I'm Gonna Sit at the Welcome Table One of These Days, HALLELUJAH!
I like to pretend that the sweatshirt is woven from the hairs of unicorns and the eyelashes of angels, because that's the only way I can justify it's $50,000 price tag.
Next to college, the runner up for biggest waste of my fucking time would have to be that one entire summer I spent at church camp, where my precious time was wasted learning Aggie jokes and pretending to love Jesus. My parents duped me into going by selling me on the fact that there would be rock wall climbing and ice cream socials. In reality, they were merely plotting a way to get me out of the house for three long months so they could invite all their friends over to listen to John Denver and smoke some fat spliffies. That's right mom, I've got your number.
Because I thought I stood a pretty fair chance of losing my virginity at the camp of Christ, I agreed to go. Phew, was I ever let down. That camp amounted to nothing more than three long months of Sunday school with the unwelcomed addition of Monday school, Tuesday school, Wednesday school, Thursday school, Friday school and Saturday school. To this day, whenever I hear "Our God is an Awesome God" I start clawing at my eye sockets and searching for the nearest cliff to fling myself off of. What's more, their sorry excuse for a rock wall was just a few empty Campbell's soup cans glued to a 6'x6' plank of particle board. Their idea of an ice cream social was a teaspoon of melted vanilla with your choice of trail mix or beef jerky toppings.
My mom was none too thrilled to find out that at the end of the summer when the parents came to pick up their filthy, sunburned, lice-infested but newly Saved children, there was to be a "Parents Day". Let me tell you people something- my mom? She doesn't do Parents Days. Place my mom in any awkward social situation involving well groomed strangers with mild mannered and respectful children, and she fucking panics. I think the most torturous part for her was having to actually acknowledge me as her child (as opposed to making me stand at least 6 feet away at all times while avoiding eye contact so as to convince passers by that I was just some malnourished, scraggly haired, ill behaved runaway). Much to my mom's outrage, this church camp's Parents Day required her not only to acknowledge my existence and pretend to be interested in ny newfound Salvation, but she was also expected to PARTICIPATE in some of the activities that her child had spent the better part of the past three months engaging in with all the grace and aplomb of a kid who can't even brush her teeth without tripping and falling. It was in that moment that I wished so desperately that I hadn't wasted the last picture on my Kodak Funsaver on the four foot long turd I'd laid in the forest the previous morning; the look on her face was just that priceless.
The kids were permitted to sign up for their top three choices of parent/child activities, and I chose the three that I thought would most effectively muss my mom's three-hours-a-day-with-the-curling-iron coif. Kayaking? Check. Bike race (helmet required)? Check. Trampoline jumping with thirty hyperactive children who hadn't showered in at least as many days? Double check.
Needless to say, my mom was fucking thrilled. What can I say, it was my revenge for sending me to that bastard camp where they brainwashed me into believing that all I had to do to curry God's favor was to make a glitter macaroni plate in his Son's likeness. What bullshit.
What was your biggest waste of time?
There's a Very Good Reason Why I Haven't Posted in So Long
Appreciating the cuteness of infants is an art form that has been lost on me over the years. When my brother and sister were born, I was too intent on wishing a torturous death to befall them to really appreciate how cute they were. Okay, well maybe not death, but I was definitely hoping for some sort of painfully grotesque physical deformity. My dreams have not of yet come to fruition, but I'm still holding out hope. Like my grandma once told me, never say never.
Since then, my contact with newborns has been less than extensive. No one seems to be very keen on letting a person who cannot effectively utilize a fork, pencil or wine glass handle their new baby. The phrase that every new parent dreads, "oops, it slipped," is something that I say on a pretty much daily basis.
But despite my limited knowledge on the cuteness of infants, I happen to know that this one, THIS ONE, is cuter than any other. She is breath takingly, heart meltingly, better-put-on-your-depends-because-you're-about-to-lose-control-of-your-bladder cute. Her cuteness is intergalactically unprecedented. Just yesterday, we started receiving short wave radio transmissions from Mars, which NASA experts have loosely translated into, " DAMN , that baby's cute!" Earlier I think I saw an old lady pass out when she entered into close vicinity of the orb of cuteness.
Her cuteness permeates my every waking and would-be sleeping moment. DO YOU HEAR THAT INTERNET? Me, the Queen of Sleep, losing sleep over the cuteness of a baby. HOW CAN ANYONE SLEEP WHEN SUCH UNBELIEVABLE CUTENESS EXISTS IN THE UNIVERSE? Her cuteness makes me want to gnaw my own arm off and offer it at the throne of the Gods of Cute because, holy crap, what have we mere mortals done to deserve such cuteness in our lives?!
