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Tuesday, February 27, 2007

The Blame Game

Today friends we are blaming society, Mr. Lane, my warped mind, and my friend Stacie for the events you are about to read. Life is a funny little place. Stuff happens all around us, but if we are too busy taking life and ourselves too seriously, we are going to miss out on some healthy laughter. Stacie wrote a post recently that struck this memory.

I dragged Mr. Lane to the store, which is a huge chore. He hates to grocery shop with me, but because we were out of everything, I was going to need someone really strong to push the cart. The kids were wandering around asking for this that and the other thing. I wonder if kids ever outgrow that. I was going as fast as I could, gathering the items on my list. It was like Supermarket Sweep and I was totally winning. A few steps behind me was my old man. He had that, “I hate you and don’t want to be here.” look.

Finally making it to the end of the store, we headed to the checkout counter. Mr. Lane loaded the conveyor belt, so I can not be blamed for what happened next. The cashier scanned my One A Day “All Day Energy” vitamins, immediately followed by a 12 pack of condoms. I laughed so hard spit flew out of my mouth.

Holding both items shoulder height, as if to say, “What?” the cashier gave me a strange look. Mr. Lane was also giving me the hairy eyeball. All I could do was point at the items and cackle. I had to hold onto my stomach to keep my guts from flying out of my bellybutton hole, I was laughing so hard.

Unfortunately, the kids caught onto the joke before Mr. Lane and the cashier, who by the way, was still holding the party pack of condoms and the “go all day” vitamins up in the air. By the time they caught on, the kids and I were roaring and had tears running down our cheeks. Good times.

Friday, February 23, 2007

You Better Think

There is no turning back. I have avoided blogging because Blogger said I had to switch to their new version if I ever wanted to see my blog alive again. I held out, waiting and hoping that they would realize the new version of Blogger blows spider monkeys. It just wasn’t meant to be. So here I are. And here are the blog.

Who knows what it may look like once I agreed to all of the terms and conditions that I didn’t read. The whole experience was very much like Rumpelstiltskin. You remember that little fucker? I hated him. Seems spell check hates him too, either that or I spelled it wrong. Who cares? I hate him no matter how his name is spelled. And I hate Blogger and New Blogger and the people who run this free service I have grown to trust and count on. Fuckers they all are!

A-hem, hi guys! How are you? Where have I been? Well, it’s sort of a long boring story, so I’ll skip all that and get on with the reason I and you are here today. It’s all about armpits people. I’ve seen a few commercials lately that really annoy the shit out of me. I can’t help but wonder, are we really that stupid or are the deodorant mongrels talking down to us?

First off, I have no little black dress. Secondly, if I did, there is no way shape or form that I, Lois Lane could, would, or should do back flips while waiting for my B-O-Control to dry before putting on said fictitious black dress. No way!

If you are too stupid to lift the waistline of your shirt after it’s on and shove that deodorant up there to the pits of your arms, you should maybe not watch so much TV. If you haven’t figured out that you can put your shirt on first and then the deodorant and then fasten the buttons, again, stop watching TV and get some practice.

A real woman knows how to dress and keep streaks of white from staining her shirt. A real woman is not going to be fooled into buying a product with another woman flipping around like a moron in her bra and skivvies.

A real woman is sitting there watching reality TV (since that’s all that is on anymore) eating a pint (or half gallon) of Häagen-Dazs or Ben and Jerry’s, shaking her head while watching the skinny bitch (who obviously never had children) flip flop around.

And you know what that real woman is thinking? Oh, yes, I’m gonna tell you. She is thinking, “If they made a commercial that talked about bra bits and boob crumbs, I’d buy that shit.”

Guys, I will help you understand because I am all about helping. Bra bits or boob crumbs are the flaky morsels that somehow always find their way into a woman’s bra at the end of the day and are caused by deodorant. You may have had some of them in your mouth at some point in your life.

So if you are out their deodorant makers, get on the ball with what is important. Not the little black dress. Not the back flips. Not the skinny skank-ho we all hate. I’m talking about boob crumbs.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Pace Yourself

I was talking to a friend the other day about society going down the crapper. Somehow, we started talking about the woman who microwaved her baby, which spun off into its own abyss.

“What kind of twisted sonofabitch could even consider such a thing?” She asked hypothetically.

I think I scared my friend when I replied, “Remember when microwaves became common place? It was a weird time because people were really afraid of what one might do if you stood too close. I can remember daring my sister Angie to stick her face on the glass. You know, just to see.”

She looked at me a little concerned and I continued.

“Obviously, it didn’t do anything to her. She was brain damaged before she ever took that dare. But the best part was when our grandma came over. My dad’s mom had a pacemaker put in right about the time we got our first microwave. She was a very religious woman. Anytime she was at our house, my mom would be extra nice. She wouldn’t swear and always offered up ‘the look’ rather than an immediate ass whoopin’ to us kids for acting up.

