Attention, attention! Ladies, gentlemen and you there!

This blog is a good outlet for me. I'm glad I'm less busy now and have a new computer because if I don't blog, I say things that are possibly not acceptable in normal society.

For instance, recently, I might have encouraged a friend, who has two little boys and is expecting her third baby (gender yet unknown), that should the baby come out with "one of those halvesies penises," and she has to choose a gender, to just go ahead and lop off the dangly part to make it a girl baby because pretty much I'm going to buy it a bunch of pink shit either way.

She got off the phone pretty fast, and she said it was because her husband was calling or it was nap time for the kids or some other really normal thing, but as I got to thinking about it, it's possible I was a teensy bit offensive and hurt her feelings.

Seriously, though, I was only thinking of the usefulness of gifts I'm going to give her unborn child. That shouldn't be offensive. That's thoughtfulness.

Furthermore, it's proof that I will love whatever sort of creature she delivers, with or without a vestigial tail and an extra forehead. Her baby will be beautiful to me (and how awesome would it be if it could hang upside down by its tail? Answer: very awesome.)

So, A, I hope you're reading this. I'm pretty sure I wasn't wrong at all and it was probably just your hormones. I was being very sensitive, obviously.

Anyhoot, I promised to catch up on some things.

First, I would like to thank those of you who have GoogleFriendConnected me. For those that haven't, please connect! I will try to connect to everyone, but if a day or so passes and I haven't, hit me up with a comment, or e-mail me at nakedcupcakes at gmail dot com.

Furthermore, if you would like to be listed on the blogroll, have a question you don't want to post publicly, or want to give me lots of money and/or chocolate and compliments, please e-mail me. I love e-mail!

Do you follow me on Twitter? Do you want me to follow you? E-mail me!

I'm keeping comments open on the last post until Friday. 50 comments. That's the deal, yo. 10 down, 40 to go.

And now for a MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT:

**drumroll**

I am a contestant on Out of Tune Idol Season 2, hosted by Jules over at Mean Girl Garage. The first theme is "Country" and I have some ideas about songs, but I really need to pick a mascot soon.

There's definitely more information to come, and I will be begging for votes. I'm really cheap and pretty much will do for votes whatever got that one really unexpected girl elected to your high school prom court. You know the one.

Seriously, one of the other contestants has more than 1,000 readers. I will do anything ... except this (thank you, thank you, Peggy; my life will never be the same).

Down, down baby.

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Romance at the Dollar Store: Your One-Stop Shop

This is a little late for Valentine's Day this year, but friendly advice isn't seasonal, right?

One evening a couple weeks ago ...
I am on my way home from a nearby town's mayor-and-council meeting, so I call PHubby to see if I should pick up anything on the way home.
He says we're low on cat food (totes my fault for forgetting to pick it up earlier in the day), so I agree to stop at this town's grocery store (which I hate because it's dirty, understocked, overpriced and always full of very weird, leering people).
I pull into the crowded parking lot and think, "Oh hell, there's a snowstorm coming. Every crazy in this town is currently inside the grocery store."
And there are a lot of crazies in this town.
Just then, the electric yellow glow of the dollar store sign shines brighter than the star of Bethlehem. It calls to me, a sign from above. I bet I could find cat food there and be back in my warm minivan in less than 5 minutes.
SCORE!
Into the Family Dollar, I hustle, the cold winter winds whipping my hair into my eyes. As I waddle myself into the store, I am innocent to the wonders I will behold under the flickering fluorescent lights and liquid-stained ceiling tiles.
The store smells of the floor cleaner we used to mop the floor at the ice cream shop where I held my first job at age 15. Well, it's cleanish, I thought, but then I remembered we probably did a bad job cleaning on account of all the whip-its. I shake the thought from my head.
Straight ahead, I see a clothing section. I am surprised! I didn't know dollar stores had clothes! OK, then.

I wander for a minute, without a clear idea of where pet supplies might be. I ask a couple of teenagers who are flirting and stocking shelves in the back. They direct me to the front of the store, opposite the entrance.

As I make my way to the front corner of the store, I walk up an aisle in which large area rugs are being sold for $9. How is that even possible?

Soon, I find myself in the makeup/toiletries section. Hm. No cat food here. But, wait!? What's this?

(click to enlarge)

This is miraculous! If I had a burning need for laxatives, I never would think to go to the dollar store. No more. The variety! The selection! The prices!

And, really, what is the first thing you think to do when you have some sort of object wedged too far up your rectum? Call 911? Knock on the neighbor's door? Use a butter knife as a lever?

No need, my friends. Relieve Enema is available for the low, low price of $1.25 at your neighborhood dollar store. You could find $1.25 loose change in your hooker's wig, dude. That is a bona fide bargain.

After snapping a photo with my cell phone, about six feet from a store employee who doesn't seem to think it is at all odd that I am taking pictures of the butt product display, I continue my search for the cat food.

