Have you ever met someone so ridiculous you were all ‘this mama clearly has eightballs in her sippy cup’ but you continued to hang out with them anyway because every time you did something hilariously awesome always ensued that may or may not result in hightailing it barefoot out of a playdate, cackling with a kid under each arm because your passive aggressive tendencies are heightened by sissified kids and the hovering moms who enable them and, oh yeah–eightballs. 

That’s what Kelley at Kelley’s Breakroom is like.  Though, as far as I know she isn’t a crack head nor does she live in a meth house.  This intro really wasn’t supposed to have so many drug references in it and I feel a defamation of character lawsuit looming.  Kelley is NOT on drugs, people.  It’s a metaphor.  For lunacy.

Because craziness like this doesn’t need drugs. 

This week’s blush (blog crush)– Kelley’s Breakroom:

Real Women of Genius

I don’t care if I’m holding a newborn or juggling balls of fire, I will stop ANYTHING if a “Real Men of Genius” song comes on the radio.  Click on this video to hear “Mr. Really, Really Bad Dancer”.   You will laugh your face off, so I’d eat dinner before watching it.

Read more…

Yeah.  I’m sick.

At first I thought it was allergies or potential mold spore infestation in my lungs but, no.  I have a cold.  My head feels like it’s about to explode, there are tissues everywhere, and even my eyelashes ache.  Joy.

 So trying to come up with a post wasn’t happening—enter Sass tagging me to answer some questions.  I don’t usually do these but, for Sass—I mean, look at her:

her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.

She’s beautiful.  Like, the intimidating, please don’t ever stand next to me ever because I will look like a hunchbacked hippo in comparison, kind.  She’s young and skinny and had the cutest hot pink umbrella at her wedding and I’m really not sure why she likes me so much but, whatever. 

(On the serious, she’s also the nicest girl and just finished an internship at a news station—live reporting and everything!  She’s awesome; so proud of her.  Who needs Katie Couric and her colon anyway—pfft! )

Q1. Your most recent pet peeves?

A. The inside of my nose being all ‘I’m too good for oxygen’ and getting all tingly and singed every time I take a breath so I have to breathe through my mouth and that’s annoying because then you get dry mouth, then hot, dry mouth and then it’s just all sticky because you just finished sucking on cough drops and now your mouth is like a hot, sugary Venus fly trap for bedtime crawlies and you can’t fall asleep because you’re pretty sure it’s like, gnat-fest 2010 in there and if I could breathe through my ear holes I would totally do it.  So, yeah.  There’s that.

Q2.  Have you ever faked an O? Don’t lie!

A.  Is this like ‘would you like to buy a vowel?’

Q3. If you could be famous for something, what talent would you choose?

 A.  Writing.  Published novelist. The day it happens I’ll probably soil myself.  Then blog about it.  (The publishing part, not the soiling.  But yeah, probably the soiling too.)

Q4. Would you rather be invisible or be able to fly?

A.  I would make my inner thigh and baby belly flap invisible.  They could fly away too if they want.  Or I could go green and recycle them—donate them to plastic surgeons worldwide for the chesticularly challenged.  Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, homies.  I’m practically saving the earth.

 Q5. What are the top 3 things every relationship needs?

 A. Bacon, spanx, and darkness.

 Q6. Who do you think is the most annoying ‘big’ blogger?

 A.  I can honestly say I have no idea.  I’m not a big blogger, but I’m definitely annoying.

 Q7.  Do you love me?

 A.  It’s always good to have a hot friend, even a hot interwebs friend.  I’m sure it will pay off any day now.

A few things.

Saturday morning G and I went to breakfast—good times.  Then, we went to an antique store because I watch entirely too much HGTV and was all ‘yes!  I, Tiffany, should go to an antique shop, buy an old chest of drawers* for $20, and refurbish it all by myself.  And, because I’m really smart, I’m going to take a toddler who touches everything with me.  Then I’m going to say ‘chest of drawers’ a few more times because it makes me sound Victorian.’

Yeah.  Everything was like, $100, G almost broke some chandelier, lamp, clock, thing (not $20), and I’m pretty sure I inhaled mold spores because I spent the rest of the day coughing up something that seemed pretty spore-y.  Then I scored a chest of drawers at Goodwill but had to return it because, apparently I don’t watch enough HGTV because if I did I would know you should always measure first because it was too big and I had to take it back.

Saturday night I caught a cold.

Sunday morning, the air conditioner broke.

