525,600 Minutes

The Adventures of Shark Boy

Notice I didn't say Shark Boy and Lava Girl.  Did you ever see The Adventures of Shark Boy & Lava Girl?  It was a movie.  Actually it was a piece of shit in the form of a movie.  And in 3-D no less.  I paid $4.00 per person to take my children to see this piece of 3-D crap.  About 2 seconds into it, I was ready to rip my own eyelashes out one by one.  Then I fell asleep.  Then I yelled at my kids for wanting to see this torture chamber of a movie.  And they laughed at me because I'm a crab ass and told me to put on the dumbass 3-D glasses so they could mock me.  Which, of course I did, because I heart them that much.  But the movie sucked donkey balls - just sayin'.

Luckily for all of you, the aforementioned Shark Boy is actually The Boy.  With Shark thrown in front of his name.  I'm clever that way.  The Boy has shown a propensity for swimming.  I love the word "propensity."  I think that we should all try to use it at least three times today.  I've used it once so only two more for me.  But it's not a competition or anything - no pressure.  Anyway, my boy is a good swimmer.  And because our lives aren't busy enough carting The Girl to her various and sundry sporting events, we decided to have The Boy try out for a local swim team.  Because we're insane.  Actually it's because I have Catholic guilt and I feel like my male offspring gets the short end of the stick.  Not because we don't love him - because we do.  But because it's the curse of the second child.  The first one gets the glory until the second one is old enough to steal away some of the spotlight.  It's The Boy's turn to shine and The Girl's a little pissed about it.  But she's pretty much PMS'ing all day every day so that could be part of the problem too.  Back to The Boy.  He swam in his first swim meet last week and was awesome.  Here's a couple pictures - the likes of which you almost didn't see because I left my damn camera at the swim meet.  The $300 camera that I won from The Pioneer Woman.  It nearly pushed me over the edge (as if I need any help) but some kind soul turned it in.  See, not all people are a-holes.  Most are - but not all.

Here's The Boy getting ready to dive in for his freestyle race.  I'm going out on a limb here but I'm nearly positive that the kid standing next to him has to pee.  Just a guess.  Or maybe he just wanted to fondle himself.  Not that there's anything wrong with that...

Kick those legs, boy.  You're going to need more than your arms to propel all 82 pounds of you to the other end.  Believe me, I know.  I think you've been cursed with your mother's metabolism, my son.  I'll apologize in advance for that...

Second place!  Who's this "Kross" kid?  Our new rival, that's who.  But we're not competitive in the least bit.  Not even a smidge...

It's backstroke time.  Is that like Hammer Time?  God, I hope not.  What the hell ever happened to MC Hammer?  Is he dead?  He's either dead or he found Jesus.  That seems to be the two options of choice for the washed up '80s pop icons...

I hate close races.  At this point, I was screaming like an escapee from the local nut barn.  I know that's nearly unimaginable to all of you.  Me screaming like a lunatic.  Try your hardest to imagine it.  It's a stretch, I know...

What the hell?  That damn Kross kid won again.  I demand a steroid test.  Nevermind that my 7 year old is over 4 1/2 feet tall and weighs 82 pounds.  He just comes from good stock.  This other kid clearly has an unfair advantage over my boy.  In the form of horse testosterone, I suspect...

Shark Boy swims again tonight.  And he's taking Kross out - just sayin'. 

Wastin' Away Again in Margaritaville

A week ago today, this is what I looked like...

Sipping a margarita (or several) in Margaritaville.  It was like a dream come true.

What wasn't a dream come true was the actual trip to reach this nirvana.  It started with me dropping off the fruit of my womb at my BFF's house at the crack ass of dawn on Sunday morning.  And when I say crack ass, I mean crack ass.  Like 6:45 am.  I supposed that I should mention that he had a 103 degree fever too, shouldn't I?  Where do I sign up for my Mother of the Year award?  Feel free to kick my ass in the general direction.  Can you possibly imagine that Mach One and I have been planning this little get away for months and The Boy gets sick on the EXACT day that we're supposed to leave?  I think I may have pissed someone off in a previous life.  You know what they say about karma - apparently mine sucks.

