525,600 Minutes

Party Like a Rock Star - Part II (Finally!)

*tap* *tap* - is this thing on?  Are JillyD's fans still out there?  Sorry about the light years in between posts.  But I appreciate all of the words of harrassment and beratement that you left in the comments.  Beratement - is that a word?  It is now - just sayin'.  Who wants to continue to party like a rock star?  Or at least see JillyD partying like a rock star?  Perhaps I should rename this "crash & burn" since that's where I'm heading.  Join me in the carnage, won't you?

Where did I leave off?  Ah yes, the food.  I'm still damn full and that was two weeks ago.  And I'm a BIG girl - I can throw down on some food.  You don't get this fat just eating salad and shit.  So the food was orgasmic - we've already discussed that, correct?  And booze - have we discussed the liquor intake?  Even Mach One's presents involved a few libations.  Bombay Sapphire Gin, for one.  Apparently Trixe' Shorte is ready to vomit at the thought of ingesting any more gin.  And I'm only guessing this by the look on her face.  Or maybe it's not the gin.  Maybe Mach One has body odor.  What say you?  Does Trixe' hate gin or does she think my husband smells like ass?  Please leave your guess in the comments.

If you guessed that Mach One smells like ass, you're wrong.  And you're banned from the blog.  Mach One smells freaking fantastic.  Even my BFF, Jenni agrees with me.  Or she's trying to put the moves on my man.  Once again, please leave your guess in the comments.  Is Jenni just confirming that Mach One doesn't smell like poop?  Or is she trying to get frisky with my lawfully wedded husband?  All this and we haven't even reached the hot tub yet.  It only goes downhill from here - just sayin'...

Have you ever noticed that a ridiculous amount of liquor brings out the adolescent male in most people?  Seriously.  Too much liquor turns anyone into a 14 year old boy.  Including nuns.  And we all know what 14 year old boys think about 24/7, right?  Raise your hand if you know what this is?

Did you guess Carmine's hairy ass?  If you did, you got the Carmine and the hairy right.  Thank God for small favors that it's not his ass.  Although he wants you to think it is.  I'm almost embarrassed to say that we spent a good 30 minutes taking picture of each other's arms - trying to make them look like asses.  Did I mention that we're 40?  Well, I'm not - but the rest of those old codgers are.  Somewhere along the line, we discoverd that arms looking like asses wasn't nearly as fun as boobs looking like asses.  Like these.  Any guesses as to who these hooters belong to?  I'll give you a hint - they're not mine.  And I'm almost embarrassed to have photos of my friend's boobs on my camera.  Not to mention the blog.  But since they're not my boobs, who the hell cares?

The boobs started to get on my nerves so I decided to take a dive back into my margarita glass.  At this point in the evening, about 3/4 of the gallon had been consumed by me, JillyD.  Singlehandedly.  That's a shitload of dead brain cells.  Brain cells don't regenerate, do they?  Special Olympics, here I come...

After Jenni got done putting the moves on Mach One, she decided to teach us a new card game.  Called "Asshole."  Why the hell would anyone want to play a game called "Asshole?"  Since I ended up being said "asshole" during the entire effing game, I'll answer that question.  Because I had consumed a gallon of margaritas, that's why.  Nothing really seems like too bad of an idea when I'm chilling with my homey, Jose Cuervo.  Here's me, the asshole, and Trixe' agreeing with the fact that I'm an asshole.  What the hell?  I'm just realizing that she's agreeing that I'm the asshole.  Nothing like a delayed reaction.  Now I'll have to kick her ass for something that happened two weeks ago.  I hate when that happens...

Mach One doesn't think I'm an asshole.  He loves me.  Or maybe he does think I'm an asshole and he's just trying to get lucky.  You decide...

Things started to really tank when Carmine started thrusting shot glasses into this asshole's hand - I mean, my hand.  I don't even know what the hell I was drinking.  That's a problem, isn't it - when you drink something that you don't know what it is?  I'm thinking that people are generally advised against that.  But Jenni was drinking it and I was trying to be a good friend.  Yeah, that's it.  I caved to peer pressure.  It was her fault - that damn Jenni.  Trying to corrupt me - and make out with my husband.  It's a damn good thing that I love her - and that she makes an orgasm inducing beef tenderloin.

By 2:30 am there wasn't much left to do.  Except for go in the hot tub.  Mach One & I borrowed some swimsuits in case you were wondering.  Public nudity isn't my thing.  But if I would have had one more of those red shots, I wouldn't have been responsible for my actions - just sayin'.  I'm sure Carmine is making a note right now - make sure that JillyD gets TWO of those shots the next time.  Nice try, Carmine.  But we don't have to take our clothes off to have a good time.  We could dance and party all night - and drink some cherry wine.  Cherry wine - so that's what the hell that red stuff was.  Raise your hand if you're glad that the mystery has been solved.  Raise your hand if you want to see me in a borrowed bathing suit in the hot tub.  It's not pretty.  Don't say I didn't warn you...

