Horribles, Hippies, and Hipsters, Oh My!

I  used to write pulp fiction.

No, no, not Quentin Tarantino Fan fic or something weird like that, but actual fiction in the style of pulp. I was always under the assumption that I was at least moderately good, which in my head meant I was a complete freaking genius and the world would soon bow down to my word smithing prowess.

Guess not. Cause today I stumbled upon the first review of anything I've ever written, and while I'll admit, pulp is not at it's core supposed to be award-winning, this jerk was a jerk. That's not really what I want to call him, but whatevs. Rise above it right. Yeah, that's what I should've done. What I did do was go hunting for more reviews, still convinced that this guy was a hapless douche and my brilliance would shine through on something else I had written. Bollocks! The lady that reviewed the other stuff actually used the phrase, "the plot was terrible and horribly executed". Ass hat. I've been told by the hubs that all amazon.com reviews are shit, and that's what I'm going with now. Besides if I don't make it as a writer, I could have a very lucrative career making granola!

Hey, since you bring up granola, I made some groovy granola that I'm going to have with my almond milk tomorrow morning for breakfast. In case  you didn't notice, I've become a bit of a hippie. But it's seriously great granola. Chocolate with chocolate chips and local honey. Mmm... And something funny happened to me on the way to eating dinner tonight. I freaked out all the hell over a bag of chicken breasts. All I could think of was that this used to be a living chicken. I was cutting up dead animal tissue. I was a mutilator. O.O It really wasn't as cool as Dexter made it seem.

 And then it made me really sad. I was kinda flailing around like a freakshow, mumbling about chickens.

I'm not sure that's what my dad had in mind when he let his hippie-ness rub off on me. Though I was thinking today that he did kind of raise me to be a hipster.

Hysterical book, btw, if your dad still did things like wear waaaay cut off shorts and stuff. But he always had on some kind of groovy tunes. The first one I can remember is Arlo Guthrie.

"The Pause of Mr. Claus" by Arlo Guthrie

He starts by hassling the FBI, making very astute observations about society and then sings a song about Santa Claus being a Communist beatnik. Winning! I even discovered it on a basement expedition on a freaking 8-track, the only one left. You might say it was fate that lead me to this...

Oh, hey, I said Communist while talking in a round about fashion about my dad. There's a funny story about that. So my dad came to visit me on base. Like a military base, and we're getting his gate pass so he can come on base, and he looks at the cop guy behind the counter and goes, "I am not now, nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party."

And hey, speaking of Communists, didja hear about how Vladimir Putin said stuff about peace and whatnot? Then people are all, "Dude is ex-KGB (as far as they know...), how peaceful is he really gonna be?" To this, folks I have the answer. He got it out of his system and now relies on his reputation. It's like me and this one poor gangly kid that used to work for the hubs. He was kind of terrified of me, it's only because I get the mother of all Napoleon Complexes when I drink. Regardless, I was never gonna beat him down or anything like that, but he knew if I felt the need, I'd probably just smack him. It's the same thing. I'm cool like Vladimir Putin.

Look at that, I covered my day, my dad, and even threw in current events. WHAT!

Foodventure No.2 Aspartame

On this edition of A Hapless Foodventure, I'd like to talk to you about a subject near and dear to my heart and probably the brain tumor I'm gonna find out I have: Aspartame.

This is where the intro music goes. It's something between the NBC Now you know thingy and the PBS Masterpiece music.

So when I was in high school, for one of my small town snooty so not so snooty science classes, we had to write a paper, APA format, 6-8 pgs, double spaced, size 12 Times New Roman, on a controversial topic in science. First I thought about time travel, but it totally tripped me out, man. Then a friend suggested I investigate the topic of Chi Energy... I leaned over and gingerly rested my chin upon the molded plastic surrounding the most sacred of beverages and then it came to me, like a beacon in the night. I would write my paper on the Aspartame that sweetened the Diet Coke I already drank with frightening frequency.

My science teacher was actually impressed by my not memorable essay proclaiming the dangers of Aspartame from it's weird combinations of Amino Acids, to it's forming formaldehyde. She commented though that it made her think twice about giving her kids Crystal Light all the time. Not enough to stop poisoning them with yummy fruit flavors, but she thought about it. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but it's the thought that counts.