Jenni graciously accepted my sick spawn into her home and sent us on our way.  We drove over an hour to the airport and arrived at the check in with about 40 minutes to spare.  Cutting it a little bit closer then I enjoy but still do-able.  Is that how you spell do-able?  It is now.  The effing check in line was 10 miles long.  I shit you not.  We finally managed to check our bags and hightailed it toward security.  The security line was 20 miles long.  You see where this is heading, right?  I'm feeling like I'm going to puke as I begin to strip off my shoes and every other thing that needs to be removed for the pleasure of the security people.  Can I just say that some people have some stanky ass feet?  Good God, wash your damn socks, would you?  We finally make it to the metal detector and I'm told to go to the first line.  I was convinced that this was the heat activitated x-ray machine that strips off all your damn clothes and renders you naked with your most intimate areas glowing in red.  Because your most intimate areas are the sweatiest.  That makes me throw up in a my mouth - but just a little.  Luckily for me - and the security guard - I wasn't rendered naked.  Instead, I walked into a contraption that I'm pretty sure was a car wash.  Without the water.  More like a car wash on the dry cycle only.  I walked out of that damn thing looking like I had just rolled out of bed.  My hair and my clothes were completely disheveled.  I was shoeless and the effer's in security had confiscated my sunscreen.  And we had 5 minutes to get to the gate.  And we were about 10 miles away.  We made it - only to be freaking delayed on the plane for about an hour because the moron behind us couldn't figure out how the hell to buckle her kid in the car seat.

Let's talk about the moron behind us for a moment, k?  She had two kids - actually they were closer to infants then they were kids.  They were like Irish twins.  Little "TJ" was seated directly behind me and was fascinated by the little drop down desk thing that was attached to my chair.  So fascinated in fact, that he managed to slam it up and down - into the back of my seat - for the two and one half hours that it took to get to Ft. Lauderdale.  That was only after his mother took an hour to secure his sister's car seat.  And caused us to miss our connecting flight to Key West.  I could have ripped her head off with my bare hands - just sayin'.

Somehow we managed to arrive safe & sound and immediately went into town to find liquor.  Because I needed it bad.  Thus the picture above.  JillyD's favorite drink at Jimmy Buffet's very own - things were looking up.

Mach One had to work a lot.  But we managed to sneak away for a walk along the oceanside.  The weather was cloudy and windy as hell.  But considering that is was 5 effing degrees when we left Michigan, I wasn't bitching about the weather like some of the whiner baby locals.  It was in the high 60's when we arrived and I swear, the locals had on parkas and shit.  All freezing their asses off.  Here's me and Mach One by the ocean.  Aren't we good looking?

We saw a pelican during our walk.  And seagulls.  The seagulls didn't impress me - I see those in the parking lot of our local grocery store.  And why the hell is that?  Are they not called "sea" gulls.  No sea close to VG's, I'll tell you that much.  The seagulls sucked but the pelican was pretty cool.  Here's a profile of him - or maybe it was a her.  I didn't check for a weiner so I have no idea.  But let's just say he was a guy, ok?

 

And here's his impressive wing span.  If he is a dude, I wonder if wing span correlates to penis size?  You know, like foot size?  Sometimes I'm frightened by the places that my mind wanders.  I think I may need therapy...

During our four days on the island, I ordered room service twice, had a massage and endured two freaking fire alarm false alarms.  The first one wasn't too bad.  The second one was at seven fuckin' thirty in the morning.  And it was caused by Mach One's colleagues and their omelet station.  Bastards, all of them.  The only reason that I took the damn things seriously was because one year ago, some poor bastard died in Room 416 from carbon monoxide poisoning.  We were in Room 413.  Two doors away from the freaking death chamber.

Remember what I told you about karma?  It's a bitch, man.  But large doses of margaritas help make it a little more bearable.  And JillyD didn't disappoint with her margarita intake - just sayin'...

I'm baaaaaaack!

Did ya miss me?  I've spent that last four days in balmy Key West, FL.  On a sexcapade with Mach One.  Actually, he was there on a sales conference and I just tagged along for the ride. 

I'll be back tomorrow with all of the sordid details.  Betcha can't wait, can you?

See ya tomorrow!

A little bit of Wii (mixed with some hard liquor)

Have you ever Wii'ed?  Not "wee" as in dropping the contents of your bladder.  Lord knows we've all done that.  Some of us in some very inopportune places, I might add.  But I'm not talking about bodily functions right now - although that sounds like a fun topic for another day.  But for today, let's talk about the Wii, shall we?

What the hell does "Wii" stand for?  I have no freaking idea.  Probably because I don't own a Wii.  Nor do I want to.  Seriously.  My extremely high moral standards and ethics prohibit me from falling victim to the Wii feeding frenzy.  You can't freaking tell me that the Nintendo people can't possibly keep up with the Wii demand.  They've been manufacturing the damn thing for a couple years.  Instead, they create this supply & demand fiasco that results in people killing one another over the video game.  That's just not right.  Bastards - all of them.  So while I won't fall prey to the Wii frenzy myself, I have no problem playing the units that my friends fell prey to - I mean purchased for their families.  I told you I had high morals - just sayin'.