If you had told me six months ago that being the first person to hold her bloody, squirming, screaming little body would be one of the proudest moments in my life, I would have called you a fucking liar. Funny how life's little miracles can change our perspectives in the blink of one tiny eye. I think I'm going to like being an aunt.
It Might Be Too Little, But it's Never Too Late.
So the other weekend I had lots of fun with Nessa dabbling in the art of erotic cookie making, and I'm pretty convinced that I must have missed my calling in life. Apparently I have an exceptional talent for gingerbread dough boob molding. Of course, I wouldn't have been able to discover this talent before now because, as you probably don't know, I was a neglected child whose mother never taught her to cook. As if I ever needed a reason to question my status as LEAST LOVED CHILD in the family, my fate was pretty much sealed when my mom flat out REFUSED to teach me how to cook, because she was too busy showing my brother the infant how to delicately froth foam to top his cappuccino with. I kid you not- when he was but a wee toddler, my parents bought him a special COOKING STOOL for him to help prepare tastebud-tingling confections while I stood by, patiently waiting for my mom to toast my Leggos for me because I wasn't allowed to operate the toaster by myself until I was 16. Even at 16, I still wasn't allowed to prepare any food requiring gas, heat, electricity or pouring from a gallon jug unless an adult or my 11-year-old brother was around to supervise me. As if it wasn't bad enough that my mom scoffed at my requests to learn to prepare my own Easy Mac, she would go so far as to mock me and my culinary inadequacies. She actually told me that I'd be lucky to ever find a husband who would love me despite my lack of cooking skills! WHY MOTHER, WHY DID YOU INTENTIONALLY SOCIALLY CRIPPLE ME, AND WHY DO YOU INSIST ON BELIEVING THAT THE ONLY WAY A GIRL CAN LAND A DECENT MAN IS BY COOKING A PERFECT LONDON BROIL? WELCOME TO THE 21st CENTURY- HAVEN'T YOU EVER HEARD OF RIMJOBS?
Moving on from my dysfunctional childhood (I have to save SOMETHING for therapy), Nessa and I had a grand ole time TRYING to decorate our cookies SherriStyle. Little did we know that HOLY FUCKING HELL it might help for one of us to have a degree in pastry cheffing before attempting such a gargantuan feat as ICING A COOKIE because it was no easy task. After conference calling with Sherri, it became clear to us that Nessa had not prepared the icing correctly and it was TOO THICK. According to Sherri, the icing should have been the consistency of mustard, but I have to admit that ours was more like the consistency of a 200 year old brick of lard. Or, to put it in terms that only a professional spelunker could appreciate, the icing SHOULD have been the consistency of runny butt pee, but was actually more like 4 weeks worth of rock hard feces which are so impacted that it requires digital removal by a pack of lube and my own two fingers. Now... who wants cookies?
So once we identified the problem, Nessa successfully whipped up a fluffy egg white (SOMEONE had a mom who didn't spend an entire decade too inebriated to teach her daughter how to fucking COOK) and we added it to the icing dispenser. From then on, the icing just GUSHED forth like semen from a prepubescent boy with a Cosmo mag and an overactive libido. Which I think might be why Nessa stopped me from squirting icing straight from the applicator tip into Baby D's open and eager mouth. Don't worry Nessa, it doesn't mean he's gay. Although, if I were you, I'd be just a little worried about his alarming little foot fetish. I have to give the boy credit; I've never seen a child whose motor skills aren't even developed enough to walk without running into the doorjamb somehow manage to fit so many toes into his mouth on the first try. Someone remind me to always wear socks AND shoes while in the Silly household from here on out. I mean, just in case there's a video camera around somewhere... I really don't want to go to jail.
But it turns out I didn't even have to squirt the icing into Baby D's mouth, because Nessa's new icing concoction was so liquidy that once it was squirted onto its victim, I mean cookie, it would just slide right off, down the edge of the table, and onto the floor where Baby D was hoovering up any stray icing, crumbs, or dog hair that happened to get close enough to be sucked into the vacuous black hole that is his mouth. We baked damn near 5 dozen cookies, but a good 2/3 of them ended up "accidentally" falling right into Baby D's mouth, with the help of his hand and the gravity-defying super sucking action of his mouth.
