Move-abilia

I am moving soon.

Yesterday, I spent a good eight hours climbing up and down an attic ladder, hauling boxes delightfully decorated in mouse feces.

It made me realize two things:

1) I should work out more.

2) I have too much shit.

There were things I placed in that attic eight years ago that should have had a home in a beautiful ocean garbage patch.

Things like:

Why was I saving this? Was I planning to bring it as a date to my son’s future wedding?

Maybe.

But he had to go. He was a beautiful gift bestowed by two very good friends at my bachelorette party. They gave this to me after my adamant declaration that if a stripper appeared within a 100 feet of me, I would immediately set myself on fire.

They got me a historical reenactor instead. That is actually worse, but that is a story for another post.

There was a box of wigs (?), a relic from my Dolly Parton phase? Underneath the wigs was a dead mouse. I washed my hands for 15 minutes while I yelped and hopped up and down and did a few break dance moves.

There was this:

An heirloom for my future grandchildren per chance?

I had trouble figuring out what this was exactly. Hugo tried to help:

I wished it was a turd. It was actually a partially melted cat candle.

But it was actually topped by this:

I don’t know. I don’t know. It seems like something I would never buy or make, but did I buy or make it? That is a mystery.

The cellar is next. I hope my thighmaster® turns up.

Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the fourteenth post. Tomorrow she turns forty. Cheesus cripes on a turd-like cat candle. 

Why Isn’t Anyone Writing?

I wake up early every day. I play Blue’s Clues (today we learned Blue wanted to pretend a box was a roller coaster, and I wanted to pretend that the box was a case of Ambien) and go through the eternal changing-clothes battle. I fall down the stairs, pop the antibiotic I take for the white patches in my tonsils that appeared once my son was born, and dig another notch in the wall to signal the start of the new day. After 14 rounds of “Get You,” which entails chasing my son around the couch, I finally wrangle him into a high chair, find the same Elmo’s World episode on Youtube, toast a waffle–which is one of five items my son deigns to eat–and finally have 45 minutes to myself where I can stare at a computer screen and am only occasionally interrupted by demands to “Dance, mama!” whenever Elmo sings his stupid songs.

But here’s the thing, people. You are not here for me. I click on the “Blogs I Follow” link and there’s nothing new when before I had to cut back on my sobbing-and-rocking-in-the-corner routine to make time for all the new blog posts.

You all seem to be on summer vacation with your pina coladas, flesh-eating viruses and divorce speculations (FYI – Katie and Tom split because of too many misplaced thetans and too few couch jumps), and that’s fine. Really. I’m not being a martyr while I sit in my windowless dining room and click on links about raspberry ketone’s fatty-superman powers. Don’t worry about me.

And I’m only half-serious when I write of the relentless confinement that is my life. Why just three weeks ago, I got my haircut so that was something. I might have a picture of it…no, no I don’t.

But I’m fine. See?

See without your pithy blog-o-grams, I am forced to seek out other sources of information. And then I actually read “news” and learn that people are against health care  reform, but are for the provisions in it, and become aware that some people want to now move to Canada to get away from our “socialized medicine” and I just can’t…I just can’t handle it.

So go on that cruise in the mountains or play golf in that casino–you have my blessing. Just bring your laptop or smart phone or E-meter and write about all the fun you’re having so I have something to read in the morning.

Deal?

I’m Sexy and I Know It

So a weird thing happened to me today:

I think I was hit on. I can’t say for sure because I haven’t been hit on in a really long time. I believe the last person who hit on me was my husband, and we’ve been together over 10 years.

I was driving to a Zumba class and stopped at a red light. A truck pulled up beside me in the left hand lane, and the guy in the passenger seat knocked on his door to get my attention. I looked over, and he smiled and wiggled his fingers at me. At first, I thought oh that’s so and so…wait, who is that?  Did I know him? Nope. My brain’s facial recognition scan came up short so I asked him, all puzzled-like, “Do I know you?” And he shook his head no and I said “Oh, okay” and the light turned green, and I took off to him shouting “I was being polite.”

