Monthly Archives: November 2012

‘Twas the month before Christmas…

This one is dedicated to my husband, the brave hunter

‘Twas a month before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except for my husband (who was hunting a mouse).
The traps were all placed in the kitchen with care
In the hopes that a dead rodent soon would be there.

I was nestled all snug and a ‘lil drunk in my bed
While visions of sexy fun times danced in my head
But Ryan in his PJ’s, armed with those silly traps
Refused to stop ’til he won against those rats

When suddenly, BOOM! There arose such a clatter
I fell (gracefully) out of bed to see what was the matter
Away to the kitchen I stumbled all lady-like
Cause sweatpants are always classy, am I right?

Through the haze of perhaps a bit too much wine
I looked around to find that husband of mine
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But him laying on the floor, on his face a big sneer

“I found him, babe! I have him caught under here!”
He declared, so happy his victory was so near
But alas, the poor man was about to lose face
Because soon a half-dozen more took its place

Now, look here Mighty! And you too, Minnie and Mickey!
And don’t think I forgot you, the Brain and dumbass Pinkie!
You guys are all over, coming out of the walls
And I want to bash your stupid heads, bash away them all

Get the hell outta my house, you tiny assholes
You rejects of nature, you hamsters without souls
You’ve invaded our home for much, much too long
And the way you’ve invaded our life is just wrong

Because it’s the same thing every single night
The scurrying and pawing happening just out of sight
And us laying in bed, seething at the thought
Of the havoc and ickiness you have wrought

And trust me, no lie, I used to feel bad for you
Buying humane traps and making much ado
About how your stupid little lives mattered too
A decision I would quickly come to rue

Because your eyes! How evil and so beady!
Your tails, ugh, so gross! Your motives how seedy!
Your stupid little mouths and your need to pee
Not to mention poop on every surface I can see

Thanks to you jerks I now compulsively clean
A habit now I don’t think I’ll ever ween
Going to Lady MacBeth lengths, until I’ve bloody hands
While you laugh and mock and take over the land

But while you have won the battles thus far
We’ll win the war and rule like demonic czars
Turning our house into a mecca of death
Hunting you down like addicts looking for meth

Cause while you may have evaded all our tricks
Never taking the bait and getting your kicks
From outsmarting us and making us look daft
Live it up because, trust me, we’ll have the last laugh

So forget poison and those glue traps as well
Because our next idea is downright next to swell
And I don’t think I’m lying when I say you’ll be quite smitten
With the fact I’m going out and adopting a litter of kittens

Happy HalloChristGiving, Charlie Brown!

Hey, you know what the world needs more of? (Warning! Warning! Sarcasm bomb about to detonate!) People complaining about how Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year. We just don’t see enough of that, you know? And I bet if we did complain more, it would totally change things.

Just like how complaining about politics and cold weather and people who think Instagram was created solely so they could share what they’re eating for lunch (Blackened salmon with roasted asparagus? Well, aren’t you fancy!) makes all those things better.

(I sincerely apologize to anyone who got hit with sarcasm shrapnel. Unless your Instagram account is just filled with food. Then you deserved it).

Yes, people complaining about how Christmas has completely obliterated Thanksgiving and is quickly encroaching on Halloween’s thunder is about as cliché now as people complaining how ironic it is we go out and shiv little old ladies to get 40 percent off TV’s and unnecessary shaving kits the day after a holiday centered around giving thanks for what we already have.

But as futile as I think it is to bitch about Christmas being three months long now, I must admit I side with the complainers. Because even though you’ll never convince Sharon, your co-worker who starts wearing light-up Happy Holiday sweaters in October, that she needs to stop, your silence means you approve. And you don’t approve. Because Sharon is ridiculous and owns a cat named Gingerbread and has a weird, creepy crush on Santa.

I too don’t want to have to sift through a bunch of candy canes before I find the Halloween candy at the grocery store in October; or a bunch of eggnog before I find my gourd-based beers at the liquor store in September.

And I sure as hell don’t want to see Christmas commercials when I’m having my annual psychotic breakdown in the kitchen on Thanksgiving.