Have I mentioned that I live in the South?  And that it’s August?

It was 92 degrees in my house Sunday night.  92.

As if a summer cold isn’t bad enough—now I’m sweating through my clothes while trying to breathe but I can’t because my lungs are clogged with overpriced mold spores, and really I should never be allowed to watch HGTV ever again ever.

Unless David Bromstad’s on.  He does a body good.

Then, also last night, the power cord for the laptop stopped working so I couldn’t do any schoolwork (read: blog) and it cost me freaking $86 dollars to replace.  And it wasn’t even all vintage and from an antique store or anything.

Awesome.

For an actual post you can find me at House of Dolls today.  I’m talking about putting all your business in the street, virtual style, and how you’re probably going to get fired and never hired by anyone again because you blog.

I’m only kind of kidding.  Your employer’s probably all up in your comments right now.

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‘chest of drawers’ is just an snooty way of saying ‘dresser’.  it has nothing to do with boobs or underwear.  so disappointed.

So, I’ve been thinking for a couple weeks that I read a lot of awesomeness on the interwebs and have more virtual crushes on people than I really care to admit because, really, nobody wants to be that girl whose all emotionally slutty and ‘oh, how I love your blog.  Let me count the ways…’ on the first visit. 

I, however, have done this numerous times and probably have virtual restraining orders across the map.  Whatever; I’m harmless—and probably in the bushes outside your bedroom window.

This week I have a blush (blog crush) on this post by Average Girl in which she runs around in the wee hours of the morning flashing unsuspecting garbage men.  I’m serious.

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Just Your Average Girl’s Morning as an Exhibitionist

Arrrruugghhhhh CLANG CLUNK CLINK (explosive) CRASH!!!!!

I startled to a sitting position.  Those familiar, annoying, newborn-parent-nightmare-inducing sounds had woken me up again.  I looked at the clock –5:49 A.M.  The blasted garbage trucks weren’t supposed to come until 6:30 at the earliest, and (once again) they were rattling and chugging into the neighborhood before even the rabid coyotes had gone to sleep.  At least, we had put the garbage cans out the night before.  I snuggled back into the blankets, and closed my eyes.

My eyes popped open again.  No. We. Hadn’t.

Read more…

This is G. 

This is G playing in my Pap smear vest.

She thinks it’s a princess dress.

I could have told her the truth—that it is a princess dress.  One made of paper towels with an experience dipped in lube and humiliation.  In a land of cervical mucus, birth control, and urinating in a cup, where a glass slipper is replaced with a shiny speculum and your prince leaves you with, not a kiss, but a co-pay at the inflated ‘specialist’ rate. 

I didn’t say that though—she still refers to a vagina as ‘China’ so, explaining cervical mucus is clearly out of the question.  I don’t really get the whole deal about that stuff myself and, apparently, I’m a grown up.

The kid almost makes a pap vest look good though.

Almost.

This week around the blogosphere I’ve seen a lot of pictures—pictures of children waiting at school bus stops, climbing the school bus steps, waving from school bus windows.  It’s like school buses gone wild up in here and, not having school-age children, I’m feeling a little left out.  A few posts even made me tear up as I watched children venture off into the big K that is kindergarten, or their first day of junior high while moms sat secret agent stalker style and snapped photos with their telephoto lens from the depths of minivans.

While my own children didn’t start school this week, another big kid I know did: me.

knowledge is power...or, something.

Last night was my last first day of school EVER!  (Please note the enthusiasm above.)  Unfortunately, graduate students aren’t good enough for school buses and are forced to drive themselves to class.  Personally, at nearly 3 grand a course, I think I deserve a big yellow school bus.  With my name on it.  And wine with a cheese platter served at the rear.  The husband could stand outside and take pictures of me in the window as I lounged and relaxed to the music of my choosing.

And I’d probably choose some Jodeci.  (Yeah, what’s up, 7^th grade!)

So here are some things I learned last night on my last first day of school:

-Trying to appear interested is exhausting…yet, frees up a lot of space in one’s brain to come up with blog posts

-The professor started the lecture with, ‘I assume most of you were born in the 80’s…’ You assume wrong, professor.  I’m old.

-People will never call you unless you are somewhere that it would be really inconvenient for people to call you

-A former group member who barely acknowledged my existence throughout our project and whose snobbery is always noted has clearly gained a few pounds.  This made me smile.  Don’t judge me.

