Category: funny

The joys of parenthood

There are so many moments as a parent that you look forward to with great joy: first steps, first word, first tooth, riding a bike, going to school on the bus.  Those are the moments and milestones the books prepare us for, the Kodak moments, the stuff of Nescafe commercials and Hallmark cards.

There are tons of other moments that no one prepares us for, like the first time your child tiptoes quietly through the house, past the bathroom, into your room so she can throw up on you while you’re fast asleep.  Or those times when you’ve got guests over and your child strips naked, jumps up on a box, slaps her butt and sings her brand new song, “This is My ButtyButt.”  As they get older, you can enjoy the first time she stuffs the top of her swimsuit with socks for a summer camp field trip, or the first time you get a call from the principal because your child shoved another child face first down a hill (“but he asked me to, he said he wanted to be a bobsledder”).

And this morning, another magical moment:  removing the love-seat cushions to vacuum, only to find a stash of Halloween candy layered under the cushions…gummy Lifesavers, Reese’s Cups, Dubble Bubble…all stored for winter under my cushions…and all sat upon and smushed for the last month.  Items had to be scraped off the cushions and the couch with a butter knife in their melty disarray.  I had wondered where the Halloween candy went, but thought back to my own childhood, when I would stash it in a drawer and ration it out for a month or more, so I didn’t worry.

Of course, when I asked MiniMe about it, she said she had no idea who did it.  There is a potential speck of truth to her words, since herds of other people’s children reside at my home every weekend and do all manner of insane things.  I didn’t give MiniMe a hard time, I just gave her a butter knife and invited her to join in on the scraping fun and the beautiful memories we were creating…ahhh, the magic.

 Happy Thanksgiving, ya’ll…

Fred Durst to my Aaron Lewis

If you’ve been in my car at any time, you know I sing in the car almost non-stop.  You must engage me in conversation to get me to stop, and even then, I’ll still sing between my sentences or sing at you in reply to your questions.  It is only in slightly embarassed hindsight that I just realized that I sang Buckcherry’s Crazy Bitch to a near stranger very recently (look up the lyrics if you don’t know why that’s mortifying), but it’s just habit to sing behind the wheel.

I don’t sing well, noooooooo.  Lack of talent doesn’t stop me.  It’s my car, I’ll do what I want, so there.

Generally, I have my mp3 player on random.  My thought pattern is fairly random, so my music should be, too.

This afternoon, I was sitting in traffic downtown.  I had the windows down because it was nice and warm.  I had just finished throwing down Run DMC’s It’s Tricky (this beat is my recital, I think it’s very vital…) when the random mp3 player mix brought up Staind’s Outside, the studio version of the tune.  The more popular version of the song is the one that emerged from the Family Values Tour with Limp Bizkit’s Fred Durst sort of warbling backup vocals.

 I gulped down some water and scooted forward in traffic only a smidge before I embraced my inner Aaron Lewis, power ballad-ing into the steering wheel like Staind was auditioning me to replace Aaron right then and there.  And I hit the chorus I’m on the outside (horribly off key, but with enthusiasm!) and I heard another voice sing I’m lookin’ in!

WTF?

I look over and the passenger in the Subaru WRX next to me is hanging his head out the window.  He’s singing the Fred Durst backup!  It was so cool!  I was Aaron, he was Fred and we were rockin’ the power ballad out!  The light turned green just a few seconds later, and I had to wave goodbye to my backup vocalist and return to my solo efforts, but, man, there for an instant, we were both rock stars.

I could wallpaper your house…

Because I am the queen of over-sharing on this blog o’ mine, you need to know that I have had the most heinous, horrible, painful, dreadful sinus infection EVER for the last several weeks…so bad that it laid me out flat on my back with dizziness on Sunday at my soccer game during halftime.  I’d already finished one round of antibiotics, and have now kicked up to some new frightening purple and turquoise pill.

 But what’s really cool is I’m now truly on the mend thanks to the crystal meth my doctor gave me.  Ok, he didn’t actually give me meth, but I’m convinced I could whip up a batch of something profitable from the prescription decongestants he gave me.  I took one yesterday and within an hour was pacing, grinding my teeth and ready to clean the gutters, rake the yard, wash the curtains and maybe even bathe the cats.

I couldn’t really sleep, but I can tell I am at last I’m really getting better, thank goodness…but the crazed edginess is not something that works well for me.  I want to jump up and down, wallpaper my house, maybe wallpaper your house, drive to the beach just to get an ice cream cone, drive back, organize my CDs chronologically, make a paper mache pinata, call up JimDiggity and talk reallyreallyreally fast and hang up mid-sentence, stop by Image 420 to hug Uncle Lane and remind Joey not to smoke, bake some muffins, wash my car, wash your car and jump and down some more. 