Sorry if that made you puke.  It makes me puke too.  But misery loves company.

So there you have it - party like a rock, party like a rock star.  Two weeks later and I'm still recovering.  I'm such a damn lightweight.  Except that I'm fat.  I'm a fat, lightweight.  Which makes me an oxymoron.  But you already knew that.

Party Like a Rock Star - Part I

Guess what time I went to bed on Saturday.  Go ahead, guess.  Would it help any if I gave you a hint?  Ok, here you go.  I actually didn't go to bed on Saturday - technically it was Sunday.  Guesses?  Anyone, anyone, Bueller?  If you said 4:00 am, you would be correct.  4:00 effing a.m.  Who the hell do I think I am?  The last time I was up at 4:00 a.m., I asked the same question.  Who the hell do I think I am?  Seriously.  I clearly don't think that I'm an overweight, damn near forty year old.  If I'm not saving the world from the injustice of little bastards toilet papering the planet, then I'm partying like a rock star with my BFF and the rest of my homies.  I should consider acting my age, shouldn't I?  Don't answer that. 

On Saturday night, my BFF, Martha Stewart threw a surprise birthday party for Mach One.  Actually it wasn't Martha Stewart, it was Jenni in the Hood.  But Martha Stewart's got nothing on Jenni, believe you me.  Except for a criminal record and a girlfriend in prison.  But other than that, Jenni and Martha could be twins.  Did you know that Martha has a foul mouthed daughter who spends obscene amounts of money each month trying to get knocked up?  With no sign of a husband in sight? No shit, I saw her on Oprah.  But back to the party.  So my BFF decides that she's going to surprise my perfect husband with a party for his 40th birthday.  Remember, he turned 40 three days after his colon was tucked back into his abdominal cavity where it properly belongs?  Jenni decided that after all Mach One's guts were tucked away safely, it was time to celebrate.  Actually celebrate is an understatement - we partied like rock stars.  Middle aged, overweight, rockstars.  It was like a Van Halen reunion.  Let's pretend you were there, ok?

Let me introduce you to all of our hot ass husbands.  Mach One, you know.  He's mine so keep your mitts off or I'll have to kick your ass - just sayin'.  Next to him is The Judge.  He really is a judge.  So if I ever get my fat ass into trouble, I know who to call.  And I just happen to be his second favorite Jill.  And I'm only second because his wife is his first.  I'd be the first if his wife was named LuluBelle but she's not.  So whatev.  Then there's Rocky - he sleeps with Yo.  And everyones favorite poker star, Pocket Aces - he's Jenni's bedfellow.  And last, but certainly never least, is Carmine Ragusa.  The Big Ragu - with an emphasis on BIG.  George, Brad, Matt and those other Ocean's 11 dudes have nothing on our guys.  Except a lot more money but who's counting?

Behind every hot looking dude is a beautifully thin, exceptionally brilliant sex kitten of a wife.  Did I mention thin?  Super thin.  Damn near anorexic thin.  You got the point - we're all thin.  At least we think we're all thin and we try to convince our stud muffin husbands of the same.  I think we've got them convinced.  Either that or they're terrified of a life of celibacy.  Whatever works - just sayin'.  Here are my homies:  The first favorite Jill, Yo!, Jenni in the Hood, JillyD and Trixe' Shorte'.  Here's a question for you - why the hell am I so tall?  Never mind fat but for God sake I'm like a freaking Amazon queen compared to these shrimpettes.  Maybe I should be a model?  For Omar's tent shop, maybe...

Here's my birthday boy. *Sigh* - he's perfect.

Have I mentioned that I'm not very mature?  It's very hard to believe, I know.  This blog just oozes maturity.  Jenni likes to pretend that we're mature and all.  Look at the table she set.  It's like a grown up table.  Set with 84 different forks and real napkins and no crayons.  And little decorative pumpkins with our names on them so that we knew where to sit.  This was especially helpful after I polished off my 4th margarita.  At least I still knew what my name was, dammit.  Give me some credit for that.  I'm a rock star, remember?

Speaking of margaritas, look at the trough that I was drinking out of all night long.  It was so much more than a glass.  I'm pretty sure that Jenni bathed her newborns in it.  That glass allowed me to polish off a gallon of margaritas all by myself.  That's because the other lushes in attendance were mature and all, sipping on red wine.  JillyD hates the wine but loves the margaritas.  Again, that should come as a surprise to you.  I drank a gallon and the other alcoholics polished off 10 bottles of wine.  I think we all may become friends of Bill W's in the not too distant future.  Hello, my name is JillyD...

