Im on the edge of ladylike glory

Ways to be more ladylike

1. Sexy jammies (at least twice as sexy as sweatpants)

Success. Sexyish jammies have been acquired. I look like I poached the last of the critically endangered fancy satin leopards for their pelts. Must stop looking sad over this new thought, as I did not poach anything.

2. Find luxurious looking cat to lie on bed luxuriously.8

There is a cat lying on the bed, waiting to be painted like one of your French girls, but he is not a luxurious cat. He is a ginger tom with a tattered ear from a long ago fight, a weight problem, and a face like a goat. Still, it is ladylike to be graceful and not too critical over his less-than-luxurious appearance. Half success.

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Cat and satin leopard pelted knee. Ladylike? Yes.

3. Learn to like a ladylike drink. Call it a ‘tipple’.

Abject failure. Perhaps I am being too critical, but I cannot seem to move past the lighter fluid and death aftertaste of choices like brandy. Perhaps drinking beer from a glass instead of the bottle will work.

4. Learn man pleasing recipes to please Johnny Rotten.

Very good progress. I now know men like the trio of meat, potatoes and gravy thanks to a copy of Farm Journal’s Country Cookbook. I have been doing it wrong until now, but I can certainly change that. Gravy for all the meals!

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5. Find a non-zombie-related jello mold for the other recipes in this book. It seems required, and serving a shimmering beef salad molded in the shape of the brain doesn’t seem ladylike. Also? It is tough to decoratively place olives in a brain mold.

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Classy in a ring. Gauche as a brain or severed hand. Must not be gauche. 

6. Practice not cursing like a sailor with a stubbed toe. Speak in cultured, dulcet tones instead.

Failure. Nothing more can be said, as it will undoubtedly be said in the tones of an enraged fishwife.

I must keep working. I really feel Im on the edge of glory with this.

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Making a video for the grandparents, and why they’ll have to be satisfied with still images forevermore.

I have wrestled with posting this. I really have. One on hand, I don’t want to humiliate my kid. On the other hand, oh my God, you guys! You’ll never believe what just happened at my house!

As it happens though, my kid is almost completely humiliation proof. If you confront her about something embarrassing, she’ll merely raise an eyebrow and say “So?”, like you are the one who should be embarrassed for even bringing such trivial nonsense up. I’d say this was a new part of her life since she entered tweenhood, but nope. I remember being called to her school because she had mooned someone in first grade, and was completely unrepentant.

Anyway.

I had been talking to my mom about the gloriousness that is Just Dance 4, and being that she lives thousands of miles away, she asked for a video of the kids playing one of the songs.

I was stoked. I miss my parents, and anything to feel closer to them is a good thing. I really want them to be a part of my kids’ lives, and I want my kids to be a bigger part of theirs too. So, I set everything up to make a video. I had the kids choose a good song –The Final Countdown–and got them started.

Everyone was doing great. The gold moves were being hit, the kids were being natural, no one was cursing at the game in creative or mundane ways. It was good.

Three minutes into a four minute video, I was really impressed with everyone. It looked like all we needed was one take, and it would be a cute little video to send to grandma and grandpa.

You know how I have told you all about how my ideas and expectations and how they seem great but they end up failing in rather spectacular ways? Yeah. It shouldn’t come as any big surprise that karma bushwhacked my ass again.

No sooner than I thought about how well it was going, Manchild crashed into his sister, who fell on the floor with a very respectable thud. He kept dancing, or “dancing”. If you saw it, you’d say “dancing” with air quotes and side-eye too.

She just sat on the floor looking at him. He urged her to get up. She said she couldn’t. He danced over her. Literally, over her. He was leaping over her like a gawky teenage Barishnikov as Europe played. She continued to sit on the floor.

“Get up! We have to finish!”, he kept saying. She finally replied, instead of sitting there staring at him. “I need a towel”, she giggled. “You hit me so hard that I just peed myself.”

And that’s when I turned off the camera. Wow, yeah. One take, huh? Grandma is going to be so impressed by this.

Jesus. Christ.

Sunday short and shout: And that’s why I named her “Munchkin”

Munchkin asked why I chose her given name for her.

I told her it was because “Butthead” was already taken. Uh-huh. Uh-huh-huh-huh.

I’d never name her Butthead. She’s much more like Beavis’ alter-ego, Cornholio. (via Fanpop)

Honesty: it’s what brings mothers and tween daughters closer together.

I just realized there will be people scandalized by this, and they shouldn’t be. It’s not like I was going to name her ‘Butthead ‘for real. ‘Beavis’ would have been way classier. Also, My Aunt Becky would probably approve of this, because she’s a  totally rad bloggerina, one of the CoolKids, and– keep in mind I am yelling this like an emokid–“she understands me, not like YOU!”

You should go visit her over at Mommy Wants Vodka .

If reading things aren’t your style (and who can blame you? You’ve already read, like, 100 words here!) and you want to look at pretties instead, you really ought to go check out this shirt by cubik, because, well,  you should. Winnie the Pooh plus Tardis equals more win than you are ready for. Brace yourself. Winter is coming (and you’ll probably want to cover your torso, no? I hear nipple frostbite is a bitch.)

Disclaimer: I’m not paid for recommending these links to you in anything other than warm fuzzy feelings. I just think they’re both awesome.

There are people in need out there. Its my duty to help.

I checked my stats this morning, and I learned that I am already helping people!