I was thinking though, I haven't heard much about Crystal Light in the past few years. Aside from their weird commercials with women dancing with scarves or something that happened to coincide with the rising popularity of the Mio liquid water flavor enhancer thingy. I'll admit, sometimes water is boring. Nothing but two Hydrogens mushed to an Oxygen held together by a weak nuclear force or something laced with chemicals to make it more palatable. Kinda boring right? But you throw some burst of flavor and color into that and suddenly...

And the part that nobody seems to notice or care about is that there's Aspartame in Mio, too. It's not healthy. It's not a good food option. Really, it probably has no "food" in it. It has a chemical sweetner to start out with, and a weird color. And don't let them fool you with "natural colors", they're just the ones they put in a corn base. But that's not what we're talking about here. What I'm talking about is how I've been totally duped! Duped, I say! Into thinking that drinking Diet Coke will keep me slim and svelte like the logo, didja notice??? But really, it freaks out your system making it think it's getting sugar and therefore energy but it's not so it's like WTF and stuff. On top that, the part that plagues me most is that it can give you headaches, anxiety, depressed feelings, a bad attitude, and a brain tumor.

So my Diet Coke induced anxiety and headaches that are probably precursors to the brain tumor pushing on my be nice and tolerant to children I didn't birth gland are going to part ways... I hope.

Food Stuffs Journey

Today, I'd like to address a fact of my life that is glaringly apparent. I'm a chunky monkey.

That being said, I also feel like cat dirt most of the time and my ... times of the month... are a bear. Not the cute little Coca-Cola polar bear from my youth, like a ravenous, man eating, blood thirsty grizzly bear. So I was thinking... Self, do you suppose that perhaps, eating all this chemically derived shit posing as food has something to do with the fact that you're fat and losing your marbles? Why yes, Self, I think that may be the ticket. And so  here we are... stuck between a Tastycake and a hamburger.

I have a friend who recently did this whole 30 thing where you like only eat whole foods but no dairy, gluten, or sugar. It worked out well for her so I thought, what the hay, hey! Then I went, waitaminute, Self, What are we doing? And Self, who was moderately freaking out, replied, I DUNNO MAN, I DUNNO. I'M FREAKIN OUT MAN, I DON'T THINK I CAN DO THIS BRO. THIS IS A BAD IDEA... And so here were are again. Twinkies and potato chips

But this time, I thought, Self, you can't just sit on your fat arse and do nothing, and clearly the post-it note you put on the fridge ordering you to "Walk Away Fatty" hasn't helped, so you should take a step. So I've decided to cold turkey quit Diet Coke. ZOMG!!! I'm pretty sure I'm gonna go into convulsions any time now, and I may or may not have been disowned by my othermother. It seems to be my nicotine. I quit, then I fall off the wagon, then I quit, then I swan dive off the wagon into a Coca-Cola factory and drown in the stuff. But this time is different... Yeah... Different.

I used to be a vegetarian/vegan. It started out well enough, but did you know that French fries and Diet Coke are vegan? I did... So I consumed. If there is a stereotypical example of the American plagued by junk food, even though she knows way better, it is me. I am that example.

So here I am, stuck in the middle of sweet tea and some spaghetti. That's burning right now.

These... are the days... of their lives...

I was gonna write this a while ago and call it "My daughter married a guido". But I didn't, and I'm glad I didn't because sooooooo much has happened since then.

It all started one Sunday morning when my friend and I left the kids with her hubs. Our two littles's who are both 4 had a good time. We went to the market to buy fruit and when we came back, Her Boy was wearing "wedding pants". We were also informed that they had got married "for real" and kissed in the closet "for real". Then later The girl saw "her husband" in his underwear, and when they were playing at my house, they both came out of The Girl's room with her dress around her shoulders. EEK!!! I'm going to assume that's the preschool equivalent of consummation.

Not to worry though, eligible bachelors, because, on the way to school later that afternoon to pick up the biggles's, they broke up. It turns out that she had her feet on his feet in the wagon, and well...