(Five minutes after this photo was taken, only crumbs remained)
When I admonished Nessa that her child was going to be awake for the next 12 hours on a sugar rush from hell, she casually replied, "Oh don't worry about it. I'm about to spike his milk with some benadryl."
"Jesus H," I replied, "Why don't you just pour a shot of whiskey in his bottle while you're at it?"
"Ooooh, I HAVE some whiskey..." she said, actually contemplating my suggestion. HOLY CRAP, I WAS ONLY JOKING. QUICK, SOMEONE CALL CPS. Don't bother giving them directions; they already know the way from the last time I called when her eldest child found one of Mommy's sex toys in the kitchen cupboard.
So, after some pretty fucking disastrous attempts at decorating the basic Christmas-themed cookie shapes (candy canes, Christmas trees and Boone's Farm bottles), we decided to embark on the task of gingerbread man making. FINALLY, the moment I had been waiting for. You see, even before I had arrived that day, I had already decided that I would somehow find a way to corrupt these little gingerbread cookies. I had been mulling it over in eager anticipation all day. All week, if I'm being honest. I just had to find a way to give them penises. And boobies. And- gasp!- even vaginas. I can't take credit for the tranny though, that one was all Nessa.
Good thing my co-navigator in this cookie expedition was none other than the Dildo Queen herself, because if it were anyone else I think they might have called the police when I started gently rolling balls of dough in between the legs of the gingerbread men. Fortunately for me, Nessa's pretty seasoned in the art of fake penis-like objects, so she took over dong duty. I fulfilled the roles of both captain cleavage and sergeant snatch. Nessa was also the hermaphrodite handler (I hate to be the nit-picky nurse here, but the cookie was actually a hermaphrodite and not a transsexual. Common misconception.)
(Professional at work)
Keep in mind that our entire fun-filled afternoon was peppered with some lively conversations with fellow bloggers, whom Nessa was incessantly harassing to the point that I think Marit might have sought a restraining order against us because HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, IF SHE DIDN'T ANSWER AFTER THE FIRST 35 PHONE CALLS I THINK IT'S SAFE TO SAY THAT SHE DOESN'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU. Fortunately for us (and our criminal records), the other bloggers we attempted to contact generally picked up the phone after the 5th or 6th attempt because their ears were tired of being assaulted by the incessant ringing of their phones and, even worse, the cryptic and anonymous messages Nessa kept leaving. We had some dazzling conversation with the likes of HDL, Sherri and Berry Girl, who were interrupted from their respective nap, baking and hangover. All I know is that I'm not eating any potentially poisoned baked goods Sherri sends my way after we informed her that her gingerbread likeness was engaging in some compromising sexual positions with Hermy and Afro Man. She was the gingerbread whore, and all of the other gingerbreads totally knew it. She'd been around the gingerblock a time or twelve, and don't quote me on this but I'm pretty sure I saw her letting Afro Man hit it from behind. I hope she charged for that shit. I'm just sayin'...
(Sherri and her man)
Of course, Marit's gingerperson was pretty jealous of Sherri's blatant promiscuity; but that's just because Marit's gingerboobs were smaller than even Hermy's. And I mean, seriously, what self-respecting woman wants to be trumped by man-tits? But Marit need not fret, for gingerNessa arrived at the party with her trusty gingervibe and two D-cell gingerbatteries, which was a good thing because Marit was getting very gingerhorny and desperately needed to rub one out.
(Nessa, The Vibe, and Marit)
Apparently, we were too drunk or laughing too hard during this time to take any significant photos, which I am very disappointed about because after a little decorating magic, I had successfully turned Marit's cooch an alarming shade of Herpes-breakout-red, and I used the little edible pearls as nipples. Nessa's gingerpeople were all messy and had no mouths. She tried to disguise her icing spillage as cum, but I know the truth. The truth is, she's really a shitty cookie decorator. But we don't want to hurt gingerSherri's feelings, so we'll just pretend, for her sake, that it's cum and not merely nozzle spillage. Same thing really, now that I think about it.
(My finished products)
(Nessa's finished products)
New Year's Eve 2005, aka I Haven't Partied That Hard Since My 21st Birthday When the Streets of Downtown Fort Worth Were Flowing With My Vomit.
The success of the night can be gauged by the fact that Kam's little brother spent a lot of time puking his guts out in the bathroom, a past-time reminscent of our Vegas vacation. The entire experience can be summed up by the first thing Kam's sister said upon waking in the morning, "I have a huge, empty void where my soul should be. Someone pass me that beer."