Someone searched for ‘cold wax stuck’, as you can see. They found my illuminating and more-terrifying-than-a-bird-in-a-clown-suit post about the perils of cold wax. I’m guessing that because of me, they were either able to unstick scissors or a guinea pig–or a guinea pig wielding scissors– from their hoo-hah, which pretty much puts me right on course for some kind of humanitarian award in the field of hoo-hah saving.

As an aside here, and this is kind of important, ‘hoo-hah’s are not the same as ‘hooah’s. When Johnny Rotten was in the army, they said ‘hooAH’ a lot. It’s kind of just a grunt of ‘yes I heard you and yes we’re totally going to do whatever it is you’re asking Go Team Army!” kind of noise. Of course, ‘hoo-HAH’ is slang for vagina.  I can’t tell you how many times I nearly busted up laughing at Very Important Events because to my ear, it sounded like whole herds of soldiers were enthusiastically yelling the equivalent to “coochiesnorcher!” during inspirational times of whatever meeting they were attending. Yes, I am well aware of how immature I am. Yes, I totally think it should happen anyway. I’m an soon-to be awardwinning expert in this field, remember?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those are not chicken.

Madame X is one of those people who took me under her wing when Johnny Rotten deployed. I firmly believe that everyone should have a friend like that, especially if one lives far from wherever ‘home’ is and one has found herself completely alone in her brave new world.

The Portrait of Madame X.

Seriously, y’all.  She is  a hell of a person and one of the nicest folks I’ve met. She also tended to put me in situations that were, to put it in the kindest possible way, “learning experiences”. Whether that is included in being a hell of a person or is the exception to that statement is up to you to decide.

This is the tale of one of those learning experiences.

Madame X and I were on our way to a party out in the country. She was actually invited, and I was her plus-one, not that anyone had actually allowed for plus-ones. I had been raised to be a polite person– though I often fail at that, as anyone know knows me in real life can attest– and I was a bit concerned about showing up without an invitation. Whatever, she assured me that it was fine.

When I say this was out in the country, I mean it was way, way waaaaaaaaaaaay out there. We drove towards nowhere, and about 20 minutes past when I thought we would have reached the end of the earth, we finally arrived.

No, we were not ‘there yet”. I may have repeatedly been told to stop asking.

Madame X introduced me around. Everyone was very nice, especially when they heard that my husband was overseas. If there’s one thing I have learned about Oklahomans, they take supporting their troops very, very seriously. I felt awesome. The kids were playing, I was chatting to strangers, and someone– probably Madame X, come to think of it– had put an ice cold beer in my hand. I was definitely the ‘new person’, an outsider, and the subject of much curiosity, but everything was going smashingly well.

If you like me and want no misfortune for me, perhaps you’d better stop reading here. You can close out this story, secure in the knowledge that I did not make an ass of myself and everything was good, if a little boring.  If, however, you like me but like schadenfreude just a little bit more, keep reading.
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Still here? Sadist. Okay, on we go.

So everything was going smashingly well, as I was saying.  Madame X had realized that I was doing A-OK without her having to run interference, and she was off talking to her friends. I heard my name called from over by the food prep area, and went over to see what was going on.

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m not sure if I imagined it or not, but it seemed a hush came over the partygoers.  I looked around, but could see nothing that would cause this.  The very large man in overalls that had called me over was grinning at me, and suddenly, I had a very, very bad feeling that I was about to have yet another ‘learning experience’.

He asked if I knew what calf fries were. I most certainly did: deep fried bovine testicles. Bull-balls, if you will. They are sliced thinly, then dredged-or-something, then battered-or-breaded-or-something, then fried. They don’t just fry the whole thing, because that would be ridiculous, you know? Madame X had told me about them on the way there, and had made a point of telling me that I absolutely was under no obligation to try them if I didn’t want to.

It looked like that “no obligation” thing was about to change.  The large grinning man asked if I wanted one, and without waiting for a reply, pulled a piece of bovine testicle out of his overalls pocket and handed it to me.

I looked over at Madame X, who had the most horrified look I’ve ever seen on her face. I don’t think she’s a praying type, but I think she was praying really hard right then. Had she been closer, I’m sure she would told the guy to knock it off, but she was far enough away that all she could do was watch. I had to deal with this all by my lonesome, with a very curious audience just waiting to see what this city girl would do. It was like I had showed up at an Old West themed dinner theater production, and I was the surprise star.

I realized, as I looked at the castration byproduct that was still warm from large-man body heat and a bit linty from his pocket, that the fried-‘nad was cooling. As unappetizing as I felt it was while hot, cold would be much, much worse.

For illustrative purposes only. This is probably not the previous owner of the deep fried huevos de toro.

There is only one possible solution to a situation like this. It wasn’t a  snack, it was a test. It was a game of chicken, with something that tasted like chicken but totally was not chicken.  I had no choices. I had to eat the calf testicle or be shunned as a stick-in-the-ass city person who is too good for calf testicles. Worse, Madame X would be shunned too just for knowing me, and both of us would be subject to “Bless her heart, but…” behind our backs. I popped it in my mouth, chewed twice, swallowed and thanked OverallMan.

I made the right choice. The audience seemed satisfied and went back to their drinks and small talk, though a few of the ladies looked a little disappointed that there were no histronics.

Madame X was impressed, and honestly, I think thats when we went from friendly acquaintances to actual friends. Maybe that should be the test of any friendship: would your potential friend eat a linty chunk of bullball from a strangers pocket, just to make sure you aren’t shunned by your peers for knowing her? I’m proud of myself, because yes, I am that kind of friend.

I would probably do it for you too, because in all honesty, calf fries are actually kind of tasty. Next time, I might even try them without the lint.