The meal.  The meal was like a sexual experience and I'm not kidding.  I'll just say it.  It was orgasm inducing.  There, I said it.  It started out with the squash soup with a reduced sour cream cider added sauce stuff.  I don't know what the hell it was but it was to die for.  Never in my damn near 40 years on the planet would I think that I'd like squash soup.  It sounds a little gross, doesn't it?  But it took every ounce of self control that I had to not lick the inside of the bowl.  I started to and then Mach One shot me the look and I wiped the overflow from my chin and set the bowl down and hung my head in shame.  He's so proper, that Mach One.

Next up - the salad.  The salad had glazed apples that were out of this freaking world.  I kept trying to distract Mach One by flashing my boobs at him so that I could snag his apples.  That sounds a little sexual, doesn't it?  Snagging his apples.  Sadly enough, my boobs were no competition for the apples.  He didn't fall for it.  My boobs were outdone by Jenni's salad - just sayin'. 

A party is only as good as the host.  And in this case, the host was doubling as the chef and a miner or a gynecologist.  We're not sure which but all of us gals crossed our legs at the ankles every time Pocket Aces mosied into our personal space.  Apparently Pocket Aces uses this contraption when he's out blasting the shit out of Bambi.  He tried to do that yesterday and as luck would have it, the planets aligned and Pocekt Aces forgot his headlamp during his hunting trip.  So Bambi made it out alive - if only for one more day.  Run, Bambi, Run.

Have I mentioned that I'm an anomoly?  I might have once or twice.  While I root for Bambi to escape the clutches of Pocket Aces, I clearly have no issue with old Bessie's ass making her way onto my plate.  In the form of beef tenderloin.  Which is an excellent segue into our main course.  That would be beef tenderloin with fresh green beans almondine and a twice baked potato.  Sheer perfection...

   

I'll wait while you dab the drool from your chin.  Ok - are we all set?  Good deal.  The tenderloin was complemented by something called "zip" sauce.  Jenni wouldn't share the recipe because she said she would have to kill us all if she did.  And that would have been a lot of corpses to dispose of - just sayin'.  I don't know what the hell was in this stuff but I wanted to submerge by entire body into the gravy boat.  If I find the recipe, I'll be wearing it as perfume from this day forward.  For better, for worse.  For richer, for poorer.  I think I'm planning on marrying the zip sauce.  Mach One won't mind - he's willing to pimp me out to the zip sauce as long as he gets to indulge himself.  The zip sauce was that effing incredible.

Just when we were certain that we had died and all of us had actually escaped the burning fires of hell - big surprise there - dessert showed up.  In the form of a layered, trifle thing that has been dubbed "Better Than Sex."  I've had sex - and I've had this dessert.  If I could have this dessert while having sex my life would be complete.  Actually, if I could have this dessert while curled up on the couch watching Grey's Anatomy, my life would be even more complete.  It may even be more complete then the sex thing - but don't tell Mach One, k?

So there you have it, the best meal that I've ever consumed.  And I didn't get this chubby by not eating - just sayin'.  After we managed the roll ourselve out of the dining room, the fun really kicked into high gear....

Part II of Party Like a Rock Star will continue tomorrow.  Hot tubs and hooters are on the agenda.  Be here or be square.

The Operation and The Birthday

The Operation.  Does anyone remember that show from about ten years ago?  I think it was on TLC or whatever the hell TLC was over ten years ago.  An actual operation would be filmed in all of its bloody guts & glory.  Mach One and I used to watch it religiously and then gag for sixty minutes straight since we both are weak ass, whiner babies when it comes to other people's bodily fluids.  We're fine with each others, though - just sayin'.  We saw everything from open heart surgery to a reverse vasectomy.  That one was a highlight.  The doc juggled the dude's testicles back and forth for about 20 seconds before actually getting down to work.  I'm not sure that I've ever seen Mach One that pale.  Boys have a common empathy for one another whenever their testes are involved.  Have you ever noticed that?  One guy gets cranked in the nuts and the entire stadium of XY chromosomes moans with him.  It's very weird.  Could you imagine if chicks had sympathy cramps?  We'd be bent over, writhing in pain, every day, all day.  That would suck out loud, don't you think?  I'll deal with my own cramps, thanks very much.  The rest of my homies are on their own.

Back to The Operation.  Mach One had his on Thursday.  It wasn't a reverse vasectomy though.  At least I hope it wasn't.  Good God, the thought of that is making me dry heave.  With any luck, the hernia surgery further damaged the already snipped & cauterized vas deferens - at least on the left side - making it completely impossible for any of the troops to make it into battle.  Here's Mach One before we left - protecting his vas deferens from any plans that I have for "it."  Or is it "them?"  Whatever is the correct term, he doesn't want me taking a picture.  Too late.  He loves having me for a wife - he really does.  Ask him.