Weird right? I am by no means a head turner. I never was, and now that I’m nearing middle age, my interaction with the opposite sex has been mainly of the “here you go, ma’am” kind. I can’t show you what I really look like since I’m all about shielding my true identity on this blog, but I somewhat resemble her:

This is the crazy cat lady from The Simpsons

Well, I was wearing my workout clothes so this best represents what I looked like at the time of the alleged pick up:

Replace the unitard with a ratty T-shirt and sweatpants and you’re golden.

Now, I’m not saying I’m blahsville to elicit any “What are you talking about?!? You’re so pretty, You go grrlll!” kind of responses in the comment area (but please post them if you feel an unbelievable urge, and make sure the grrlll has the adequate number of r’s and l’s), I’m painting a realistic picture so you can help me decipher this gonzo interaction. I have a toddler who woke me up at 4:45 this morning, and I look like that happens on a daily basis. I’m also just generally unapproachable because I cover myself in barbed wire to protect against unexpected hugs or spontaneous displays of jocularity.

I’ve never been really good at reacting to pick up lines. In my 20’s I was the girl scowling in the corner, waiting for the cab she called to come pick her up and take her away from the nightmare known as “the club scene.” If a gentleman happened to try his magic line on me, I normally responded with a guffaw and then ran and hid in the ladies room.

So I’m not quite sure what pick-up truck man intended. Was he just being polite? Do people still wave and smile at total strangers just to let them know that we’re all in this soon-to-be zombie apocalypse together? Or was he trying to car jack me?

It is a mystery.

But what I do know is tomorrow I will be doubling up on the barbed wire.

Home is Where the Hugo Is

Someone’s trash is another person’s excuse to add to the giant hoarding heap.

Lordy rat’s nest, do I have a load of crap in my house.

When you are trying to sell your house, it is considered wise to unclutter it, to make the path through the living room 6-inches wide instead of the current 3. It is prudent to not have the mold-covered boxes reach the ceiling when shoulder-level is more appropriate, and the collection of pigeon droppings in the corners is a big no-no.

I am not a hoarder. I am a thrower. I like to throw items away, and contribute to the eventual demise of our species when we are all swallowed up by the giant ocean garbage patches.

My husband is less of a thrower. He walks a thin line between saver and hoarder.

When my parents moved two years ago, my mother bestowed upon me all my childhood things she had been storing for all these years.

I received a garbage bag filled with Barbie doll heads; the hair shorn, the heads painted with nail polish. Ooh! I was looking for these! What a find. I immediately set them up on my mantlepiece and was promptly arrested for being a serial killer.

Or maybe I said “Why in the world did you save these?”

I am trying to avoid a similar situation of handing my son a bag of broken crayons and used pacifiers upon his departure from the nest so I have been throwing many thing away under the guise of “Oh, these are for the garage sale.”

There will never be a garage sale.

And my saver husband has been going along with it rather well.

There’s only been one slight glitch.

This apparently is moving into our new house with us:

Yes. His eyes are following you. You are not imagining it.

His name is Hugo. He is the man of a thousand faces, and was a puppet who haunted my waking hours as a child. My husband saved him from the stash of childhood things.

You used to be able to put mustaches and wigs on him or you used to be able to cower in his presence and beg your older brother to remove the mini-lifelike man from your sight. Fun for the whole family.

He currently lives in the basement because if he were anywhere in our living space, I would feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. He has not been placed in the garage sale box, but in the keep-in-the-storage-space box.

Look, he has hands:

The better to strangle you with while you sleep.

I guess I should be content with the idea of him moving into the storage space. At least he will be out of the house and stop whispering to me when no one else is around.

I have tried to move him to garage sale boxes, but he always manages to escape.

Evidence:

Hugo the man with a foot fetish.

I’m thinking he will make a fantastic college graduation present for my son. Fun for the whole family.

Gardening 101

We are in the process of putting our house on the market.

It’s been awesome.

Wait, is awesome the right word?

No…I was thinking of something else, like arrggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!?!

Yes that sums it up nicely.

So apparently when you want to sell your house, you have to really get it in good shape. You have to return to those home projects you long abandoned in favor of watching Bachelor Pad: The Night of the Living Herpes. For instance, you have to finish building the stairs so they connect directly to the second floor. You can no longer use your couch as a napkin. And you should dismantle the 50 Shades of Grey torture shack in the living room.

