom all the time so this wasn't surprising. What did surprise me was that when I picked it up, the back of it had a big slightly-damp spot.

WTF?

Cautiously I brought it up to my nose ... and caught an unmistakable whiff of pee.

... Of PEE!

I absolutely for the life of me cannot imagine who - or what - deemed it necessary to use my pillow as a urinal. It's kind of like the Phantom Pooper I told you about a while back: mysterious. Let's look at the possible suspects:

Curtis - I'm not aware that he harbors any ill will toward me. But if he did, he'd probably just give me the silent treatment or something. I'm pretty sure he knows better than to pee on my pillow.

Colin - Colin is in our bedroom more often than almost anyone else, seeing as the "naughty corner" is located there. And he does sometimes sit on my pillow while doing his time in said naughty corner. But to pee on it? It seems totally out of character. And I think he would have acted more guilty.

Cameron - He's got a thing for whipping off his diaper lately and walking around pantsless (much like his older brother, who I am still trying to break of the naked habit). And he is more inclined than anyone else in the house to just pee where he's standing. But he's rarely in our room unsupervised, and I would think that if he were in there with Colin and peed on the pillow, he would've been tattled on with a quickness.

Andy (the dog) - Andy turns ten this month, but even for an older dog he's still got exceptional bladder control. I don't remember the last time he peed in the house, but I'm almost positive it wasn't him.

Thurman and Ava (the cats) - I know that some cats will pee on bedding when they get pissed (hehe, no pun intended) at their owners. But my cats have no reason to be pissed off - which means my pillow has no reason to be pissed on. 

So there you have it: the list of possible pillow-peeing perpetrators. Coby is the only member of my household not under suspicion. I have questioned each of the others, of course, and - just as I figured - no one knows a thing about it.

And what's worse? I had to SLEEP on it - I discovered it right at bedtime and we have a serious pillow shortage in this house. I turned it over to the other side, which seemed untouched by the pee, but still ... I knew the pee was there ... dangerously close to my face.

A peed-y pillow does not a pleasant dream make, y'all. All night, even in my sleep, I was aware.

You know what I'll be shopping for today: a new pillow. With a waterproof case.

"Stuff I Like" Sunday: Rationalizing

I know, it's a bit of a weird topic for "Stuff I Like" Sunday, but yesterday in the shower it dawned on me that I must really like rationalizing. Because I do it a lot. And I'm pretty effin' good at it.

 

This epiphany came to light when I was trying to decide whether or not to shave my legs. Lord knows I need to. Remember when they looked like this? Well, they have been de-fuzzed between then and now, but they've kind of gotten to that point* again.

 

(*By "that point" I mean a mass of hair that would make an orangutan jealous.)

 

Anyway, I briefly considered taking care of my massive leg-hair situation, but then my mind started - you guessed it - rationalizing why I should skip the shave. Here are a few bullet points:

• Less shaving → less wear on the blade → can use each blade longer → money saved → cha-ching!
• Less shaving → less time in the shower → less water use → earth saved
• Less shaving → no unnecessary stripping of natural oils that coat the leg → less dry skin

Okay, so I was kind of grasping at straws on that last one. But you see? Brilliance. People should be paying me not to shave, what with all the conservation of the planet's precious resources I'm doing. Really, I could go on and on - about how less razor blade use means fewer blades manufactured which means less energy use and less material in landfills ...

Seriously, we'd be here all day.

Rationalizing is definitely something I tend to do a lot of - but come to think of it, it may not be something I like so much. In fact I'm pretty sure that it led to about 120 unnecessary pounds of baby weight across my three pregnancies. Because rationalizing can lead to ice cream: "I must be craving ice cream because the baby is in need of calcium. I should listen to my body, you know. And I should probably eat this entire pint because a lot of calcium is better than a little. Especially for my baby's developing bones."

Now that I'm giving this more consideration, I guess rationalization is a "frenemy" of sorts. (If you're unfamiliar with the term, a frenemy is an enemy disguised as a friend. Clever, eh?) Rationalizing your way out of going to the gym, or the dentist, or the gynecologist, is great in the present - but does you absolutely no good, and is in some cases actually harmful, in the long run. 

So this particular blog post is officially changing from "Stuff I Like" to "Stuff I Might Think I Like But I, Like, Totally Don't After All."

I've got to get off this computer - a poopy diaper calls. And there's no rationalizing my way out of that one.
Happy Sunday, all! :)

Curtis ... in the Closet?

