BOOBS!!

Wiggly, jiggly, big and bouncy or a champagne glass aesthetic,
But if you’re not happy with them you can get them done synthetic.
And if you are conversing, a girlfriend might think it rude,
If she’s talking with her mouth while you’re listening to her boobs.
Men think if they had them there really is no way,
They’d ever leave the house they’d just play with them all day.
My husband thinks they ‘re made for him so don’t tell him God gave me,
These wonders of creation so that I could feed a baby.

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Napowrimo Entry #10

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The White Trash Palette

Blogging is challenging because, not only do you have to write well, but you have to engage your audience.

I wrote this poem for my husband not too long ago. I, of course, thought it was HILARIOUS.  And then I asked myself, I said, “Myself, does anyone really care that my husband is worth his weight in saturated fats?” Probably not. But today is our 13th wedding anniversary. So this one’s for him. And if you like it, that’s cool too.

Oh, and don’t try to tell me I’m not romantic.

Some husbands got money,
Some husbands got talent,
I think I landed me the best,
When I got the White Trash Palette.

Don’t need no GPS for fast food chains,
He knows just where to go,
If he don’t know the locations,
He sniffs them out with his nose.

It’s like the golden gates of heaven part,
When we step inside,
Cause he’s the White Trash Palette,
And he does it deep fried.

He’s eaten more burgers,
Then the Earl of Sandwich,
Burger King is his servant,
Ronald McDonald is his bitch.

He’s hanging with Carls Jr.,
And he’s getting macho,
With Jack in The Box,
And upper management at Del Taco.

Don’t need to ask how to take my meals,
I know that he’s the boss,
He’s the connoisseur of french fries,
And he gots the special sauce.

And when it comes to lovin’,
We take that magic ride,
Cause he’s the White Trash Palette
And he does it deep fried.

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Las Vegas, NV 4/28/2001

 

Napowrimo Entry #9

They’ll Probably Kill Me (A Music Vlog Starring Moi)

A music vlog dedicated to all the women who feel like they have to be everything to everyone.

I ain’t gonna do the laundry so there
My husband will probably kill me
He won’t have no clean underwear
I know he’ll probably kill me

What do I care? Not a lot
I’ll just put on something hot
My husband will probably kill me today

I burnt the dinner again today
My kids will probably kill me
It was frozen pizza anyway
I know they’ll probably kill me

If they’re mad or if they’re hurt
I’ll just give them chocolate cake for dessert
I know they’ll probably kill me today

Wrote something dirty on Facebook today
My mom will probably kill me
I’m a big girl but anyway
I know she’ll probably kill me

I don’t know but I have a hunch
If I try to be nice and take her out to lunch
My mom will probably kill me anyway.

The Man Crush

What’s up with the man crush? First of all, let me say I am the least homophobic person on the planet, and indeed, I think the more liberal America has become, the more okay they are with the man crush. However, I am not okay with the man crush!!

When men crush, they crush hard. They wrestle each other, they exchange adorable witticisms, and to be sure, they act, well not really adorable at all.

Maybe I am just bitter and jealous of my husband’s current man crush. The two exchange witty banter on Facebook ad nauseam, and I am really tempted to add my comment, “Why don’t you guys just get a room already?”

When my son did his latest School of Rock performance, Man Crush came. He did not sit at our table but hovered by the bar sending drinks over to my husband. I guess he did not want our ‘fierce competitiveness’ to get in the way of his good time.

Of course my husband spent a good portion of the afternoon at the bar entertaining Man Crush. My daughter kept asking me, “Where’s daddy?’ to which I answered, ” At the bar making out with Brian.”

Today is Valentine’s Day. My husband posted a very nice comment to me on Facebook along with a YouTube link to a Paul Westerberg song. I thought this was all very nice and sweet, and commented in that vain,  but I did wonder, why Paul Westerberg? I don’t really like Paul Westerberg. Within minutes I say that Guy Crush commented on the post as well. ‘Paul Westerberg, awesome,’ he said. Ah, it is all becoming clear to me now!

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The Divine Inspiration of My Husband’s Stupidity

It is a beautiful thing when inspiration comes knocking. I mean, one minute you’ve got nothing and the next, the Muse beckons from her heavenly chamber and, BAM, there you are, typing away happily once again. This morning, the Muse came in the glorious vision that was my husband at 7 AM.

There is an alarm clock in our bedroom but we rarely ever use it for it’s alarm function. My husband and I wake up at different hours, and the alarm clock is located on my husband’s side of the bed. Rather then reaching over his slumbering form to give the alarm a good whack once the ugly hour arrives, we choose to each have our respective cell phones, located on our respective sides of the bed, set for our respective hours of awakening.