I find the cat food in the next aisle, between the candy in retired packaging and the Ajax.

Just as I am about to check out, something catches my eye. Is it? Could it be? Why, it is! A Valentine's Day gift display!

At first, I am bewildered. (click to enlarge)

My initial shock at seeing The Lord's Prayer, a Grandma poem and stuffed animals so very close to thongs and negligees quickly wears off as I wonder what made a person decide to gather those items together? And why separate the lingerie from the the underwear hanging on the front wall?

I decide it doesn't matter. The prices can't be beat! I quickly gather everything I need for a special Valentine's Day.

As I make my way to the register, I pat myself on the back for being a savvy shopper.

My advice to you: next year, skip the cards and candy, forget the flowers and chocolate. Head down to your local dollar store and get everything you need for all the Valentines in your life.

Gettin' Dirty at Church: Freaking Out the Methodists.

It's Ash Wednesday, time to go get ashfaced and freak out the heathens - er - Methodists.

PHubby has class tonight, so he's not going to church. Automatic Hell.

I have two choices:  take the twins with me to a service dangerously close to their bedtime (Hell) OR risk eternal Hell by not going.

Look, my kids know how to say the Hail Mary at 3 and say it everyday, so I think the big JC might go easy on me this time.

I have to go to confession anyway, as PHubby so judgmentally reminded me (dick), so maybe I'll just lump all my sins together. Hopefully, I can get a discount on rosary recitations. Two laps around the beads: done.

Still, I'm fasting. That should count for something - at least on the scale (woot for Jesus).

Last Palm Sunday, the kids got their palms and started pointing them at people and yelling, "Stupefy!"

It was about that time, I taught them the Hail Mary. She's the only one who can save them.

Been super lame about the blog because my grad school app is due NOW, so ... I'll be back later with a real post. With visuals. You've been warned.

Things I Do When I'm Mad at You: an early Valentine

A Valentine to PHubby

(This in no way has anything to do with having been stuck in the house with you through two blizzards this week and your terrible attitude this morning and me staring down the weekend like it's the unfriendly end of a sawed-off shotgun. FWIW.)
(P.S. I totally love you. FWIW.)

Dear PHubby,

When I'm mad at you, I am very quiet. Eerie, isn't it?

I hope you are afraid.

You should be.

I am silently judging everything you do and keeping score. Here is a list from this afternoon:

 * You straightened the desk  *

Oh, how kind of you! You pitched in! I suppose you're making a point about me not having straightened it. That's OK. The day you open any piece of mail or pay a bill, I'll feel guilty. Chalk one up in my column, toots.

 * You walked upstairs with a manila folder looking all square-jawed and proud, probably thinking about how much more mature you are than I am because *you* are doing actual work, while *I* am probably just spending these three hours with the crazies on a true crime forum, reading about missing people. *

Hmph. Shows how much you know. While I just brewed coffee in the french press, I swept and mopped the downstairs bathroom. Then, I folded the laundry that just came out of the dryer and piled it neatly on the back of the sofa. I know you saw me because I very dramatically carried the laundry behind you so you would notice and I used really big movements to fold the laundry and made sure I was in your peripheral vision. That's why, when you walked upstairs with your manila folder and *did not* take your laundry pile, I decided I'd won this round.

 * You walked upstairs with your manila folder and your smuggy face, looking all self-righteous *

As soon as your head was above the first-floor ceiling height, I made lots of faces at you. I felt a lot better. I win.


 * I'm not even going to bring up the fact that I turned on the romantic movie we agreed to watch at 3:15 p.m. and immediately after I turned it on, you walked upstairs with previously mentioned manila folder, looking all square-jawed and hot kind of angry *

Except I just did bring it up, and it's a hell of a good point. Score one for me.


 * You came downstairs, walked into the living room, lit a fire, waited the appropriate 5 to 7 minutes to turn down the flame, all the while crouching down in your jeans just so, showing off your side profile with your five-o'clock shadow and your squared-off jaw with your nostrils just slightly flared in some sort of manly anger/raw animal instinct kind of way, in that shirt with your "I shoveled eight shit tons of snow this week" shoulders, and you did not even mention the movie or say anything at all to me, and walked out to the desk, where you continued to do real work. *

I'm totally distracted by your hotness, but I don't want to back down. Basically, no matter how many points I've already racked up, I'm very obviously losing. I just hope you don't figure it out before you rightfully apologize for being a prick.


Love,
Me


P.S. Take off your pants when you're apologizing to me.

Reflections on stuff

Midweek is a good time to reflect on the direction of our lives. I've carved out some time to share some of my thoughts and feelings.

(I know I sound douchey. I think the yoga pants and green tea did it.)

Reflections

 * For a while, I thought I was Bohemian, but turns out I was just a moody slob.

 * Does anyone else feel really pornographic when they eat Cadbury Creme Eggs? I'm almost embarrassed to eat them in public. All it would take is a raised eyebrow and glance at a stranger to give some strange signals.