Obviously, I’m not jacked up enough.  I’m going out for a Red Bull.

Belly Rubs, Butt Rubs: a typical night on the town

On Friday, I went to see Nashville Pussy, Hank III and Rev Horton Heat at the Peel.  Well, the band(s) I went to see is a bit o’ trivia that’s neither here nor there.  What’s important to note is the wildly entertaining men that were sharing space with me in the front of the Peel. 

One gent had his shirt yanked up with his generous slightly-furry belly on display.  He asked if I wanted to rub his belly for luck.  I declined ever so politely like the delicate southern belle I am.  He told me he was due in just a few months and the man behind him was the Baby Daddy. (yes, that’s Baby Daddy, not Baby’s Daddy—watch enough ‘Maury’ episodes about finding the Baby Daddy and you’ll understand).  I congratulated them on their bundle of joy.

Another fellow happily declared to me that lots of people were rubbing and touching his butt in the elbow to elbow crowd at the sold out show.  I said they should at least buy him dinner, that he shouldn’t be so easy. 

I didn’t get to interact with the last fellow on my list: top hat man.  Top Hat Man decided that not only should he be annoyingly tall in front of my not tall self, but that he should also don a hat as tall as he for the show.  This velvet topper towered over the crowd.  I wondered if there was a monkey in there.  Or maybe a cooler filled with snacks.  I wished he would take his monkey and snacks elsewhere, and because I am me and the world revolves around me and my every whim, he was soon moshed away and I could see the stage unobstructed.

 I just love the friendly demeanor of a fun crowd, a group happy to be all smushed up together in a pile.  Maybe next time I’ll reach out and rub that belly for luck, but I can’t promise any butt rubs.

I’ll admit I’ve looked into the online dating thing…

Alright, alright, I’ll admit to some looking into the online dating thing again.  I poked around at it a few years ago and was absolutely traumatized by one online stalker in particular, so I’ve left it alone.

But time has passed and surely there are some normal people out there, right? RIGHT?!?

I’ve browsed some profiles, read some ads on different sites, and I’m mostly just perplexed by the whole damn thing.  Why do some men feel it’s a good idea to take pictures o’ their weenies to post with their personal ads?  It’s never been a dating criteria of mine in the past.  “Oh, thanks for offering to set me up with Brad, Sally.  He sounds super, but…  Do you have a photo of his package I could check out before I commit to dinner?”

Frankly, gents, if I could lay it on the line for you, your private package is the least of our worries when we womenfolk are checking you out.  We want to know if you have a criminal record, and we want to know if you have a real job that you go to with some kind of regularity.  We want to know if you still live with your mom 7 years after your divorce.  We want to know if you listen to Journey on a daily basis–it could be a dealbreaker.  We want to know if you are still married and does your wife know you’re on match.com?  Once we know all those things and still more, only then do we really give a crap about your package…and even then, we really only care if your package is clean and well-maintained with a doctor’s note, and if you know what to do with all that stuff you’ve got.  We don’t need to see a photo of it.  REALLY we don’t.

I was randomly scoping out craigslist.com and found that a man has posted that he would like to astral project into a nice Asheville woman’s boudoir to have, umm, astral relations…and a snack.  Nevermind the relations thing, how the heck do you get a snack on the astral plane?  If I knew refreshments were being served, I’d be out of body all the frickin’ time noshing on velvet sin truffles from the Chocolate Fetish.

I don’t know if I need a date…or if I just need a good out of body snack.

A Possum Tale. Tail. Tale.

I have an alarming number of pets.  They keep showing up at my house and I’m helpless to stop it, so I just name them, neuter them, collar them and feed them.

With the alarming number of pets comes a collection of dead animal offerings from both the cats and the dogs.  They bring me gifts.  Snicklefritz was recently ambitious enough to carry his offering of a dead mole all the way in through the cat window in my office to the living room, quite a long trek, but he wanted to show it off.  Over the years, I’ve been presented with rabbits, birds, mice, moles, rats, squirrels, possums, chipmunks and a few things I couldn’t readily identify.

I’m not overly squeamish, since in most cases, the deceased creature in question is pretty much still intact, just a little, errr, rigid.  Praise the pet (“oooo thank you so much for bringing me a mouse.  ooooo yes, yay.) and dispose o’ the carcass when the pet isn’t looking.