But before you go thinking I’m all bah-humbug-y, Grinch-y, evil corporate guy in every Christmas special ever, let me throw this at ya.’ Christmas is actually my favorite holiday. Always has been. I love everything about it. The lights. The cooking (until the inevitable psychotic breakdown). The gift shopping. The wrapping. The decorating. The 37 emails back and forth with family about who got what on everyone’s list. The music. The claymation marathons on TV. The awkward reaction I get from salespeople when they say “Happy Holidays” and I reply with a cheerful “Merry Christmas” because they think I’m going to be that A-hole that gets mad that they said “Happy Holidays” when really I couldn’t care less because my body is composed of 82 percent hot toddy at that point.

And it’s because I love Christmas so much that I’m angry everyone is trying to artificially manufacture Christmas spirit prematurely. Because you know what happens when you try to artificially make something happen? It…well, let’s use an awkward metaphor to explain it…

It’s like getting all dressed up in your sexy lingerie, hair done perfectly and actual makeup on your face besides chapstick and anti-wrinkle cream, because you want to surprise your husband with some sexy, fun-time, naked, grown-up stuff. And so you carefully lay yourself on the bed in just the perfect position so that all your wobbly bits and fat pockets are hidden. And you’re just practically vibrating with excited anticipation for the night.

And then you wait.

And you wait.

And then wait some more.

And then he’s three hours late coming home from work and by the time he gets to the bedroom, you’ve already downed half a bottle of wine and eaten three-fourths of a pumpkin pie while wearing sweatpants over your teddy because all the anticipation, and thus the fun, has vanished.

That’s what you people are doing to Christmas.

If you build this holiday up too big by starting it way too early, the only place it can go is to an anti-climatic, sputtering dud. So that by Christmas Eve, you downright rage in a foam-at-the-mouth homicidal spree every time you hear “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” because it is the 37th million time you’ve heard it and the human brain can tolerate only 34 million times (there have been studies, look it up).

So stop ruining Christmas. Be patient. Let’s make this season a reasonable, wonderful, exciting, month-long celebration. Instead of building it up starting July Fourth only to arrive at the end with an attitude of “that’s it?”

It’s what Charlie Brown would have wanted.

And that weird, freaky-looking Yeti in the Rudolph special.



Geez…Happy Lamesgiving

Is it just me or has everyone gone nuts for Thanksgiving this year? No, I’m not talking about getting a jumpstart on the traditional holiday season bender a vast majority of us go on this time of year. Hell, most of us started that in August.

I’m talking about the abundance of thanks people are publicly listing on social networking sites such as Facebook, which started as early as November 1st.

Every. Single. Day. Posting what they’re thankful for: Their children. Their health. The fact that every time they bitch on Facebook it’s only for First World Problems.

Last time I checked, Thanksgiving was only one day. For only one day did I have to be thankful for crap. Which was then followed the next day by beating up people in Aisle 10 of Wal-Mart in order to get the last Tickle Me Binder Full of Women or whatever stupid, popular toy some manufacturer didn’t make enough of for all of us in the world who have the time and luxury to camp outside a store for a week.

I mean, I wouldn’t care, but it’s bad enough Christmas starts in March now. Does Thanksgiving really need to be a whole month-long?

And honestly, who really cares what you’re thankful for?

The answer? No one. So knock it off and keep it at the Thanksgiving dinner table, where it belongs.

OK, OK, enough complaining. I digress. Let’s move onto the topic of this blog.

Here’s a list of everything I’m thankful for this year:

“Jersey Shore” is finally ending.

Season Two of HBO’s “Girls” begins in January.

My dog Buffy has yet to succeed with his plans to take over the world.

Speaking of the world, I’m also glad we got a heads up that it is ending this December, which means I don’t have to go out and buy Christmas gifts for anyone. Suckers.

Hats that make babies look like bears.

That Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, YouTube, Instagram, Blogger and WordPress didn’t exist when I was a teenager, thus documenting all my stupid ducky-wip pictures and lame, melodramatic “poetry” for all eternity on the Internet.

Toilet paper (look, I know I say that every year, but seriously, think about it…think about life without toilet paper…yeah…exactly).

That I didn’t kill myself quite literally about an hour ago when I noticed the gas on our stove top was on and had been on for about four hours ever since I cleaned it this morning and accidentally turned the dial on. And that I didn’t go with my first gut reaction, which was to light the stove so that it would use up all the excess gas (I swear, I have two college degrees).

Hummus. Which I use to confuse with haggis. And which is why I never ate it. Until someone finally told me the difference (did I mention I have two college degrees?).