I am still home when my husband’s alarm goes off and this morning was no exception. What was odd about today was that once his alarm commenced it’s unpleasant morning song, it continued to do so for quite some time. In other words, my husband was not turning the alarm off. At first I assumed that my husband was sleeping through his alarm, but after hearing his curses being muttered throughout the household, I was certain that this was an alarm malfunction and that the Master of All Things Electric had finally met his match.

When I was finally able to make it into the bedroom, I was greeted by a sight of carnage that was not easy to watch. My husband stood naked, clenching the alarm clock with Hulk like strength in what was apparently an attempt to strangle it. Then, horror of horrors, the death knell rang as my husband unplugged the alarm clock from the wall. But still, STILL!, the incessant ringing of the alarm would continue much to my husband’s befuddled chagrin.

By the time I caught a grasp on the situation, I must admit I was quite enjoying myself but I couldn’t let my poor husband take it much longer. “Darling,” I said, “it’s the iPhone!”

Auld Lang Syne

A week or so ago, I wrote a blog complaining about how few people were reading my blog. Since this drop off began around Thanksgiving, I, of course wondered if this was due to the holiday season, but, since people are now so well connected, media-wise, I really wasn’t sure.

Yesterday, I was reading a blog by Rarasaur which confirmed this suspicion. Not only did she comment on how blogging and readership slowed down during the holiday season, but she went on to say that some bloggers do not blog at all, and I am seriously considering following that path because, well, you don’t just get all this for nothing.

Although I started blogging in June, 2013 will mark the end of my first year as a blogger and as I look back on the year, I feel a bit sentimental (cue piano). When I began blogging, I did so because I felt it would be a therapeutic outlet for myself and if I reached out to one or two people, so much the better. What I didn’t expect was to meet a whole community of bloggers that I would begin to feel a part of. These are people who I wake up to every day and their blogs crowd my inbox with little wisdoms that feel like emails from a friend (but not quite because, you know, I’m just not that crazy yet), and they have become supportive and colorful characters that are a part of my virtual life. Their blogs have touched me, made me laugh and cry, they have taught me and inspired me, and more than anything else, they have given me something to do when I’m bored at work.

My original intention was to mention some of the bloggers who I feel deserve honorable mentions because of their blogs and their support, along with adorable personalized messages, but then I began over thinking the politics of who to mention and who would feel left out, so I decided not to go that route. I am hoping that those people know who they are.

There is however, one blogger I would like to mention; one blogger who has always been there for me, alway inspires me, always likes my blogs no matter how stupid they are and, without whom, I probably wouldn’t blog at all. After all, what is a rock n’ roll super mom without a Hvymtldad?

Rock n’ Roll Supermom – out. Have a great holiday season and I’ll see you in 2014!

Holiday Party Blues

As a teenager and young adult, I always loved going to parties. But ever since children came in to the picture, the amount of party invitations I received have been rapidly declining. That’s why I was thrilled when my husband told me that my presence was required at his company office party. And this one could actually be fun being that my husband does not work for a stuffy law firm, but rather one of the biggest music rehearsal studios in the world, catering to a clientele of unbelievably famous rock and pop stars. While I’m sure none of the clients will be at the party, at least it will be somewhat of a rock n’ roll crowd.

However, since I have not been to a party in a while, my husband and I had to have a long talk about what is considered proper party etiquette for a person my age and I’m not so sure I am looking forward to the party any more.

My husband has specifically told me I am forbidden from:
1)Telling all his colleagues that I am not his wife but in fact a prostitute he paid to escort him to the party and then passing around my ‘business cards’ to some of his coworkers
2) Asking the boss’ wife if she can refer me to a good plastic surgeon
3) Asking May from accounting how far along she is (May is not pregnant)
4) Taking my husband’s boss aside and asking him to give my husband a raise while showing him pictures of our poor children
5)Taking my husband’s boss aside and asking him if it would be possible to introduce me to Mick Jagger, what Mick Jagger is really like and whether he thinks we would hit it off
6) If I must sing karaoke, I am strictly forbidden from doing my best bump and grind while performing an embarrassingly erotic version of “Santa Baby” ( and by the way, all dancing on the bar is, well, off the table)
7)The wearing of lampshades and togas is strictly prohibited
8) And absolutely, positively, under no circumstances, am I to fax a picture of my breasts to corporate.

Party, schmarty, I think I’ll just stay home!!