We have lived in our house for eight years. We began our home ownership with gusto. We painted the exterior ourselves and made a solemn blood vow to never do that again. We painted most of the interior, leaving the hallway and ceiling above the stairs unfinished because of the whole not-being-14-feet tall and the not-wanting-to-use-a-ladder-on-the-stairs-are-you-out-of-your-mind thought pattern.

Then our cable got connected and I tuned out the house projects and tuned into reality television. And the hallway remained beautifully unpainted. The landscape left to fester. And the dust bunnies met more dust bunnies, and you know how bunnies are.

But now we’re back in gusto mode.

Our realtor tells us we need to view our house through the eyes of the perspective buyer.

This is what worries me. Especially when I look at our non landscaping.

I don’t know how to garden. I have never had a green thumb, which I’m thankful for because that would likely be a sign of gangrene.

I don’t know. Be honest, does this scream “Buy me!”

See we have a carport, and a part or a port of the carport blew off, and we kind of threw that port or part right behind the house and piled some lawn chairs we never use on top of it. That’s a design of sorts, right? I believe it’s known as “clusterfuck”.

On the side of the house, we have trees that have commingled with our house à la Swiss Family Robinson style. But back-to-nature, no-birth-control-for-anyone-but-viagra-for-everyone, the Poltergeist-tree-is-real is all the rage now, yes?

Let’s hope so because this is my home:

It’s pretty in a my-house-is-being-made-love-to-by-trees kind of way. If I were the realtor, I would advertise it as a house with lots of oxygen potential. And most people are in favor of oxygen.

We also have a giant pile of leaves our neighbor lovingly raked into our shared bushes that is now home to a stray cat that enjoys spaying and mewing loudly. I would have taken a picture, but I was afraid my neighbor would see me. That should not deter you from buying the house. It’s not my neighbor, it’s me. I have gelotophobia, the fear of being laughed at.

There is much to do. And here I sit writing this blog.

But I’m hopeful it will get done because I learned today that this is not a flower so I can get to pulling.

Oh the Places You Won’t Go

May is the month of college commencements. In fact the local college’s commencement is tomorrow, and I have been trying like crazy to be tapped as this year’s keynote speaker. It makes sense since my name is Speaker7.

The current speaker is a sack of potatoes. I’m not trying to be mean. It is literally a sack of potatoes with a mouth painted on it (Budget cuts).

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I do I think I can do a much better job. In fact I have a commencement address already prepared:

I am speaking now. Shut up. It is truly an honor to be here today to share this moment of accomplishment with you, and an accomplishment it is. In just a few years, you have managed to incur the kind of debt that used to take a lifetime to achieve.

You are embarking on a new journey, one where anything is possible until you see your first loan payment and realize it is more than the cost of your $450 intro to sociology textbook that you just sold for $25 to buy beer. 

It is a time for discovery. A time for discovering that your degree in newspaper journalism was probably not the best route nor was that minor in DVD repair, and you should have listened to your mother and gotten something in health care because if one thing is for certain, Americans will continue to get fatter and sicker.

It is a time of endless possibilities. There is the possibility that one of the 200 resumes you sent out will lead to a phone call from a prospective employer or the possibility that it won’t.

I believe the children are our future. I truly believe that the future will be populated by the people being born now. Does that make me a soothsayer? Possibly.

What I mostly believe–occasionally I believe something different after say, 3 glasses of wine–is that the future is bleak.

Things are grim. Not grim in a good way like a Brothers Grimm tale where a witch tries to cook children. No this is much worse–like the television show Grimm.

Look at the person to the left of you. That person will be moving back in with his/her parents. Now look to the right. So will that person.

Where does that leave you? Also living with your parents.

One percent of you come from rich families so you’ll likely live off their hard work of inheriting money from other generations. To you, I say, try to be less awful than your parents. This can be done by a) not having a reality show and b) not having a reality show and c) never speaking.

To the rest of you, the 99 percent, there are two jobs available. One is at Taco Bell working third shift. It involves cleaning Doritos dust from the tiles of the bathrooms. You will smell like taco meat most of the time. The other is a life coach. Unfortunately this job is made up.