We arrived at the hospital and he was immediately ripped from my clutches and taken back for "prep."  Normally, prep involves a razor.  Let your imagination run wild with that one.  That was Mach One's greatest fear.  That Nurse Ratched was going to shave him.  Here, there and everywhere.  You'll be happy to know - or maybe not - that there was no prep required.  So Mach One does not resemble that of his pre-pubescent son in any way, shape or form.  Except for the obvious of course.  They managed to not chop his penis off during the prodedure - thank God for small, I mean large, favors - otherwise he'd be resembling his daughter.  Which he isn't.  So in case you were worried, don't be.  While he escaped the shaving, he didn't escape the crazy ass, lunch lady, hair bonnet.  Or the IV.  Here's a picture of both.  Isn't he good looking?  In a lunch lady sort of way...

And we all know that I don't like living my life out of the spotlight.  I'm an attention whore - I fully admit it.  Since Mach One's operation was diverting attention away from me, I had to steal it back.  Just for a second.  And what better way then to don the lunch lady hair bonnet.  It was only for a second - or sixty.  Then the spotlight returned to Mach One and I sulked in the corner.  The no hair look is not a good look for me - just sayin'...

Here's me and my beloved.  Just before they were getting ready to plunge a knife into him.  I hated every second of the 3 hours that he was away from me.  I don't enjoy being a grown up.  I know that's hard for you to believe since I'm so mature and all.  I've also discovered that I have control issues.  Another big surprise, right?  I don't enjoy people telling me what I can and can't do.  Like, "You can't see your husband right now.  We'll come and get you when you can."  What the hell?  Shouldn't I be able to see him whenever I damn well please?  I'm pretty sure that was part of my vows.  Aren't we cute?  Mach One, all stoned & shit and me in my slutty shirt.  We're a match made in heaven.

The operation went perfect.  Except for the fact that it was Mach One's colon that was trapped in his stomach muscle.  Apparently it was supposed to be his small intestine trapped.  Mach One, being the rebel that he is, opted for the far more dangerous version of the hernia.  The version that involved his colon, which if strangulation would have occured, would have resulted in him pooping in a bag attached to his body for the rest of his natural life.  Needless to say, it was a good thing he had it taken care of when he did.  Pay attention to your bodies, people.  They're talking to you and you need to listen.  Unless you're hearing little voices in your head saying "Red Rum."  They you need immediate psychiatric help.  Don't walk - run to your nearest shrink, pronto.

Mach One is recovering quite well.  He's so not a whiner baby.  Thank God for that because I'm not sure that I'm the most sympathetic of people after having given birth - twice.  He's opted to not take any more of the hydrocodone that was prescribed for pain.  Hydrocodone that I purchased for $4.11 from my neighborhood pharmacy.  I'm sure Lindsay or any one of those Hollywood train wrecks would love to get their sweaty, tremoring paws on that bottle.  I'm going to have a little ceremony and flush the rest of it down the toilet.  Maybe I'll put on a Brittany Spears song while I'm doing it.  What the hell is a Brittany Spears song?  I've never been a fan.

Today is also a milestone for Mach One.  He's 40.  Forty years ago today, the world became a better place when this beautiful soul entered it.  Happy Birthday to the love of my life.  You have made me such a better person - even though it doesn't seem like it - and I love you more with every second of every new day.  You are part of my soul and I thank God for sending you to me. 

Under the Knife

My beloved Mach One is going under the knife tomorrow.  Not for a vasectomy, mind you.  He's already had the pleasure of that little procedure.  Did I ever tell you about his vasectomy?  No?  I'll have to someday.  But right now, let's talk about hernias, shall we?

Mach One has developed an inguinal hernia.  Am I the only one that thinks that inguinal sounds like linguini?  Or maybe I'm just hungry.  Speaking of hunger - can you imagine that poor Mach One can't eat after midnight tonight?  And the bastards at the hospital called this afternoon and casually changed his surgery from 10:00 am to 12:00 pm.  Hello - that's an additional two hours without grub, people.  I probably would have cancelled the whole damn thing but Mach One thinks that they needed the earlier spot for a little kid and he'll be happy to forego nutrition for an additional two hours to make things easier on an ankle biter.  The man is a saint - I swear to God.  Back to his misplaced guts.

That's what a hernia is - misplaced guts.  Did you know that?  Did the bile rise in your throat when you just read that little description?  How about a photographic illustration?  Don't worry - it's not Mach One's personal hernia.  But it's still creepy & disgusting nonetheless.  Ready?