When I woke up yesterday and went out to feed the dogs on the back porch, I spied a possum in the yard by the swing-set, a possum who was not playing possum and had gone on to that great possum crossing in the sky. 

I wanted to get rid of Mister Possum before the kids got up, so I decided the right thing to do would be to toss him into my neighbor’s yard (I am so popular in my neighborhood).  My neighbor has a densely wooded area in their backyard that they don’t use at all, handy for carcass tossing.

I traipse out in the yard in my pajamas and ginormous fuzzy blue slippers.  First, I poke Mister Possum with my slipper to make sure he really is no longer of this world, and he is not of this world, he is on the spiritual plane o’ possums.  And then I go to grab his tail to frisbee him over the fence.

 And.

And.

And.

And…his tail comes off in my hand!  Ohhhhhhhhh myyyyyyy godddddddddddddd ok now I’m squeamish I have a possum tail in my hand and a dead possum on the ground aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack what have I done to deserve this oh the possum tail is cold it’s collllllllld ack ack ack ack ack!

I took a deep breath—not a good idea in hindsight, because the possum really smelled bad.  I threw the tail over the fence and did a little dance of revulsion.  After that, I stared at the possum, afraid to pick it up because if its head came off in my hand, I would officially spew chunks.

One of my dogs, Julie Beans, must’ve known I was in need of an answer.  She brought me a big stick.  Aha!  I took the stick from Julie Beans,  found another big stick and made myself some carcass tongs.  I tonged the carcass with the sticks just like a bowl of that house salad at Olive Garden, and then I chucked the possum and possum tongs over the fence.

Just a run of the mill Saturday morning at my house.  How was your weekend?

Kat is So Hott

Hott with two t’s, hell yeah!

This fine evening, let’s reflect upon the latest offering from Kid Rock, So Hott.

Normally, I am not a Kid Rock fan.  I know his music when I hear it, and I don’t dislike it, but I’ve never been moved to buy anything of his.  I don’t turn Kid Rock off when he comes on the radio, but I also don’t normally turn it up either.

Then along comes So Hott off his upcoming release Rock n Roll Jesus.  Oh me oh my…some reviewers of this little ditty have called this song lyrically weak.  I, however, deem it to be straight to the point and pretty darn great–I shan’t print the lyrics here, just know that the language has to be edited for radio play–and we all know that my opinion is the only one that matters in all things.

This song is nassssssssssssssty.  Everything about it will inspire women from all walks of life to climb up on a table and twirl their undies over their heads.  It makes me want to install a stripper pole in my house because I’m so hott.  Actually, I’m hottt, with three t’s.  The more t’s the better.  The guitar riff absolutely grinds, backed by percussion that slams the message home: so hott.

The first time I heard the song I was driving down I-40.  I had to pull over so I could roll around on the hood of my car like in a Whitesnake video with So Hott blaring out of my speakers.  This week, I have to take my car into the body shop to remove the buttock-shaped dents in the hood.

While this song is not a masterpiece to go down forever as work of art, it certainly works its own brand of magic.  Musical Viagra…what could be sweeter than that on a Friday night?

Just another Friday night in Ashevegas

Friday night was fun, ya’ll!  Where were ya?  All the hot action was going down at Fred’s Speakeasy with a crazy lineup of Automanic, Luxury Pushers and Crank County Daredevils.  Thanks to my bro being fashionably late as always, I missed most of Automanic’s set.  Luxury Pushers were super cool (hunt ’em down on myspace) although I really wanted to give their guitarist a blood transfusion and a peanut butter sandwich; I could pick my teeth with that boy…but any band that opens their set with a few lines from “America” by Neil Diamond is ok in my book.

The crowd was happy as hell it was Friday, friendly and mostly drunk.  There was dancing and flailing for Luxury Pushers, which if you know Asheville’s music scene like I do, is insane–seldom will Ashevillians get up and show love to the headlining band, nevermind the opening bands. 

The bathroom at Fred’s is haunted.  My sis in law announced this to me early in the evening.  My own investigation led me to the same conclusion, so don’t pee alone in the Speakeasy ladies room.  One of the employees overheard us talking and threw in her own two cents of agreement.

By the time Crank County got rolling, the crowd that was drunk for Luxury Pushers was now wasted, but still friendly.  A mosh pit formed in front of the band, and for reasons I can’t understand, the men of the pit felt it best that they pull their shirts off.  Heh heh heh, ok, let me jump in there.  Makin’ friends with shirtless sweaty men, yeah.  One of my new friends felt compelled to give me random shoulder massages between songs.  Had I not been feeling a gentle Jager buzz, I probably would’ve punched him in the nose—no one touches the Katster without permission, especially when I don’t even know your name, but as I mentioned, it was a really friendly crowd, so I was going with the flow.  Good gawd it was hot, and I shouted out to my bro that I needed water, but he dissed me entirely!