So what are you going to do? This is not a rhetorical question. Seriously, what the fuck are you going to do?

There are options.

You may want to take the easy way out like standing in line for days to sing “I Believe I can Fly” before Howie Mandel and then watch as your dignity literally flies from your body. Or you may sniff a stranger’s ass for $10,000 on Total Blackout and look like this:

Those are literally the only two options I could think of. 

Good luck and happy commencing!

Dora the Annoyer

Six o’clock in the morning is really rough.

It’s not the best feeling in the world to know every morning you will get up at 6 a.m. regardless of the time you fall asleep. This is the life of a parent with a 2-year-old. In the past two years, the latest I’ve slept in has been 6:30 (three times), and it wasn’t even on any of those Mother’s days or birthdays. It was because he slept in until 6:30.

What makes it worse is sometimes it’s 5:30 a.m. There are things one does–things one is not proud of–to try to sleep an extra five to 10 minutes.

Maybe you do that thing where you pretend you do not actually hear your child crying. That is impossible. It’s like his cry is directly connected to my central nervous system. I say my because my husband could sleep through me jumping on his head with a pogo stick.

Or you get the kid, throw him into your bed and turn on the TV after six requests of “Watch show? Watch show? Watch show?”

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends no television for children under the age of two. This is because they are doctors who can afford to have someone else watch their children, and have never played two solid hours of “What’s that?”

I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing that my infant son would rip himself away from my breast whenever the theme for It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia kicked in so he could watch the opening credits. It is classical muzak after all.

I only wish that would placate him now. Because now, what he likes to watch at 6 a.m. is Dora the Explorer.

Ah, Dora…How do I describe your voice? Think of a beginning violinist scraping his unrosined bow across a violin with a shrieking cat strapped to it. Think of someone inserting a needle directly into your left eardrum while someone crashes cymbals against your right. Think of a cheerleader whose mouth is actually a megaphone screaming directions while 1,000 bagpipes play and 1,000 dentists drill into a giant mouth made out of aluminum.

And that does not even come close to Dora’s voice.

“My voice has broken the sound barrier!”

Dora is always excited and always going on adventures and always needs your help and always wants you to shriek along with her. It’s glorious. Especially at 6 a.m.

She drags along a monkey in red boots, and she talks to her backpack, and can catch stars, and I fucking hate her more than I have ever hated any cartoon in my life and that includes Scrappy Doo who is an unbelievable monstrosity.

There is a fox named Swiper, and guess what he does?

Swipes stuff.

Swiper, can you swipe Dora’s vocal box? Thanks!

Dora becomes very agitated whenever Swiper is around and begins to wail with the intensity of 13,000 ambulance sirens that we must stop Swiper. “SAY SWIPER NO SWIPING” she bellows over and over again while I begin to fantasize that I’m chained to some random restroom in Saw 17.

Dora is very big on audience participation and what you think was the best part of the adventure. At the end of the task, she scream/sings the “We did it” song and then asks what your favorite part was.

My favorite part was when Dora was not speaking, that .001 second of the show.

“Me too!!!!!!” she screams back. Then she shrieks and shrieks and shrieks some more until I lose all feeling in my face. And then we have another episode at 6:30.

And this is likely what I will wake up to tomorrow. And the next 300 or so tomorrows.

I have just written a check to the American Academy of Pediatrics. Good work, guys.

I Now Pronounce You. . . A Giant Turd

When I see gay couples, I can’t help but wonder: Why do you insist upon ruining my life by being in love?

It’s really, really annoying. I want to be married so let me stay married. Don’t try to ruin it by living your own life and engaging in a committed relationship. Don’t you see how this hurts me?

Tami Fitzgerald gets it. She is the leader of North Carolina Has Finally Become Worse than South Carolina Values Coalition, and spearheaded that dandy new amendment that double-banned same sex marriage today in that state. I say “double-banned” because it was already banned so this ban works in the same way a dare becomes so much more of a dare when you triple-dog-dare it.

Tami says it’s all about people who believe in godly values. That totally describes me. Like take yesterday. I struck my slave with a rod, and it seemed like he was going to die, so I expected to be punished because my bad. But then my slave survived for two days and then died, and it was all good because he was my property (Exodus 21:20-21).