-Talking about globalization is not nearly as interesting as reality T.V. ‘Oh snap, World Trade regression line!  I know you did *not* just plot yo’self on the same absolute vertical axis scale as World Production…you betta recognize…’*  

Yeah, nothing like that ever happens.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

*I have no idea what this means.  It’s in my notes though so I’m guessing it’s at least somewhat legit.  Maybe.

Me: G repeats everything I say.

Husband: I’ve noticed.

Me: I don’t think spelling is going to cut it anymore.  And I’m tired of spelling ‘whore.’  I always have to think about it first.  Like ‘diarrhea.’  I always have to think about how to spell it and still get it wrong.

Husband: Do you say ‘whore’ and ‘diarrhea’ that often?

Me: You have no idea.

Husband: *sigh*

Me: Like ‘sex’…

Husband: You don’t know how to spell ‘sex’?

Me: Yes, I know how to spell ‘sex’—but she’s repeating the spelling now.  Either way, she’s telling on me.

Husband (experimenting with sarcasm): It’s quite a dilemma.

Me: I know!  So I’ve decided to stop spelling things and use child-friendly code words instead.  It’s like baby proofing language.

Husband: Hmm…

Me: So, from now on, ‘sex’ is ‘bananas and doughnuts’…

Husband: ‘Bananas and…’  You’re so ridiculous.

Me: I think you mean ‘the smartest most awesome parent ever.’ 

Husband: Do you have to be so graphic about it?

Me: It’s graphically delicious.

Husband: I don’t even want to know what ‘whore’ is…

Me: 7-Eleven.

I lost my mind last week and scheduled the following pleasantries within mere days of each other:

-wellness checkups for G (3 year) and LB (1 year).  Including shots.  For both.

-teeth cleaning (for me) which lead to…

-a crown buildup, aka, grinding your tooth down Old Testament style with a rock and a chisel

-pap smear (for me again—not the children) which just reminds me of childbirth but in reverse, with more humiliation and less people elbow-deep in your lady bits 

Clearly the most awesome week ever.

Monday: Teeth Cleaning

Dental assistant: We’re going to take pictures of the inside of your mouth and I need you to move your tongue back.

Me: Back?

DA: Yes, back.

Tongue moves ‘back’.

DA: No, like you’re trying to swallow your tongue.

Me: For real?

DA nods.

I try to pretend to swallow my tongue…or, whatever.

DA (as if I’m some foreigner who doesn’t speak English uses the ‘talking louder and slower’ method proven completely unsuccessful by ignorant morons worldwide): Try. and. swallow. your. tongue.

Me: This is ridiculous.

The DA later pricks at my gums, with what can only be a machete, and calls out numbers to another DA and they have this private numbers conversation right in front of you like when you get your nails done and all the women are all chatty and laughing then look at you and smile and you’re like ‘what’s so funny’ and they’re all ‘you so pretty’ and start laughing again except now you know they’re lying because when you left the house your husband was all ‘did you lose your hairbrush or something?’ 

Then the DA says ‘gums bleeding on teeth…’ and continues to call out about a million numbers and I’m like ‘I’m bleeding because you’re stabbing me!’ except it came out more like ‘bluggrrhrrh’ because I was too busy pretending to swallow my tongue.

Tuesday: Crown buildup

Face. still. throbbing.

Thursday: Kids checkups and shots

When I scheduled these appointments to occur at the same time I figured my efficiency and time management was off-the-charts awesome.  When we arrived at the appointment I realized that I’m an idiot.  Each child either had to pee or poop, cried, wouldn’t let the doctor come near them, or pulled speculums out of the drawer because speculums are clearly essential at a pediatrician’s office.  Then the shots came.  For both children.  The screaming—sweet Lord—the screaming.

Friday: Pap Smear

First of all, the word ‘smear’ doesn’t sound like anything positive—unless it involves butter, jam, or a muffin.  Medical world, please note that vagina is not included.  And no, I did not mean ‘muffin’ as some cutesy term for ‘vagina.’  Gross.

Second, as if the open, paper towel robes weren’t humiliating enough, now everyone’s all ‘ooh, economic downturn’ and ‘budget cuts’ and I’m forced to wear lesbian comedienne attire circa 1983:

seriously.

What the heck is that?! 

I stood naked in the room for about 10 minutes trying to find the rest of the thing.  It never happened so I put it on and then wrapped myself, chalupa-style, in the modesty sheet.  Dr. Campbell didn’t know whether to bust out the lube or a burp cloth.