 * I thought teaching my kids the appropriate terminology for their genitalia was the mature thing to do.

I even taught my daughter the term "vulva" instead of "vagina," because I want her to be empowered by knowing the right names for her junk. We'll introduce the term "vagina" when she becomes aware that she even has one.

Anyway, I was wrong. I wish I'd taught them cute little nicknames. 

They made up this game in which they say to each other, "Look at THAT BUTT!" They think it's hilarious. Much giggling is involved.

But, the game evolved into "Look at THAT (insert body part or random observation)!"

We're going to get thrown out of Target because I can't stop this game once it starts, and they keep yelling "Yook at thaaat buuutt! Yook at that peeenis!" Again, they think this is really funny, and OK maybe I do, too, but they can't be yelling that shit in Target.

They have no control over the volume of their voices.

I patted little LJ on the bottom after she put on her jammies the other night, and she turned around, patted me in the crotch and said, "A yittle pat on da bulva."

Last week, when little H-dawg saw me emerge from the shower, he yelled "MOMMY! You got poop on your bolba?!"

*SIGH* Can we not afford locks?

"No, honey. That's just hair. When girls grow up into ladies, they get hair on their vulvas."

"Mommy, that's silly! You got all that hair on your bolba."

And, what's worse? I can't laugh. I just have to be very natural and cool about all of it, because that's the kind of parent I want to be.

They can figure out I'm an asshole when they're adults.

Better than Funyons

I worked out tonight! Which is awesome! Because I'm fat!

But I won't be for much longer. Because I am powerful. And fit.

Just under all the jiggly bits.

Anywho, here's the conversation I had with Phubby *who is unreasonable, as you soon will see*:

Me: *taking off sports bra through neck hole of tank top (OMG, I'm hot)*  Weird. *sniiiiff* Dude. That's so weird.

Phubby: What?

Me: My bra. *sniff, sniff* It smells like *sniff* tortilla chips.

Phubby: What?

Me: It does. Like corn chips. It's weird. Do you want to smell it?

Phubby: What?

Me: *burying nose deep into salty black cotton* Seriously. It's like I spilled some in there. I didn't eat any today, though. *sniff* Dude. Smell this.

Phubby: NO!

Me: Oh, what. It's gross now?

Phubby: Do you see me ripping off my underwear and asking you to smell my grundle drippings just because they smell like cottage cheese?

Me: Cottage cheese doesn't really have a smell.

Phubby: OK. Fine. Do I throw my underwear in your face and ask you to whiff their sour creamy scent?

Me: Again, sour cream has very little scent. You're doing a very poor job. Genitalia is different. Boobs are just ... boobs.

Phubby: So I'm Judgy McBoob, now?

Me: *throws bra in laundry bin, rolls eyes, sighs* I won't dignify that with an answer.

EDIT:
Conversation of five seconds ago -
Phubby: It's 10 after 11, and I'm not even worried because tomorrow, there's going to be a snow delay. And, if there is, and you take a shower, I'll take the tongue patrol up Mount Tostito.

Me: Ugh!

Phubby: Oh, that's too far?

Me: *typing*

Phubby: What are you doing?! You're not blogging that, are you?! I can't even have a conversation anymore. It's like being on a reality show!

He's wrong about that. If this were a reality show, we'd have a hot tub. And he'd have to worry about much worse conditions than snack-flavored breasts.

Totally Going to Get In

I'm on deadline right now, and I don't have time for a full post. While I was supposed to be brainstorming essay topics for my grad school application (it's a nonfiction writing program), I accidentally came up with really bad essay ideas.

Essays That Won't Get Me Accepted To Grad School

Chuck Norris Jokes: This Essay Just Gave You a Roundhouse Kick to the Face and Blew Your Mind

Cute Stuff My Kid Said Today and Why You Should Care

Papasan chairs: a profile with extensive research on the Wikipedia entry

What I Did On Summer Vacation: A Hallucinogenic Drug Trip

Stuff My Neighbors Do When They Don’t Know I’m Watching Them

Little Green Booger, Who Left You In the Library Book?

The Socioeconomic Ramifications of Essays About Socioeconomic Ramifications

“All My Mother Ever Does Is Bitches”: My 7th Grade Diary

The URL Link to My Livejournal: Everything You Never Wanted to Know About My College Sex Life

Daddy Issues: My Summer on the Pole

Rainbow-colored Condoms: An Afternoon in Health Services at a Liberal Arts College

Profiles of Dyssentary

The Time I Sent My Retainer into the Cafeteria Trash Compactor (subtitle: Why my teeth are wonky)

Scents of Self: My Odor Profile

Proctologically Speaking, this Essay is Bullshit

Reflections on a Guy Who Took Me to Olive Garden One Time

Longaberger v. Vera Bradley: A Comparative Analysis of Bingo Nights at Small-town Fire Halls

Discharged: Vagina Stories

****
I'm going to get nominated for a Pulitzer.