A few weeks later, Her Boy informed us that they were gonna get married. He said, "We're gonna get married."

But then, a few days later, the kids were all hanging out in my carport. There are a handful of them, they're all four, and they're like a freaking gang. Anyway, I walk out and overhear... "No! We broke up!" So I ask other Boy, "Who'd you break up with?" He says The Girl, so I'm all like

And then the other day, all the kids were back over at friend's house. When I picked them up, she told me that she had to tell the two littles's that, no, they could not go upstairs and kiss. O.O

Seriously. OMG!!! These kids are gonna give me a coronary. I swear. Hubs wants to buy a gun just for all the little punk ass kids gonna be hittin' on shawty. Or whatever the kids are sayin' these days.

As a bonus I give you this amazing list that my dad once gave my husband...

Rules for Dating my Daughter

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open-minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilising a barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

Rule Five: In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."

Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter:
- Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool.
- Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight.
- Places where there is darkness.
- Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness.
- Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat.
- Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme re to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a pot-bellied, balding, middle-aged, dim-witted has-been, but on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy outside of Hanoi. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine."

Take care little neighbor boy...

And she jumped up on his disco stick and rode away to Funkytown... (I'm gonna go ahead and say NSFW...)

Or... not.

It's been previously established that I am a writer, primarily of unsuccessful children's books, and as such, it is a necessity that I have a novel in progress. All good writers do. And in writing said novel, I've come across many roadblocks. Sixty thousand words is a LOT. I don't like writing dialogue. The kids zombie drink my brains. Seriously, I'm not so sure but what one of my curls isn't a crazy straw. Writer's block. Feeling like I'm shit, and this is a shit novel, and I am a shit writer and no one reads shit novels from shit writers who haven't even gotten their shit published. And so on and so forth.

However, recently, I've come across a particularly sensitive issue... one might call it "delicate", "unmentionable", "unsavory"... "skeezy". I had to write a sex scene. I seriously had more trouble coming up for the idea for the novel than I did the language of the sex scene. So I did what any normal person would do, I asked my friends via Facebook. I was greeted with suggestions that were unhelpful, bizarre, and hilarious, but all reminded me of that part in 10 Things I Hate About You. I used to know all the words to that movie. Sigh... Ah hem. Anyway, I was saying... Oh yes...

And no one wants to be like that lady. No one. My guess is not even the people who write that garbage. But then I was thinking about all the hubbub with Fifty Shades of Grey. Full Disclaimer here: I HAVE NOT READ IT NOR DO I INTEND TO. IT IS SIMPLY NOT MY CUP OF TEA NO MATTER HOW COMPELLING MY MOM TELLS ME THE STORY IS. Yeah, and guys read Playboy for the articles. That's why Hef has surrounded himself with the most intelligent women of the time. I'm hoping you're picking up on the sarcasm. That being said, I've heard a lot about the "crappy writing" in this book and how "she can't even say penis". Right well, let me write you a scene with the word "penis" in it.

She kissed him until his penis filled with blood, stiffening enough to penetrate her vagina.

Romantic, eh? So if your problem is that E. L. James doesn't use the word "penis", shut up. Let me show you by this flow chart I made in paint.

Basically what I'm saying is that it's hard to find a happy medium in a normal book between "Penis" and "quivering member". It has to go with the tone, you know? And the answer is most likely not "Disco Stick".

No, I don't care if Lady Gaga says it is. It isn't. She is not a reputable source, she wears dresses made of meat. She wears dead cow carcasses. She is the Hannibal Lector of pop, and yes, I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But anyway, I went with generalities such as "She took him inside her" and "wrapped her lips around him". I'm gonna call success on this one.

And also, just for fun...

PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS!!!

OMFG, emphasis on the F

So the kids are whining at me all day for one thing or another. Their either hungrier than African orphans, or they desperately need their video game fix. But not the three or four video game systems currently available to them, nooooo... They want the one they are not allowed to have because they've become overly obsessed girlfriend about it.