Have you ever seen anyone play a Wii?  It will make you pee your pants as you burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.  Wait - that's it!  That's why they call it a Wii.  Because the spectators wee their pants at your expense.  Damn, I'm so glad I cleared that up.  Are you ready to pee your pants?  Or maybe wee your pants?  Here are a few Wii photos of those I hold most near & dear....

God, I'm fat.  I feel better having said that out loud.  Here's me, JillyD and Carmine Ragusa slugging it out at Yo's house.  Look at my face.  Isn't that lovely?  The nice, demure, classy flower that I am.  I was kicking Carmine's ass.  I could do it in real life too - just sayin'...

Here's The Boy and Mach One.  Same barbaric boxing game.  Father and son going to blows.  Hopefully this isn't some type of self-fulfilling prophecy.  And can I point out my son's sleeve.  What the hell is that all over the kid?  I think it's paint.  On the brand. new. sweater.  He's going to be the death of me, that one...

   

The fruit of my womb.  Beating the shit out of each other - figuratively speaking, of course.  The Boy is still slathered in paint and apparently The Girl felt compelled to put on her best drag queen duds for the Wii adventure.  While a party hat and plastic lei aren't required, they sure make anything a hell of alot more fun, don't they?  Indeed they do...

Everything needs a grand finale.  Including the Wii playing.  I've dubbed this one, "KO" because apparently The Boy really thinks that he's beating the hell out of his sister.  I think this might be a left hook.  Too bad he's right handed.  Maybe somebody should have mentioned that to him so he wouldn't have lost to a girl in a purple, sparkly party hat...

If you haven't Wii'ed, give it a try.  And take pictures.  And send them to me.  So I can Wii in my pants right along with you.

Happy Anniversary to JillyD & Mach One

Fifteen years ago, I married the man of my dreams.  Fifteen years later, I love him more than I did when I married him.  He is the kindest, gentlest, hardest working man that I've ever known.  And for reasons that continue to boggle my mind, he loves me.  A lot.  After fifteen years you would think that I'd have figured out what he sees in me but alas, I have not.  All I know is that I'm glad that he has a thing for chubby, loud chicks. 

To my Mach One - you have made me the happiest woman in the world.  I'm so proud of the man that you've become.  If our son turns out to be half the man that you are, I'll be thrilled.  And I pray every night that our daughter finds a man just like you.  Thank you for loving and taking such good care of us.  You'll always be my diamond in the rough.  I found you and I'm never going to let you go.  I love you more than life itself.  Happy Anniversary!

Welcome to 2008 - JillyD Style!

Happy New Year!  2008 - good God, I'm turning 40 this year. 

So I've decided to keep the old blog up and running.  Thanks for all of you who stroked my ego yesterday.  I'm the youngest child in my clan and I'm used to being adored.  So I just wanted to make sure that you did in fact adore me.  Which it sounds like you do.  And I adore you back.  So continue I shall.  Who wants to share in JillyD's New Years Eve celebration? 

This is my friend, Yo!  I heart Yo.  Yo gets me and I get her.  And she cracks my ass up - just sayin'.  Yo threw a bash at her house last night.  We left at 1:15 am and it appeared as though Yo's house had regurgitated its contents in the form of confetti.  Doesn't the word "regurgitate" make you want to gag?  Or maybe that gagging feeling is a by product of the gallons of margaritas that I consumed on the last day of 2007.

Ah yes, here are the said margaritas.  Served up by my buddy, Billy Boy.  Yo sleeps with him.

The pope came to party with us.  Yes, I realize that's he's dead.  But he was there in spirit.  Along with the Madonna.  Not "Madonna" - the Madonna.  What the hell kind of parties do you think Yo & Billy Boy throw?  Good Catholic, margarita drinking parties, that's what kind.  Come to think of it, maybe Madonna would like to be on the invitee list next year.

The food was incredible.  A bevy of seafood.  What exactly is a bevy?  I'm not quite sure.  I'm pretty sure it's like a shitload.  And of course, weiners.  You can't have a party without weiners now, can you?  Here's Yo eating a weiner.  She's a natural, isn't she?

Remember that confetti that was puked up over every square inch of Yo's house?  The Girl remembers it.  I think she might be crapping out confetti for the next week or so - just sayin'...

So from our crazy family to yours - Happy New Year!  We wish you all the peace & happiness in the world.  And all the margaritas too...