To see the annotated photos, click here. Make sure you read the notes so you get a better idea of just how retarded we really are.
A Christmas Tale, Part 2
After our early morning gift exchange and a delicious breakfast of fudge and craisins, I headed over to my mom's house for the family celebration, and Kam settled into the couch for an entire day of watching football in his undies, belching loudly, and shameless scratching his junk. That's what REAL men do on the day of our Lord's birth, you know.
I had told my mom to expect me around 10:00 am, but because I still had two ENORMOUS presents to wrap and a buttload of shit to haul out to my car, I didn't end up leaving Kam's house until about 10:00. My fucking psychotic family proceeded to call my cell phone no less than FIFTEEN TIMES in the same amount of minutes, making me rethink my desire to actually spend the day with them. What I don't understand about my family is why EACH of them has to call me to ask where I am, EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE ALL SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO EACHOTHER ON THE FUCKING SOFA. First the sister calls, asks me when I'll be there. I reply that I am about to be on my way and will arrive in about 15 minutes. APPARENTLY, that wasn't a satisfactory answer, because two minutes later my mom calls. Maybe in your family, the first thing your mom might say to you bright an early on a beautiful Christmas morn is, "Merry Christmas darling, light of my life, eldest child whom I love with all my heart!" but not in mine. The first words out of my mom's mouth were, "YOU HAVEN'T FUCKING LEFT YET, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I can't really hold this against her though, because apparently she started drinking vodka at 8:00 am, and when mom starts drinking THAT early, she's pretty much belligerent and/or incoherent by about the time the rest of us are finishing our second cup of coffee. Five minutes after I assured my mother that I was ON THE WAY, my dad called. "Where are you?" he asked. "I'M ON MY WAY, DAD. CHILL THE FUCK OUT." He then asked, "Well, are you in your CAR?" "Uhhh, no dad," I replied, "I'm in my private jet." "I just want to make sure you're really on your way!" he bellowed.
HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD, IS THERE ANY ONE FAMILY ON THIS UNIVERSE THAT IS MORE ANNOYING?! I didn't think so. Once I arrived (at 10:20), my sister heaved this exasperated sigh and said, "FINALLY. We've been waiting for you ALL DAY to open our presents!" Everyone then ripped into their shit like a pack of rabid dogs on a deer carcass, and after about half an hour my brother threw his usual hissy fit about the fact that WE HARDLY HAVE ANY MORE PRESENTS LEFT, WE NEED TO TAKE AN "INTERMISSION", which is really just an excuse for him to secretly count all of the presents and arrange them so that he ends up with a stockpile at the end because he ALWAYS HAS TO OPEN THE LAST PRESENT. The kid is fucking nineteen years old and STILL does this. When we were children, Christmas was always a really tense and stressful time of year because my brother just couldn't handle the anticipation. He couldn't handle the lack of control. He couldn't handle the fact that he had 13 presents and I had 14. He wouldn't sleep at night for WEEKS before Christmas, resulting in a really, really cranky child come Christmas morning. Remember how I told you someone always ends up crying hysterically on every holiday? Yeah, well before my mom became the raging alcoholic that she is today, the designated crier was usually my brother. This year he came close (when he realized that dad had more presents left than the rest of us at "intermission"), but his mood quickly improved once he made my dad open six presents at once, putting my brother in the lead of the LAST PRESENT STANDING race.
There was not much drunken debauchery as the day progressed, mostly because my mom was the only one boozin' it up. We ate a HUUUUUUGE dinner (#2) consisting of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans, glazed carrots, corn, biscuits, pasta with scallops, sweet potatoes and salad. We all stuffed ourselves silly, and then vegged out on the sofa to watch the feel-good holiday movie of the season, The Exorcism of Emily Rose. At one point, my mom got up and was in the restroom for a really long time, and when she emerged my brother asked her, "Were you just taking a dump?" (I TOLD YOU MY FAMILY IS FUCKING INSANE, DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.) "No," my mom replied walking to the kitchen and pouring herself a fresh glass of vodka. "Well what were you doing then?" he persisted. "I was throwing up," she retorted. I looked at her in amazement, "Why are you pouring more booze if you just finished puking?!" Mom's classic reply? "Because I have to replace the booze I just lost!"