Then I figured the stupid thing would make an awesome replacement changing pad and shoved it in my purse since my dog chewed up our fancy one because, well, you know—budget cuts.

You know the ‘about me’ section?  Sure you do.  The section/page/tab where you are supposed to sum up who you are in a couple of lines but you have no idea what to say and pull some concoction out of the nether regions of your anus and, based on this, everyone on the internet presumes to know everything about you thus giving them free reign to pass judgment and tell you what to do.

Yeah.  That section.

My current ‘about me’ is pretty much Lame City—something Dooce said about bloggers being ‘characters’ that readers fall in love with.  Like how Jennifer Aniston will always be Rachel or whenever you hear about Kim Fields you’re like ‘you mean Tuti?’  I still think bloggers are characters in the 30 minute sitcom or hour long drama that is their blog, but regardless, I’m changing the about me and heading out of Lame City…

…or at least moving to a lesser lame suburb in the next town over.

So, here’s my ‘about me’—the 30 minute sitcom version—I’ll add to it as things come to mind, but for now…

-I’m ridiculous.

-I’ve been known to pee with the door open.  Only at my house—I’m not flashing peeps at Ikea or anything.  I’d like to say it’s because I can keep a better eye on my kids or that I’m afraid of snakes coming through the toilet and eating me whole and an open door policy would guarantee my screaming wouldn’t go unnoticed but really, I’m just lazy and inappropriate.

-The first thing I do when I walk in the house is take off my bottoms (i.e. pants, jeans, etc.  Not to be confused with my actual bottom.  If I took that off I’d be like, 30 pounds lighter).

-I once made a girl laugh so hard she peed on herself.  In public.  At an ATM.

-I’m really not that funny.

-I will be a published author one day.  I will.

-I rate my friends on whether or not I would use their deodorant.  I’m not kidding.

So I’ve been hanging out with my kids—doing things that have nothing to do with Dora the Explorer or any of her cousins—and outside.  Like, in nature with trees and grass and no air conditioning.  I’m sure they’ve forgotten about our excursions already—those sweaty memories.  Never mind my crippled foot and that I practically suffered a heat stroke.  Thanks kids.

Then, post stroke, I had to get ready for our neighborhood yard sale.

I hate yard sales.  Just typing ‘yard sale’ makes me feel like a 72 year old woman who hacks up half a lung, then rolls her boobs back up into her bra every morning.  I can’t stand looking at my own crap let alone getting up at 6am on a Saturday morning to go and pay a dollar for someone else’s crap, or waiting around for someone to pay a dollar for mine.  But when I saw the sign at the end of the street advertising our annual community yard sale I figured it was good incentive to get rid of all the baby stuff in my garage. 

is it just me, or does it look like we're the only ones selling stuff?

I sat in my driveway, in the sun, for two and a half hours and learned a number of things about hard core yard sale shoppers.  I learned that they don’t care how much you originally paid for things or what it’s really worth.

I learned that when you ask $10 for a practically new, vibrating, classical music playing bouncy seat, a grown man will act like you just asked for his left testicle on a freaking diamond encrusted platter, and run back to his car all huffy and offended.

this smile is so fake. i was exhausted. hence the 'i'm better than you' sunglasses. i should really post at least one picture of myself where i look halfway decent.

I also learned that I have tourettes around Hispanics.

A Hispanic couple and their toddler were sifting through my junk, looking at some of G’s old dresses and baby toys.  They spoke English and Spanish to each other and finally bought a dress and some inflatable monstrosity.   I had spoken English to them the entire time and for some reason blurted out ‘hola!’ to their baby.  Like how some white people get around me and suddenly they’re all ‘nah mean’* and ‘izzle’, and I’m like ‘dude, I’m from the suburbs’, and their all ‘word?!, ’ and I’m like ‘yes—are you seriously throwing up gang signs right now?’ 

I got all flustered like somehow I might have offended them and decided to follow ‘hola’ up with something equally unimpressive.

Me (referring to their daughter): Como se llama?  (What’s her name?)

Man: Elisa

Me (in Spanish): …

Man: …

Me: Thanks for stopping by!

Marking that I was part Hispanic on my Census form was clearly for show as the mere notion of Spanish voice on voice action sends my language skills into narcoleptic fits.

Whatever.  Next time I’ll skip out on nature with the kids and stay home and watch Dora instead. 

She speaks like, 40 languages and folks always pay full-price for her crap.

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*’nah mean’ = ‘know what I mean.’  You’re welcome.