Godly values.

Tami’s not anti-gay, you guys. She’s pro-hate of gays marriage.

“And the point — the whole point — is simply that you don’t rewrite the nature of God’s design for marriage based on the demands of a group of adults,” she says.

Exactly. Why should adults decide things for themselves? Who do they think they are? Adults?

God’s design is so clearly spelled out in the Bible, yo. Why mess with it.

Like take last Sunday. My neighbor found a virgin outside and lied with her (which is Bible-speak for “did the nasty”). So he gave the slut’s dad 50 shekels to buy her vagina, and made her his wife (Deuteronomy 22:28-29). I would love to have a proposal story like that.

God’s design.

Lots of North Carolinians want to keep the design, a whopping 61 percent. Like Shane Cowell. He starts off saying “I’m a born-again Christian” and I immediately stop listening.  Then there’s Joe Easterling who says “procreation is impossible without a man and a woman” and gets an A in 6th grade health.

Tami says today’s vote sends a message, and I agree.

The message is this: Tami Fitzgerald, you are the Turd of the Week™.

The Brain is a Battlefield

You know how you’re belting the words to Pat Benatar’s Love is a Battlefield while on the toilet, and your husband asks you: “Hey, wasn’t that song in a movie?”

And you reply: “Yes, yes it was. It was in the Legend of Billie Jean starring the sibling sensations Helen and Christian Slater plus the voice of Lisa Simpson, Kingsley Shacklebolt.” And then you realize you couldn’t name all nine U.S. Supreme Court justices even if the condition of your brother’s scooter depended on it. You know there’s that jerk Tony and that other jerk Little Tony and that jerk who allegedly put pubic hair on a Coke can, and some dames.

This is me. This is the state of my brain. It is packed with useless knowledge and devoid of any real value.

Hey did you know that Ricki Lake was in a movie with the villain dude from Some Kind of Wonderful and they each ate bags of sugar babies so Ricki thought that meant love and the movie was called Babycakes? No, well it’s true because 15 years ago I watched it 735 times on Lifetime.

What was the War of 1812 about? Um…….sugar babies famine? Too many sugar babies? I have no sugar-babies clue.

There is so much I don’t know. Here is a short list:

• Any dimensions – When you say “It’s about 2 square miles long” I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I might look like I do because I’m nodding my head and saying “Yeah, okay. Yeah” but that’s because I’m trying not to look stupid.
• Any sewing in any capacity – How do you hem pants? Beats me. I think they should just make clothes with a series of perforated edges, and you can just tear off swatches until you get to your size. This is why I don’t buy pants and wrap a tablecloth around my bare legs.
• Geography – Believe me, I’m with you public school teachers, when you lament that kids don’t know nothing ’bout geography. When you say “They don’t even know where Idaho is,” I shake my head in disgust right with you–but here’s the thing. I don’t know where Idaho is either. I know it’s in the United States and that it’s oddly shaped and potatoes are grown there. That’s all. Is it by Wyoming? Maybe.
• Constitutional amendments – I don’t even know how many there are. I know it’s likely more than 19 because the 19th amendment gave women the right to vote as their husbands tell them. I know there’s that one about speech and guns and…um…the right to paraglide?
• My real bra size – I can’t believe that the underwire is designed to cut into the skin. That can’t be right, right? I know I must have been sized up for a bra at some point, but I have no memory of it. I can tell you the number of Ralph Macchio posters I had on my wall when I likely went to get fitted for a bra. Forty-seven.
• How to adjust the heat in the house – One shouldn’t need a Phd in heating, ventilation and air conditioning to turn the heat up, but when I press the up arrow to turn the heat up, nothing happens. And then I die from hypothermia
• Spelling – I can spell some words–like I spelled all the words correctly in this sentence without the WordPress autocorrect. But there are lots and lots of words I cannot spell. Initilizie. Statisitic. Preemplotry. Buttpluggs. And the autocorrect didn’t even step up to help me.

I swear what I don’t know could fit 10 square miles of Idaho farmland if I knew what that looked like.