Needless to say, it's not been a peaceful, zen inducing day. But I finally cave, because at five pm, it is finally cool enough to go outside and not drown in your own boob sweat while sinking in your swamp ass. But then apparently, poltergeists or aliens or someone about to get the piss beat out of them by Liam Neeson have come around and kidnapped everyone on our street because no one can play, no one is home, and this is clearly the start of the apocalypse. Or at least the apocalypse according to kids. Maybe that should be the name of my blog???

Okay, so whatever, whine your asses off, you've been doing it all day, what else is new? Run on sentence anyone? But then the girl comes back and after much tantruming and phone calling and get-the-crap-out-of-my-face-ing, I tell the kids to get the crap out of my face go to the purple park with their friends and the nanny. They were supposed to go to the friend's house, but not them. They're efficient, they just went to the park, came back crying and yelling and whining because no one was there. I tell them to stop crying right NOW!!!! And to go to friend's house. They seriously don't make it out of our yard before all hell breaks loose and I'm not sure, but I think I saw some Horsemen riding by me. Though, since it's the kiddie apocalypse, maybe they were like little midgets riding Shetland ponies or something. REGARDLESS! They were like screaming and yelling and freaking all the hell out for no. apparent. reason. Hand to God. No reason whatsoever. None. Pretty sure the Shetland Ponymen are Whining, Crazy, Starving, and Obnoxious.

And now we arrive at the present. They are in their rooms screeching and crying and yelling, and I? Well, I am blogging it out. Sure, I thought about writing it all to the hubs in Spain, but where's the fun in that? You all can't read it, if it's in an email, all private and stuff. Well, not necessarily private since the NSA is reading all of our correspondence now. Who do they have reading all this crap? I mean, are there special people whose job it is to read my emails? I think that's the money that needs to be going to military programs because, I'll be the first to tell you, my emails are bor-ing. Unless you think my inane daily goings on are exciting, in which case I can refer you to Overly Obsessed Girlfriend up there ^.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I've learned today that 7 sucks. Mostly because now, I never let them do anything they want to do, ever. Never Ever, and they know it always. And the boy wants to die. Martyrdom for the sake of Xbox Live games everywhere.

P.S. Hi NSA guy. You could at least be polite and follow my blog. Jerk. That's probably why they have you locked in a back room reading my emails, because you're a jerk. No one likes you. Carry on.

What is wrong with you people?!?

I don't like cleaning. If you don't remember me telling you that, I have, and you should catch up.

http://motherofanadventure.blogspot.com/2013/04/i-dont-like-cleaning-or-glitter.html

But sometimes you have to bite the bullet, suck it up, put on your big girl panties, use lotsa metaphors and just clean the damn house. And since hubs is gone. To sunny Spain. To the beach of sunny, Southern Spain. On "work".

Looks like work doesn't it?

Anyway, I cleaned the house so I wouldn't be on an episode of Hoarders. But the kids were home. And you know what that means...

So, Oreos in mouth and Pandora rockin' out some AC/DC, I set to work. I swept the floors first. I was taking it slow. Which basically means that I didn't want to do crap but the house was nasty so I had to sweep the floors. It was then that my littlest Oreo... er... kid decided she wanted to run through the house with a pilfered package of graham crackers leaving bits and crumbs behind her, you know, in case she lost her way to the butt kicking I wanted to give her. Why do you do things?!? What is wrong with you?!?

Then the next day, I set forth picking up, mopping, and wiping off surfaces in the house. Being grown up is bananas. I actually scrubbed finish off the desk trying to get colored and regular pencil off it. In the desk's defense, I was the one who redid it, so the finish was sub par at best. But still. It was a lot of trouble and was annoying. So, job wonderfully done, I set off for a shower with my step bouncing from my feeling of success. It really is true, cleanliness is next to godliness because I was some kind of magic. Fifteen minutes later. When I got out of the shower, I walked into the computer room to check on the Girl Oreo when what did I see but PURPLE FREAKIN CRAYON ALL OVER THE DAMN F***ING DESK!!! I was a little upset. What is wrong with you?!?

Then I was putting up the boy's clothes and there was crayon on his underwear drawer. WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU. PEOPLE?!?

I quit life as a result. You've reached Mom. I'm not in right now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I still won't care.