piecrust promises

Monday Night Confession: The Super Fast Edition

We're addicted to BBC.

And Top Gear is on RIGHT NOW.

So I can't talk to you now...maybe later I'll tell you all about my Gordon Ramsey fantasy.

Monday Night Confession: Back in Action Edition!

Ah yes, the Monday Night Confession...how I have missed you.  Just in case you forgot...Monday Nights are when I confess to something deep, dark, or possibly just annoying about myself.

This week...I just don't get it.

So on my way home from work today, I find myself sandwiched between two gigantic Hummers.  Seriously? People still own these things?  Really?  It's easy to say that you shouldn't have one now...but even two or three years ago...how could you go to a car dealership...break out your step ladder...climb into one of those things...sit on a phone book...and say, "Yep, this is the one for me...it's just about damn perfect!  What's it get...2 - 21/2 miles to the gallon?  Who cares!  Look how high up I am! The Peterson's down the street are going to shit when they see me driving this beauty around town!  What color should we get?  Hmmm...do you have any that are the color of piss after a four day binger?  Honey, let's get you one so that we can have a matching set!"

I can't even say the name of the damn thing without cracking up.  How do these people tell others that they own a blowjob mobile? (I can just imagine some of the inane jokes that come along with this, "Oh I've got a Hummer alright...and I'm not talking about the one that sleeps in the garage!  Har Har Har!") I just can't get over how ironic the damn name is in relation to what I think of all these people. If I owned a Hummer I would have to refer to it in some other fashion...like my "this only makes up for some of my inadequacies" mobile or my "obviously I shouldn't be allowed to make important decisions and my vote in the next Presidential campaign should only be seen as a humorous suggestion" ride.

Something else I don't get...the back of one of these cars had a "Princess" bumper sticker.  Really?  Because you're really just stating the obvious over and over again now aren't you?  There are only two types of people in this world who openly refer to themselves as having "Princess" attributes: 1) White trash and 2) The 12 year old daughters of white trash.  The end.  No one else is idiotic enough to be proud of the fact that they are brainless, spineless whiners who are simply waiting around for someone else to solve their problems.

Now if that's something to be super proud about...I just don't get it.

Monday Night Confessions...the late edition.

Alright...this Monday Night Confession is either really late or really, really, really early.

For once in my entire life I'll be an optimist and say it's nice and early...ha...look at me...getting a jump on next week!  So organized!

So here it is...tonight's Monday Night Confession...I hate children.

Well...I don't hate all children...just ones that aren't mine...or ones I don't know. Hell...I even like ones I only pseudo know.  I think Noah is the cutest, I've already pledged Amelia's hand in marriage to Hank, I've watched Leta grow up, and lord oh mighty...if Emme was any cuter with all those hats I'd just eat that child alive.

It's stranger's children that I hate.  Their whiny, high-pitched voices, their sticky hands and drooly chins. Their running and jumping and knocking things over.  Their tendency to droop over the sides of shopping carts and throw food in restaurants.  And their questions...god help me...their questions.

We go for a walk around the neighborhood every weekend.  Amelia in the stroller...pacifier firmly in mouth, sunglasses and hat fashionably askew.  Dogs with harnesses and leashes...not the best walkers...but exuberant with their freedom.  Joel wields the dogs and I bump the stroller along.  We cannot get through one of these walks without being assaulted by children.  Children everywhere.  We've had children run across busy streets, through parking lots, up and over parked cars to come up to us and ask (in high squealing voices) to pet the dogs.  HOW OLD IS THEY?  WHAT HER NAME?  I HOLD?  I WALK HIM? MY DOGGY?  EEEEKKK!  I yell at every single one of these children...but more importantly...I yell at their mothers.

Yes, that's right.  I've handed over the stroller, taken a future vagrant by the sticky hand and led them right back to their gum popping, cell phone distracted, eye rolling mother.  "Does this belong to you?" is generally how I begin the conversation...and then my polite voice generally takes over my rage...knowing that it will only infuriate this woman more...and that's when I profess my deep concern over the fact that little Billy was not only galavanting in traffic...but coming up and talking to people who just might be crazy child eaters.  I relish these people's horror.