“No one ever explained to me why, but Grandma was not to be near a microwave while it was on. It had something to do with her pacemaker. My twisted eight-year-old mind conjured up all sorts of things, specifically, blowing Grandma up.”

My friend made me stop talking. “You were a twisted little fucker, weren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, in a way. But I had the ability to not follow through. I mean really, if I were that twisted, wouldn’t I have popped that sucker on and watched my grandmother explode?”

She looked concerned again.

“Think about it. We would have been the most talked about family in our entire neighborhood. ‘There’s the house where the kid blew up her grandma by putting on the microwave!’ They’d say as they walked by staring in awe. There could have been copycat grandma-blower-uppers. I saved the world that day by not following through. See, I’m not that twisted.”

“You got problems, my friend.”

As I continued to stroll on Memory Lane, I remembered my favorite part about the “blowing grandma up” stuff. My mom, the one who tried her hardest to be on her best behavior during those visits, would scream at the top of her lungs, ‘Don’t touch the microwave! Grandma is in the next room!’ And then in a sweet, fake voice would apologize to Grandma for shouting. This is the very same person who would warn my dad before Grandma’s arrival. ‘If she tells me one more time that I need to go to church, I’m taking the battery out of her pacemaker.’ And you wonder why I was a little twisted.”


“Was, am, whatever.”

Monday, February 05, 2007

Bubble Trouble

Mr. Lane was going to post pictures of me in the bathtub on the blog. Why would a husband want those types of photos on the internet makes no sense whatsoever, unless you’re Mr. Lane. Lucky for me, and you, the camera was out of batteries. Seems that a certain daughter of ours used up all of the juice taking pictures of herself and the cat.

My old man wasn’t trying to share my nudity with the World Wide Web. He was simply trying to make fun of me. Kind of like what I do to him on a day-to-day basis. This is all linked to why I haven’t blogged in so long. Mr. Lane came home from a road trip. He was gone for about a week. When he arrived, he was “suffering” from a cold. He whined and complained, claiming death was coming for him. By the way, he had no fever or any other major symptoms other than those from the common cold.

Mr. Lane has always been a big baby when it comes to these things. Plus, he blamed me and the kids for giving him our germs, which he always does. I kindly reminded him that none of us were sick. I also reminded him that he was gone for a week and traveled to Iowa, Minnesota, Indiana and Michigan. I suggested that perhaps he picked the bug up somewhere else. He insisted that his pending death was the result of us “germ-infested mongrels” whatever. So I did what I always do, I made fun of him. Later that night, he gave me a big fat kiss.

A side note is needed here… do old married couples make out? I mean, at some point don’t we save French kissing for very passionate moments? Am I a prude or is this normal, I really don’t know?

Anyhow, that man stuck his tongue down my throat. Tonsil hockey at it’s best, all for the sake of sharing germs. He is an evil little man. And of course, after his little stunt, poetic justice was on his side and my words came back with a vengeance and kicked my fucking ass. I was sick all week. Really sick, whistling through my tits wheezing, thunderous head ache and sinus pain like I haven’t had in years. My throat and body ached and it felt like little tiny garden gnomes were standing behind my eyeballs knocking on my optic nerves with trowels. Not fun at all.

As shitty as I was feeling, I would have rather cut out my own tongue than admit to how lousy I felt. He would have won the battle and war had I said anything. Suffering in silence is not my strong suit. But a couple of days into the mother of all colds, Mr. Smartass called and said, “Wow honey, you sound really stuffy. Are you feeling okay?”

Lying my best I said, “I sneezed before I answered the phone, but I feel great.”

Disappointed, he said, “Oh.”

Lying to him over the phone was much easier than in person. When he came back home, he could clearly see the dark circles around my bloodshot, teary eyes and my raw nostrils from blowing my nose nonstop. And there was certainly no mistaking my need for a two hour bubble bath. I always need that when I feel like crap, and he knows it.

While filling the tub, I reached for my bubbles. I opened the bottle and poured them in, but it was coming out slow, so I gave the bottle a little squeeze. Next thing I know, I squished out a third of the bottle into the tub. With the jets on, the bubbles exploded into mounds of billowy fluff. I don’t think my old man ever saw anything funnier. He laughed so hard he had to sit down.

Trying to act like I meant to do that, with bubbles clear up to my chin, two feet over the tubs edge, I tried to not laugh with him. But stifling your laughter with a cold is not such a good idea because snot bubbles can come out, which by all rights could cause one particular husband to laugh so hard he can’t catch his breath.

Now aren’t you glad there was no photographic evidence of this event?