Pay no attention the the wiener in the photo.  Seriously - stop looking at the wiener, ok?  Stop!  An inguinal hernia involves one's intestines travelling into parts unknown.  Apparently your intestines - all 527,000 feet of them - are supposed to stay happy & relaxed in their God given locale.  I say relaxed because it they're not relaxed, you're taking a lot of stool softeners - just sayin'.  But when you develop a hernia, your pooper tube decides it's not happy where it's at.  It needs to expand itself and check out some new digs.  New digs like say, in your groin.  Or in your scrotum.  If you have a scrotum - which thank God I don't.  And Mach One is also quite pleased that his hernia doesn't involve his scrotum either.  I've found that the males are quite protective of their scrotums.  Just for future reference.  That could actually be a trivia question someday, so tuck it away - it could come in handy.  I'll take "Scrotums" for $1000, Alex.  See how that works?

So tomorrow at noon, Mach One will be knocked out for the first time in his nearly 40 years on the planet.  Can you imagine that the man has never had any type of anesthesia except for the various and sundry locals that he's been given for his various and sundry lacerations?  One of which was in his scrotum during the vasectomy.  I wonder if he minds me talking about his scrotum?  I bet he does.  I promise that I'll give an entire expose on not one, but both of my episiotomies sometime in the not too distant future.  Who can't wait for that?

Hopefully Mach One's surgery won't involve anything that even remotely resembles this procedure...

That would totally suck out loud, wouldn't it?

So think about me and my wonderful husband tomorrow at noon.  I'll be a nervous wreck because I don't handle stress well.  I might cry.  More than likely I'll hit the snack shop in the hospital's lobby.  There's nothing like the calm, soothing effect of Milk Duds on my nerves.  I also eat them while I'm at the movie theatre and while I'm having a gynecological exam.  Ok, I don't really.  But I might the next time - it's not a bad idea.

I'm bringing the camera to the hospital.  Think they'll let me in the operating room with it?  Tune in tomorrow to find out.

Welcome to Parkersburg - Population: 250

Welcome to Parkersburg - and yeah, the population number is correct.  I didn't leave a zero off the end, if that's what you're wondering.  Parkersburg, Illinois is where my beloved Mach One spent his formative years.  He managed to break away when he was 22 - who feels compelled to sing the Kelly Clarkson "Breakaway" song right now?  Feel free, I don't mind.  Singing is good for the soul.  And the song is very biographical for Mach One.  Except for the palm tree part.  The first time he saw a palm tree was on our honeymoon in 1993.  That's because he grew up in Parkersburg and never went anywhere.  See how it all comes back, full circle?  Speaking of full circle - and we were, weren't we?  We travel back to Mach One's roots every couple years.  I know you think I suck out loud for only visiting every two years but it takes 8 hours to drive there.  The only thing I like to do for 8 hours straight is sleep - just sayin'.  And once you get to Parkersburg, there's nothing there.  So you drive for 8 hours to do nothing.  Sounds fun, doesn't it?  Um yeah, no.

Let me give you a little tour of Pburg - that's what the "locals" call it.  You might want to grab a caffienated drink while we're on our little tour.  Unless you suffered from insomnia last night and were wide awake at 3:07 am.  If that's the case, Pburg will definitely turn you into a narcoleptic.  No medication required.

Pburg has its own water tower.  Who knew?  This is right outside of Mach One's childhood home.  The home that is 1000 square feet and boasts one bathroom.  That's right off the kitchen.  And there were 5 kids in his family - who now have spouses and spawn of their own.  I think I counted close to 20 people in the house at one time.  Did I mention there's one bathroom?  That's right off the kitchen?  Who can crap under those circumstances?  Not me - just sayin'.  So not only do I drive 8 hours to do nothing - but I don't shit for 3 days.  Aren't you glad you know that?  You can live a full life, now that you're well versed in my bowels.  But I digress - here's the water tower.  I have no idea what the hell it's for.  What are water towers for?

Pburg is also chock full of all kinds of crazy ass creatures.  Things that I've never seen before in my life and could have died quite happily if our paths would have never crossed.  For example, raise your hand if you've ever seen these?

Now raise your hand if you threw up a little in your mouth when you saw this picture.  Be honest.  Did they make you want to hurl?  I had to choke back the vomit when I was taking the picture - just sayin'.  For those that don't hail from Pburg, these are locust shells.  I always thought a locust was a grasshopper.  Apparently I'm not smarter than a 5th grader - big surprise there.  The locusts climb up trees and then shed their skin or some shit.  I have no idea what they do.  But The Girl is enamored by all of these things.  What the hell are they - are they shells?  Let's call them shells.  She likes to collect them and then watch her chubby mom scream like a school girl when she brings them within a mile of me.  Locusts and their shells - hate them.