We live on a side street...and every afternoon I have to battle my way through a group of about a dozen 8 to 10 year old boys.  Boys armed with Nerf guns and bad attitudes.  And they WILL NOT MOVE.  You have to beep your horn and roll down your window to yell at them to move...and the other day I just lost it...I may or may not have yelled something out my window that could have involved gratuitous use of the f- word...and there might have been a few "little bastards" in there...I can't exactly remember.  These children bother me even more than regular little brats...simply because their parents have deemed it acceptable for them to run out in the streets unsupervised and untamed.

Is it too much to ask for to have well-behaved children...or better yet...well-behaved parents?  Now I'm not talking about the kid who is way overdue for a nap and a snack who happens to be having a meltdown in the middle of the Target...because I've been there.  I give those mothers the sympathetic face whenever I see them struggling to keep it together.  It's the mothers who are glued to their cell phones or picking at their overly lacquered nails with children dumping boxes of cereal and squirting shampoo all over the place that kill me.

I'd like to change my confession...I don't hate children...I hate crappy parents.

I think the Oompa Loompas said it best..."Who do you blame when your kid is a brat, pampered and spoiled like a Siamese cat...blaming the kid is a lie and a shame...you know exactly who's to blame.  The mother and the father."

Monday Night Confessions

New! Improved! Blog! Now with Monday Night Confessions! That's where I confess to some embarrassing/socially unacceptable/kooky personal habit! It's blogging at it's finest! Thank goodness no one reads this!

So here it goes...the maiden voyage of Monday Night Confessions...

I like to dance in my underpants to Britney Spears. (That was less freeing then I thought it would be...especially now that I just remembered that I told several co-workers about this site...hi co-workers! Just kidding about the underpants part...ha Dana makes the jokes! And the Britney part...really! See you tomorrow! Professional! Professional!)

While Britney is generally my preference any bad dance/teenybopper music will do. Britney is my number one choice because her choreography is truly not that difficult but is challenging enough to be interesting...yes that's right...I know the actual moves. Like I spend an obscene amount of time on YouTube researching these things. (I won't even get into the dance related movies...you know the ones...Center Stage, Step Up, Dirty Dancing...I own them all. And don't get me started on any sort of dancing related reality show...it's freaking kryptonite. I know...I know...I'll hang my head in shame now.)

But here's the clincher...I can't dance in front of anyone else...anyone else in the room...and suddenly I'm the white girl who might be having a seizure. The only person who has seen me dance is the baby...yes that's right...the baby has seen Mama dance like a slut. I think of it as making sure her therapist gets to send all of his kids to college...or at least gets to put new carpet in the office.

Well...saying the baby is the only one who has seen me dance (in a good non-seizure kind of a way) is only mostly true...back when Dana was young and when there might (or might not) have been some chemical assistance involved...Dana could dance...oh and did she ever dance. (Maybe I'll start referring to myself in the third person all the time...Dana might like that....or maybe not...Dana's allowed to try new things damnit!) (Did I just admit to past drug usage?!) (Hi co-workers! Still reading huh? Don't have anything else you should be doing? Hmmm...well alright...at least try and look busy. I think there might be leftover meeting food in the kitchen...you should go check that out.)

Back before I was married and lived alone...this was a nightly occurrence...I'd come home...eat a microwaved meal...strip down and live it up for an hour. It was my answer to the gym. But now that I've got the hubby and the very small house and the baby that screams whenever I leave the room...finding time to dance in my underpants just hasn't been happening.

Joel knows all about the underpants dancing...and even after 3 years of marriage...he still has yet to see it...and he never will. But he puts up with me walking around the house saying, "It's Britney, bitch" far more often than he should probably have to. But this past weekend I got some time to myself...and after weeks of staring at all of the other people on YouTube dancing to it and having it on repeat play on the iPod...I finally got down all the steps to "Gimme More" and finally got to dance it out...in my underpants.

Now that's freeing.