Here’s what I do know. I know the cute little kid from The Christmas Story, the one who stuck his tongue to a frozen pole, did porn. I know Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart Simpson, is a scientologist.  And I know verbatim the exchange Judd Nelson has with himself in The Breakfast Club: What about you Dad? Flip you! (I watched the edited for TV version a lot)

I recently gained knowledge of this picture:

We are doomed.

When someone asks “Hey, what was that Gettysburg Address rap all about?” I will respond: “I don’t know, but I do know that one day in April 2012, Kayne West had his pants partly pulled down. And it was equally if not more important.”

Here Comes the Skeleton

It seems some women are a little obsessed with their wedding days.

Like this woman:

courtesy of the New York Times

She’s having a feeding tube inserted into her nose to maintain an 800-calorie-a-day diet. And she’s having a New York Times photographer take her picture while the procedure is being done signifying that she does not see this as batshit crazy.

Nosetube bride is not alone in her determination to drop weight before the wedding day. Other women use pills, colon cleanses, hormone injections or have their heads encased in cement to slim down so they can fit comfortably onto a gurney when they inevitably collapse into a coma on the dance floor.

Now normally I would be all like Girl please. Okay I would not be like that because I can’t pull it off. I sound way too awkward even when reading it silently in my head. I would be more like This is a bit extreme. Can’t you just buy a dress that already fits you? And then eat the food you likely spent a fortune on and just enjoy the goddamn day because it is just one day and your guests are going to be too drunk to give two squirts about the size of your butt? But I may soon be unemployed so instead I’m looking at this as a business opportunity.

And this leads me to my latest business venture:

Speaker7’s Guide to Pre-Wedding Shedding®

Attention brides!

Is this you?

Have you bought the perfect dress only it’s just a few sizes too small? Have you planned to slim down to a size you’ve never been solely to feel dizzy and irritable on the perfect of all perfect days?

Follow this guide and you will fit into this:

Actual size. Ken groom not included.

The great thing is this Pre-Wedding Shedding Program is not a one-size fits all, but is a one-size fits all program or isn’t! It’s that simple or difficult! Just choose the option that best fits your desire to emaciate yourself! All options just three low, low, low monthly payments of $19.99.

Option 1. Pre-Wedding Shedding Dietpalooza

Food is the scourge of the earth, amirite ladies. Yes, it may be necessary to sustain life (as far as I’m concerned the science is still out), but it also contains calories, which when consumed in large amounts leads to weight gain (source: my scale). The key is to eat less calories than you burn. Follow this simple diet plan and watch the pounds drop off:

Breakfast – water sandwich. Take a glass of water, put two slices of bread around it and drink. Repeat for lunch and dinner every day until the most perfect day of the most perfect month in the most perfect year.

Alternative option – We bury you up to your head in a sandbox, and give a group of toddlers the task of feeding you. Toddlers are notably unreliable and do not have the greatest fine motor skills so you will only ingest two or three cheerios a day. Cost: an additional $1,000 for sand cleanage.

2. Food-Aversion Slip ‘n Slide Therapy Ride

So maybe you’re one of these people who believes people should eat. Fair enough, but something needs to be done to tear your hand out of the bag of deep-fried Twinkie Ho-hos and into a glass of water infused with celery string. In our Food-Aversion Slip n’ Slide Therapy Ride, we take a page from Stanley Kubrik’s Clockwork Orange and show you gruesome images alongside pictures of your favorite foods.

Here is a sample:

All of the images feature Dr. Phil and Madame Puppet in various erotic poses.

Option 3: Pre-Death Organ Donationporium

Organs are great–don’t get me wrong–but they take up so much dern room, and some of them we don’t even need. Think of all the weight you would lose if we removed your stomach and replaced it with the plastic breadbasket from the Operation board game! Buzzer optional.

Option 4: Movies Come to Life But Not the Ones You Wish Would Come To Life Fun-funhoopla

Many packages to choose from. Our most popular include:

• Silence of the Lambs underground dungeon theme complete with lotion basket
• Hunger Games wilderness survival theme complete with group of career tributes bent on your destruction.
• Saws 1 – 3,345 torture chamber theme; limb removal optional
• Trapped in the Closet chapters 1 – 700 literally trapped in a closet theme while forced to listen to the Trapped in the Closet soundtrack. Disclaimer: we are not responsible for any descents into madness.

Order now!