Crank County put on their usual high octane show, but because the “stage” at Fred’s is just a corner of the room, the band is on the same level with the audience.  Audience members from the mosh pit are spilling over into the band, singing spontaneous backup vocals, good stuff.  By the time they rolled into their ass-kicking cover of GnR’s “It’s So Easy,” they’d just given up control of the vocals to the crowd entirely.  It was awesome, really fun.

Post show, we weren’t eager to leave Fred’s, we were having too much fun.  Bro, Sis in Law, and two super hottie rock stars from local bands were hanging with me at the bar.  I’m drinking water (thank god for water, thank you anonymous super hottie rock star for getting me water) and high five-ing my mosh pit brothers as they amble off into the night—some of them have located their shirts, some of them are wandering away without one.  We’re all just chillin’, shootin’ the shit.  It’s time for Fred’s to start closing up shop, so we hijack the super hottie rock stars in my brother’s vehicle, the BroMobile, and take our soiree to Denny’s.

Denny’s around 3 AM is a very strange place.  They have security guards in place to keep the peace should a brawl over maple syrup break out.  Everyone else in the place looked pretty cranky and tired, but our table was rowdy and happy—and maybe a little too loud, it’s hard to judge how loud you’re talking when your ears are ringing. 

Food at that late/early hour is good.  Any food at that hour is good…except, apparently, for the bacon (“oh my god, I think I might puke, that bacon is horrible, try it, no, really try it.  I think it’s raw, taste it.”) and some mysterious pancakes of evil (“I didn’t order pancakes.  Why are there pancakes here?”).  My bro redeemed himself for being late and letting me dehydrate at Fred’s by paying for my chow.

We drove our first super hottie rock star home and left him with his box of Satan’s pancakes of the damned…and as we were chauffering our second super hottie rock star home, that’s when the full belly sleepiness started washing over me and I couldn’t sit up straight. 

I was dropped off at home, locked the door behind me and started to strip on my way to the washer to deposit the funky laundry.  The smell of cigarette smoke and the sweat of mosh pit men was pretty gross; I had to wash the clothes immediately.  I wanted a shower, but couldn’t make it another step, collapsing on my bed, instantly asleep.  Good fun, good times, just another Friday night in Ashevegas.

I love acupuncture

This is a tough one to explain if you’ve never had it done before, but a really good acupuncture session is bliss.

First off, I’ll back up and say I was in a fender bender that left me sore between my shoulder blades, an ache that wasn’t fading away.  Ice and ibuprofen weren’t making a difference.  I thought I’d go back to the acupuncture clinic and see if they could work some magic.

They’ve worked magic for me in the past.  They’ve fixed my sleep problems short term, they alleviated tremendous back pain after two flailing falls.

So you’re on a table, a massage-type table with the cradle for your face.  You might be on your back if the acupuncture needles are going in your front side, but I think all my treatments but one have required I be on my stomach.  After a consultation with your acupuncturist, you assume the position (on my tummy, in my case) without clothing but covered with some artfully arranged towels and get really comfy, because that’s the position you’ll be in for a while.

Twenty-four needles were put in during this session.  I had needles up my neck into my hair, and needles all the way down to my hips.  Once you’re all needled up, the acupuncturist leaves the room and there you are for thirty minutes or so, very still and quiet.  The office I go to has some relaxing new age-y music playing in all the treatment rooms.  I’ve been known to fall asleep on the acupuncture table and drool on the floor, super sexy.

I don’t know if it’s the needles or the table or the heat lamp on my feet (thank you, my feet always get cold) or the music or the sun shining in on me, but I always melt away into the most deep relaxation.  The noise in my head quiets and it is replaced with calm, wonderful tranquility and happiness.

After thirty minutes, an assistant comes in ever so quietly to remove the needles and finish your treatment with massage.  This go ’round, my usual massage was replaced with a “moving cups” massage that made my toes curl.  I think I proposed to the assistant, asked him to marry me and be my massage slave.

I left the acupuncture center in a haze of happy smiling bliss, purring like a contented kitten. Mmmmmmmm.  Like a good romp in the sack, I could’ve either gone back for more or gone right to sleep, and either choice would’ve been perfect.

I go back again next week.