This is my father-in-law.  Isn't he cute?  This is exactly what Mach One is going to look like when he's 66 - or however old my father-in-law is.  Isn't that nice that I don't know?  His name is Billy - but he goes by Bill.  I think he looks like a Billy.  I think he's showing The Girl somebody's egg sac.  Whose egg sac - I haven't a clue.  I'm just glad it wasn't a nut sac.  Which in Pburg isn't out of the realm of possibility.  But my father-in-law is among the list - albeit a short list - of things I like in Pburg.

Apparently Mach One's family is considered royalty in Pburg.  I married the Prince of Pburg - who knew?  I think I may get thirty acres and a mule if Mach One ever decides to dump me.  Or he may have had to pay 30 chickens for my hand in marriage.  Or maybe that was only if I was from Pburg - which I wasn't - let's just be clear about that.  Back to the royal bloodline.  Pburg - despite it's near non-presence on a map - boasts it's own cemetary.  And it's free.  Shit like that doesn't happen around here.  You have to shell out some lettuce to get your ass stuck in the ground in these parts.  The far corner of the cemetary houses Mach One's relatives.  So why not take a family photo while we're there.  I have no idea who these people were but the stone was from the 1800's and it said "Our Beloved Sons" - one of whom was 10 years old.  We think.  A stone that old is a little hard to read.  But isn't that sad?  Thanks for letting us take our picture with you, whoever you are.  Mach One's long lost cousins or something.  May God rest all of your souls.  And I'm sorry you never made it out of Pburg.  Amen.

While were were in the country and forced to smell the feces of every farm animal within a 20 mile radius, I encouraged Mach One to find us some pigs for the children to play with.  Clearly, I've watched Charlotte's Web way too many times.  I envisioned The Girl cuddling a little, pink piglet.  Or The Boy snout to snout with a spring pig.  Instead, this is what I got...

See all that black stuff?  That'd be poop.  I can't even begin to explain the depth of the stench.  There are really no words.  Mach One didn't notice it at all.  I was gagging up my lunch and he was like, "I don't smell anything."  His smeller is ruined from his years in Pburg.  Pig poop - put that on the "dislike" list.

We saw cows too.  Did you know that cow was a generic term?  I always thought that "cow" meant a girl cow - with udders.  These were cows with penises.  I almost passed out when I saw that they had penises.  I had visions of my city kids being gorged by the unbridled testosterone of these male bovine.  Then Mach One explained that while they did indeed have penises - which he didn't have to explain because they were pretty obvious, even to a city chick like me - they were lacking the twins.  So they might as well be girl cows.  But don't try to milk them - just sayin.'  I liked this guy.  He looks sad, doesn't he?  Probably sad that someone chopped his nuts off AND he's going to end up on a dinner table near you...

He wanted to be my friend, I could tell.  He kept inching closer and closer.  But then I think The Boy farted and then The Girl cut her finger on a piece of grass.  How the hell she managed to do that, I'll never know.  And then the magic spell was broken and he went back to eating the grass that had nearly severed my daughter's digit.  But for a split second, he wanted to be my friend.

One of the best parts of the trip was of course, seeing the family.  Mach One has three brothers and one sister - all of whom have reproduced quite nicley.  I will say that Mach One is the only brother who has managed to send forth a Y sperm into battle.  Thus making The Boy the lone male grandchild to carry on the family name.  And making him the only dude amongst a gaggle of girls - everywhere he goes.  Poor guy - he's pretty well adjusted considering his circumstances.  Here are the majority of the cousins - the teenage girls weren't interested in straddling the slide for a photo op - imagine that.

So there you have it - Pburg at a glance.  Now you know why we only visit every two years.  Actually the real reason is because it takes that long for my bowels to recover - just sayin'...

My Favorite Photo....

Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter.  In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express.

~Joseph Addison

The championship game ends in a second place finish.  But The Girl will always be a winner in Mach One's heart. 

Helpful Hints from JillyD

Anyone remember the news column "Helpful Hints from Heloise?"  Heloise was like Cruella De Ville's ugly, older sister and gave tips on using household products to make your life easier.  Shit like, "How do I remove the wedding ring that is stuck on my finger because I'm so much damn fatter then I was when I first got married?"  And Heloise would respond back with pouring canola oil on your hand and the ring will slip right off that little hot dog you call your finger.  I always thought Heloise was annoying - who knows shit like that?  And furthermore, who cares?

Apparently I care now because I have a helpful hint for you.  If anyone you know ever ends up with Silly Putty in his or her hair, hand sanitizer will remove it.  Don't ask me how I know that - I just do.  And The Boy can thank me for not chopping out the ginormous chunk of hair - right in front I might add - and taking the time to Google the phrase "How do I remove silly putty from hair?"  And I'm sorry I thought you sucked out loud, Heloise.  I stand corrected.