My husband is ... gasp! ... gay.


At least, that was the result of this highly scientific Internet quiz I took: "Is Your Husband Gay?" And we all know that the outcome of such a quiz is, like, totally credible. So really, I'm a little scared - because thanks to this quiz, I know that Curtis is probably leading a covert homosexual life. According to the results, it's probably just a matter of time before he abandons me completely in favor of the schlong. Before his secret boyfriend gets tired of being "the other man" (or I guess he would just be the man - since despite my beard I am technically a woman) and calls me up and is all, "Um, check your closet, honey. You've got a gay husband in there. And we're in love."

It all began when I was looking at a picture in my MySpace albums of Curtis wearing makeup. (It's not like he uses it on the daily - Colin had gotten into it and put it on him, and being the good dad that he is, he sat obligingly through the makeover.) Thanks to targeted marketing, which creeps me out a little sometimes, there was a link emblazoned brightly across the bottom of my screen: IS YOUR HUSBAND GAY? TAKE OUR QUIZ TO FIND OUT!

Naturally I had to know. I mean, simply asking him wouldn't do any good - because you know he'd just deny it. Like that time I watched Oprah and it was about married men with secret gay lifestyles and I was like, "Are you gay, sweetheart?" and he just looked me with a weird face. Like he's really going to just say yes ... yes I am. You know? 

So I clicked the link and took the quiz, giving each question much consideration and an honest response. And here are the results:

Your man is really in touch with his feminine side. We're not saying your man is gay; we're just saying he might be gay. Maybe he's the consummate metrosexual or maybe the signs point to the fact that there is something he's not telling you - like the fact that he likes men. At the heart of the matter, it appears your man enjoys some stereotypically "gay" things - ABBA, pink shirts. The Birdcage, cross-stitching and Broadway. While there is absolutely nothing wrong with being gay, you probably want to explore the fact that you and your man really aren't a match made in heaven. If you've had your suspicions, it's time to bring them up. While it's a great thing to have something in common with your significant other, your love of the same sex probably shouldn't be that "thing."

Though my answers had absolutely nothing to do with ABBA, pink shirts, The Birdcage, cross-stitching or Broadway, I'm sure the makers of the quiz know something about my man that I don't. They read between the lines. And thanks to their infinite wisdom regarding the traits and preferences of homosexuals, I am now certifiably "in" on the fact that my husband isn't yet "out." If not for their insightful quiz, I never would have known. I wasn't aware that his love of button-up shirts and classic rock - and the facts that he makes male friends easily and would rather go to a hockey game than a rock concert - point to a penchant for the peen.

He's down wit' O.P.P., y'all ... and that last "P" doesn't mean "property."

Honey, I know you'll read this, so here it is: go on and blast that ABBA with pride. Bust out those pink shirts and wear the hell out of 'em! You've got my support. I just wish you would have been honest with me from the start.

Now off to take another quiz so I can find out who secretly has a crush on me. I mean, I might just be on the market again. ;)

Back to Bidness

I'm back. And I'm not going to ask you how much you missed me - I'm just going to imagine you crying into your pillow at night, anxiously awaiting my return. Because you know that's exactly how it went down.

Isn't it?

*cricket, cricket*

Actually, I've been back for a few days, but sometimes I have writing clients that, like, rudely interfere with my blogging. I mean, how dare they offer me paid assignments when I have blog posts to write for free! In the past week I've written fourteen advertorials (ads cleverly disguised as articles), and let me tell you - between that and the kids, I feel like someone has taken my brain and squeezed it out like a damn sponge. Which is why this post is pretty much going to be mindless drivel.

But hey, I'm posting.

The trip to Aunt Betty's after-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving was an overall success. Only a few things went amiss:
- I walked around the family reunion and talked to like a bazillion people before someone kindly pointed out that I had two big milk-spots on the front of my shirt
- I walked around the family reunion and talked to like a bazillion people before someone kindly pointed out that I had dog poop all over my shoe
- We got pulled over (but ended up without a ticket, thank goodness)
- Curtis, who is usually the human Mapquest, got us lost practically in the wilderness

Other than that, the trip was pleasant enough. But I was glad to get home to our half-decorated Christmas tree. Which is still - you guessed it - half decorated. I plan to finish it tomorrow.

But who am I kidding? I also planned to, you know, be all rich and skinny and stuff.