Saturday Night Live. And specifically, Bill Hader. Who I would like to do dirty, dirty things to while he does his Clint Eastwood impression.

That if I ever become homeless, I will own the most books of any homeless person ever. I don’t care how many Kmart carts I have to steal from their parking lot. They’re ALL coming with me to the creepy alleyway.

My husband. Without which, I would have to move every time there was a spider in the house.

My in-laws (yeah, I have awesome in-laws…how much do you hate me right now?).

My 2004 Hyundai, which is not only paid off but has a sassy chassis that keeps running like a dream (well, a dream with a broken muffler that makes it sound like a monster truck eating a fourwheeler).

I finally have a dining room table…like an ADULT.



Captain Morgan.



Pumpkin beer.



Christmas-themed beer.

Cherry Bounce (which is a family recipe involving vodka, cherries and I swear, body parts from a unicorn).

Beer in a bottle.

Also a can.

And occasionally out of a jar.

And FINE! I’ll give a legit one. GAWD. I’m thankful that even though I lost the title of mother this year, I was quickly reminded by some wonderful people that I still hold the title of beloved wife, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, cousin, in-law, friend and kindred spirit.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

BEWARE! Hormonal woman on the loose

CONFESSION: I haven’t been a teenager in approximately (sound of a muffled number due to a hand over the mouth) years. And yet, for the past three weeks, I remember EXACTLY what it was like to be a teenager.

Because apparently my hormones are currently on a cocktail of meth, bath salts and Nyquil. The same concoction they were chugging when I was 14.

And 15.

And 3/4 of my 16th year.

And OK, yeah, some of 17 too.

Possibly also 22.

And for a brief period when I was 27. And 30.

But I digress.

*Now, for you fellas reading this, I realize as soon as women mention anything about the H-word, you zone out and/or start stockpiling weapons for your own safety (as well you should). Hormones are simply a fancy doctor term for “Holy crap, I might die at the hands of this person who used to resemble my girlfriend/wife/friend with benefits.” But stick with me here. Just a little bit longer. At the very least for the benefit of your own safety.

As wacka-a-doo cuckoo crazy puffs as I am right now, I can officially say that this time there is a legit reason (other than “He left the seat UP AGAIN…APRILL SMASH!”). About four weeks ago, I had a miscarriage. Which was devastating. And which I’m still dealing with. And which I wrote about in a post linked here.

And one side effect of this horrific event is that when your body goes from being pregnant to suddenly not being pregnant, it also suddenly decides to go on a hormonal bender. Meaning I’m less of an actual person and more just a bag of skin and bones that is carrying around wayward hormones that have a GIGANTIC chip on their shoulder.

And which also means that anyone in my path is a potential victim of Hurricane Hormone. For example:

  • My dog, who has been yelled at thus far for breathing, for shedding, for pooping too much, for looking at me too long and for that weird, irritating noise he makes when he’s licking his paws.
  • My husband, who tried unsuccessfully to console me after I broke down crying when I saw a mouse dying from the poison the exterminater put around our house.  And trying unsuccessfully again when I sobbed uncontrollably at a deodorant commercial. And an episode of “Teen Mom 2.” And at a Triscuit that I thought looked like my recently deceased grandma.
  • My medical bill, which upon finding out that it cost me $300 to confirm that I did indeed have a miscarriage, was crinkled up, thrown against the wall and then stomped on. It would have also been set on fire, but my husband (rather wisely) hid any and all potential weapons in the house, including lighters and matches.

And just like when I was a teenager, I hate my body with a passion that only a white girl with First World Problems can. I have inappropriate responses to mundane inquiries (“Hey sweetie, how much was our electricity bill this month?” “Gaaahhh, what do you want from me!?! I’m only human. Sorry I have to keep my lousy phone charged. WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME!”). I alternate between being wildly insecure and thinking everyone besides me is an idiot. And, instead of being jealous of the Prom Queen, I am now jealous of all the women I encounter who are pregnant and/or have babies and so make up horrible gossip about them in my head (“I bet her stupid baby will grow up to live at home until he’s 41. Ha! Serves her right.”).

My only solace is that this will all pass soon. And I can go back to normal. Which means instead of being a crazy, hormonal 31-year-old teenager, I’ll be just a plain, old, normal, crazy, hormonal 31-year-old woman.

But since I’m not sure when that will be, I bought helmets for both my husband and my dog.

And the mailman.

Just to be on the safe side.