On a happier note - Happy Father's Day to Mach One and all my other favorite dads out there.  Because it was Father's Day, I took on the responsibility of removing the silly putty and let Mach One chill out on the couch.  I think that qualifies me for "Wife of the Year" - just sayin'...

Happy Father's Day, Daddy - we love & adore you!

I Have the Best Husband. Ever.

Mach One is the best husband on the planet.  He truly is.  Not only is he incredibly good looking but he's also an incredible father, a fantastic friend, and a loyal worker.  The man is perfect - and the best part is that he's mine.  Just sayin'.  And although I'm not sure why - he loves me.  He loves me a lot actually.  I don't like me nearly as much as he does.  But for whatever reason, he thinks that I'm the most beautiful, funniest, thinnest woman he's ever met.  I love that about him - his ability to live his life as if he's on Fantasy Island.  It so works for me.  And part of his undying love for me is the need to fulfill nearly every one of my wishes & wants on a regular basis.  Of course those wishes & wants have to be within reason.  He's not going to sell one of the kids to spoil me or anything like that - don't you worry.  But he does like to keep me happy because when I'm happy - everyone is happy.  That's how our little nuclear family functions best. 

Case in point.  Who remembers the post where I professed my undying love for a household appliance?  Anyone, anyone, Bueller?  In the event that you were smoking dope and don't know what the hell I'm talking about, please go back, back into time and learn why I wanted to marry the Roomba and have its babies.  My talk of fleeing our homestead and hooking up with an appliance to bear its children made my Mach One a little nervous.  In the past, he's fainted when his nerves got the best of him.  Not this time though.  This time, he decided to take the matter of his wife running off with a vacuum into his own hands, dammit.  And take a look at what's happening as we speak - real time for you techno nerds...

Mach One, the perfect husband that he is, bought me the Roomba!  And it's vacuuming right now!  Do you have any idea how incredibly exciting this is?  JillyD is blogging and her house is being vacuumed.  It's like having my own maid except that I can sit here in my underwear without fear of being embarrassed by the maid walking in on me.  It couldn't be more perfect.  And not only is it the Roomba - it's the Roomba Scheduler.  Which means I can program this bad boy to clean my freakin' house while I'm out living the life of luxury that I've grown accustom to.  For example...

Here I am getting my nails done.  Manicures & margaritas are my two vices in life.  Manicures & Margaritas - maybe I should rename the blog.  Oh, we can't forget pedicures too.  Basically, if it happens in a salon, I'm there.  Except for the bikini waxing.  That, I'm not into - thanks anyway.  If my pants have to come off, I'll handle it myself.  Just sayin'.  But back to my nails.  Here I am getting my nails done...

And here's the Roomba - slaving away at home.  Sucking up the dog hair, chewed up underwear and everything else that Parker chooses to consume on a daily basis...

And I'll be damned if I didn't run into, guess who, at the salon?  You're right if you guessed my BFF, Jenni from the Hood.  Jenni and I decided that pretty toes were in order for that afternoon as well.  Hell, the kids are off at school, the boys are off earning the money to pay for the pedicures and the Roomba is cleaning my carpets.  What could be better?  Only one thing.  Us blowing each other air kisses, whilst having our cuticles trimmed and our heels scraped of crusty, callousy skin.  Just sayin'...

Oh look - the Roomba is still vacuuming my bonus room.  I bet it had already made its way to the kids rooms AND under their beds at this point...

All the while I'm having my feet massaged.  It's almost sick & wrong to have it this good.  Notice that I said almost.  And notice how crappy my feet look at this point.  Damn, they're like bird claws or something.  It's a good thing I'm having them worked on by a professional.  Ugly feet are not an option now that sandal season is upon us...

Here we go - this is much better.  Who doesn't love good looking toes?  Don't answer that.  I hope I don't get some creepy people arriving here via a search on "toes" or something.  If you have a foot fetish - step away from the blog.  This isn't the place for you, freako...

And if some whackjob is here to get his/her rocks off on toes, then I'm dragging Jenni from the Hood along with me into the den of sin.  In case you're wondering, she went with the always lovely Pompeii Purple and I opted for the color of the month, Koala Bear-y.  Now nobody has to lay awake tonight pondering the polish on our lovely toes.  I've got your back - no worries.

And here's the Roomba, after a long day's work, heading for the docking station to recharge.  Did I mention that it's smart enough to know when the battery needs to be recharged and it finds its way home?  Like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.  Just like her, actually.  There's no place like home, there's no place like home.

So now you know how I spend my days.  Blogging in my underwear and hanging out at the salon.  G-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s - that's me JillyD.  But it wouldn't be at all possible without Mach One.  He is the best husband ever.  And someday he'll have to share with me why he loves me so much.  Hopefully it's for the same reasons that I love him so much. 

Fifteen years ago today...