Shortly after, I took myself a little tryptophan-induced nappy and then began to get ready for work. I put on my scrubs, gathered my loot, grabbed my keys, and began looking around for my glasses. I couldn't find them anywhere! I knew I couldn't have lost them, I only ever set them down in one or two places. I even checked under the dining room table, where the dogs take the expensive shit they want to rip to shreds. My mom's Boston has the same propensity as Pete to slobber and gnaw on anything BUT his designated slobbery gnawable toys. But no, my glasses were not amidst the pile of half-eaten leather handbags and dirty thongs with the crotch gnawed out. After about 10 minutes of frantic searching, my mom finally suggested that perhaps my dad accidentally grabbed my glasses when he left shortly before. You see, my dad has HORRIBLE vision, but due to his staunch unwillingness to walk into any type of doctor's office for fear of a forced prostate exam, he refuses to see an optometrist for corrective lenses (BECAUSE EYE DOCTORS GIVE PROSTATE EXAMS ALL THE TIME). Instead, he self-corrects his vision by walking into Walgreen's, trying on every pair of old geezer magnifying lens glasses on the $7.99 rack, and purchasing the pair that he thinks he can see best out of. Apparently this technique is not exactly effective, because he STILL can't see for shit. Thinking that my dad would definitely know the difference between my little tortoise-shell girly glasses and his giant, Eugene Levy old man spectacles, I called anyway just to cover my bases. Turns out, my dad HAD taken my glasses, but by this time was nearly 40 miles away and could not have brought them back in time for me to get to work. He seemed to find this HIGHLY hilarious. "DAD!" I screamed, "I CAN'T FUCKING DRIVE WITHOUT MY GLASSES!" He responded, "Aww, that's bullshit. You can see just fine without 'em." As if he would know! Luckily, my sister gave me a pair of her contacts, and although her prescription is only half the strength of mine, it was better than nothing. I still don't have my glasses back.
That night at work, they fed us our free employee Christmas meal (#3) of prime rib whose consistency closely resembled that of jello, baked potato, veggies and chocolate covered strawberries. I didn't touch the prime rib (and not only because I don't eat red meat), but everything else was actually pretty tasty for hospital grub. However, once I found out what Kam was eating over at his grandmother's house, I became extremely jealous! His aunt is a chef and professional caterer, and I kid you not, when I eat her food I feel like I've found religion for the first time in my life. Lucky for me, his family felt sorry for poor ole Spoonie, stuck at work on Christmas night, and they sent Kam home LOADED UP with leftovers. When I got off work that morning, I chowed down on the most delicious breakfast I've ever had in my 24 years on this earth (meal #4). We had turducken with an amazing cajun rice and crawfish stuffing, fresh asparagus, sweet potato casserole, and some spicy succotash that was so good I had to change my panties after eating it. We finished the meal with a Vietnamese chocolate tart AND some whipped pumpkin pie. I can only hope that when I get sent to death row and the warden offers me one last meal of my choice, that Kam's lovely aunt will fix THIS EXACT SHIT. Trust me when I say that after eating a meal like that, you really wouldn't give a damn when they stuck that syringe full of Drano into your vein. That's just what succotash does to you, folks.
We spent our Monday being complete lazy asses, and then went to dinner to celebrate Kam's father's birthday on Tuesday (meal #5). One reason I was somewhat relieved to have missed out on the family Christmas activities this year is that Kam's uncle (the one married to the cream-in-your-pants chef) is a complete and total perv. I'm talking like, stand-alone moustache, undress you with his eyes, hug you ten seconds too long, totally creepy kinda perv. He always goes OUT OF HIS WAY to seek me out at family functions and ask me the SAME FUCKING QUESTIONS over and over again while he feigns interest in what I'm saying but really just stares at my hoots. Thankfully, this year Kam's little brother brought his 17-year-old girlfriend, who is much more to the liking of Uncle Creep; not only because she's younger and hotter, but also because she hasn't yet learned NOT to wear short skirts to any family functions that Uncle Creep might possibly attend. Whatever, at least he found a new victim to add to his mental spank bank, and he pretty much left me alone. All I can say is that I feel really, REALLY sorry for his teenage daughter and her friends.
So, as you can see, the rest of my Christmas festivities were pretty mild and uneventful, compared to the Christmas Eve celebration. I wish I could say the same for New Year's Eve, which should more aptly be renamed Drunken Partyholic Eve, since that's pretty much what it consisted of. More on that later, I'm too hungover to begin rehashing the night's events in my thick and foggy brain at this point. Plus, I have to give you a reason to want to come back for more.
Happy New Year, bitches.