Mach One asked for my hand in marriage.  15 years - where the hell does the time go?  If you would have asked me 15 years ago what I would be doing in 15 years, would my answer have been my reality?  I think my reality is better then I ever imagined it to be.

Mach One and I dated for nearly a year before he decided to pop the question.  Although the popping didn't hold quite the surprise that it does in some cases since I had picked out the ring and I knew when I was getting it.  But still - it was kind of a surprise.  Surprises are really overrated, wouldn't you agree?  Since the ring was Mach One's biggest investment in his 24 years on the planet, I'm pretty sure that he need the reassurance of knowing that I was going to like it - and say yes.  That was certainly a sight to see - two, barely past puberty 20-somethings looking at diamond rings in a jewerly store that required you to be buzzed in due to its proximity to scary ass people in a scary ass city.  We settled on the 1 carat marquis cut solitaire - still classic, 15 years later.

Valentine's Day just happened to fall about two weeks after the diamond prospecting took place.  I remember Mach One collecting me from my place of employment and driving us to our favorite restaurant.  I don't remember what I ate - all I could focus on was that diamond ring that needed to find it's rightful home on my left hand, ring finger.  Mach One made me wait - I think we even ordered dessert before the big moment arrived.  Being the true gentleman that he is, he got down on one knee - in the middle of a crowded restaurant - and professed his undying love for me.  I immediately started crying - which worried him because he thought I was going to say yes - since I had picked out the ring and all.  But the crying kind of freaked him out.  But he was crying too - so much so that the speech that he had prepared will have to be used when he wins his next Oscar or Grammy - because he wasn't able to use it that night.  He did manage to squeak out the all important, "Will you make me the happiest man on the planet and marry me?"  Of course I said yes, grabbed that carat and both the ring and I have lived happily ever after since that day.

So Valentine's Day is when it all started for JillyD & Mach One.  Every year I look at that ring that he placed on my finger so many years ago and realize that it represents everything that I hold truly sacred in my world.

I wish all of you a beautiful Valentine's Day.  May it be filled with everything that you love & hold sacred in your world.  Smooch!

An Era Comes to an End...

Friday marked the end of an era for our little nuclear family.  As you may or may not know, we (meaning Mach One & myself) made the decision to give The Boy another go in kindergarten.  We like to say that he enjoyed it so much the first time that we figured we'd let him go again.  But the truth of the matter is that there was no way in hell that he was ready for first grade and we would have set him up for failure for the rest of his life had we decided not to hold him back.  I'm already plagued by Catholic guilt - I certainly didn't need the extra added pressure of ruining my son's life because I didn't want to deal with half days for another year.  So, The Boy is now in Round 2 of kindergarten.  And in case you're wondering, he's doing amazingly well.  No struggles, very well adjusted - everything you want for your offspring.  So it was definitely the right decision.

Along with the repeat of kindergarten came the repeat of all of the work that had been done the previous year.  For the most part, it's no big deal.  However, there are two family projects that render the strong, weak.  One of these is known as "Disguise the Snowman."  In our household, Mach One is in charge of said projects.  I know that it's usually the "mom" who is in charge but lucky for Mach One, I'm not one of those moms.  I just don't have the patience to disguise snowmen, create topographical maps from chicken wire and paper mache or create a "critter" out of a coffee can.  Mach One, on the other hand, loves this kind of stuff and has been known to tell the children to step aside so that he can make everything perfect - despite the fact that it is indeed the child's project.  Since The Girl went to kindergarten once and The Boy is on his second tour of duty, Mach One has disguised three, count them three, snowmen in the past 5 years.  Each one different and unique in its own way.  This past Friday was the snowman parade at school and with the parade came the very last time that Mach One will ever have to disguise another snowman for his kindergarten offspring.  Can we have a moment of silence, please....

In honor of his handiwork over the years, I present Mach One's last two masterpieces:

This is last year's beauty - Mickey Mouse.  This also captures a really bad haircut that The Boy received.  2006 just wasn't a great year for him.  But damn, isn't he good looking?

And here is this year's masterpiece: Guy, the Rat Terrier.  Guy because he wanted to name the dog, "Paige" after his sister - but then she cried so he settled on "Guy" which is what he called her up until about a year ago.  It's a long story and my children are slightly odd.  Suffice it to say that him calling the dog "Guy" was in tribute to The Girl - and not in a good way.  We have two rat terriers, Romeo & Benvolio (ok, his name is Parker but in the blog, he's Benvolio.)  So I present to you, Guy the Rat Terrier:

So although we say goodbye to the era of annoying kindergarten projects, don't fear Mach One - we still have years & years of glue sticks, pipe cleaners & sequins ahead of us.  But you've secured your Father of the Year Award through your devotion and patience to the snowmen.  Your kids love you and so do I!