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Confessions of a Grammar Nazi

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I have many, many pet peeves.  But let me tell you about the one that tops the list. The improper use of too/to, there/their and your/you’re.

This makes me cringe:  “It’s you’re job too get there kids.”

This makes me bonkers: “Their, their, don’t cry.  I feel the same way to.  Your only human.”
This makes me want to jump off a freaking cliff — what I call the mother lode:
“I, to, love spaghetti so my friend invited us over there house too have some.  But they live way over their, on the other side of town.  Do you think you’re sister can stop by too pick us up since she’s going to?  Thank you, your such a peach.”
So please, tell me…who was your grammar teacher?  Dan Quayle?
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Leader of the…Pack?

My husband and I decided long before we married that probably one child would be enough for us. We were completely fine with it but it seems no one else was.

Them: So, when are you going to have another child?

Me: Um, never…

Them: Oh my, I’m sorry.

Me: No, really, it’s okay.

Them: So what is it? His sperm? Your eggs? You know, my husband’s sperm are slow swimmers. Just stand on your head, it’ll turn those bastards into a pack of little Mark Spitzes.

Me: Well, no, there’ no problem there. We just don’t want to have any more.

Them: (GASP) WHAT??? Oh.my.god. That is totally not a real family. No, two is a family, but one? One is a pet.

Okay dude, like really? If I had a dime for every time I got that reaction or something close to it, I’d have to change my name to Ivana Trump. All I know is there are a lot of people walking around with more balls than Yankee Stadium.

So, if we are not a family, then what are we?  A pack of dogs?  A pet sitting service?  Well, she has always been good at fetching my slippers.  I guess we should have changed her name to Fido.

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Please Keep the Muffin Top Where It Belongs – In the Bakery

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I have a slight problem.  That problem would be the extra skin, flab, lard, fat — more affectionately known as “The Muffin Top” — around my midsection.  Really.  I’m not running a bakery, so what gives?

Every day, I agonize over getting dressed.  Now of course, if I were willing to give up my size 6 jeans and give in to my “real” size (that would be an 8 or…cough, cough…a 10) I wouldn’t have the problem of spillage.  Yes, I can get them zippered and buttoned.  But only after a few squats, stretches and very — and I mean VERY — deep inhales.  The wondrous sight that awaits me is not pretty.  Let me introduce you to my BFF — the loose fitting top with the elastic around the waist, so it doesn’t show belly you wouldn’t want your own mother to see.

Over the summer I attended a wedding. I kid you not, I had to pour myself into not one, but TWO spanx-like devices so that my tummy would appear slimmer.  Forget about sitting down all day.  And using the bathroom?  Well, let me just say when I excused myself to relieve the bladder, my DH was close to sending out a search team.  I do appreciate the Spanx.  ALOT.  Thank you to the brilliant person who invented them.  I really do LOVE you!  (Disclaimer:  if someone tries to hug you, brush up against you, or even get within arms length of you while wearing these contraptions, your cover is totally blown.)

So why buy bigger jeans and possibly look better too?  Because I’ve got it under “control.”  And anyway, I’m going on a diet Monday.  Nachos anyone?

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Manual Labor was Invented by the Devil

I absolutely abhor manual labor.  I know I speak for many.  I can almost hear the collective headshakes.  Honestly, if it’s cleaning day and Satan calls with an opportunity to sit in hell for all of eternity instead, I’d take it.  Anything to get out of housework.  When my DH wants me to help him rake the yard, I feign The Black Plague just to get out of it.

Laundry.  There are 3 people living in this house.  There should be no more than MAYBE a load a day and that is still too much.  But no, it’s more like 3-4 loads PER DAY!  I do believe I have one of those magic laundry baskets because as soon as I empty it, it fills up within seconds.  No I mean it…literally seconds.  Like I said, 3 humans live in this house.  THREE.  I know, I don’t get it either.

And my all time fave — Grocery shopping.  I wake up with stomach cramps and the sweats on grocery day.  I’m sorry, unless you go to the store at midnight, it seems that every day is senior day.  I love the seniors, I will be one myself sooner than I care to speak about, but come on.  I don’t mind walking slowly when I’m sauntering down the beach with a margarita.  How about when the little buggers stop in the middle of the isle to talk to their old cronies about which fiber supplement they use?  It took all the energy I had just to get there…please move along people.

My motto:  Life is short, why do anything when it will still be there tomorrow?  Well, it’s not tomorrow yet.  This is what was on my Christmas list:  a maid, a cook (oh right, I really don’t like cooking either), and/or a laundress.  I didn’t get any of the above.  And for the record, I never even asked for a magic laundry basket.  Thanks a lot Santa.

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Happy New Year! Now May I please have a cup of Dirty Ice?

Have you ever done something even when your gut told you not to?  Yeah, well, that is my life.  But yesterday was one of those days when I really should have listened to my gut, mostly because it was my “gut” that was going to suffer.

New Year’s Eve.  An evening that is shared with very good friends.  An evening that has been a tradition for years.  As I was running around in the afternoon picking up dessert and champagne for our traditional evening with our friends, I decided to stop into a McDonald’s drive through for a wee little cheeseburger and small soda (stop judging me, it was just a SMALL).  You know, something to hold me over because Lord knows the 20 tons of appetizers that I was to be ingesting in less than 4 hours just wasn’t enough.
The traffic was a bear.  I was having a hard time making a left into the parking lot.  I was behind schedule on my errands.  I’m supposed to be eating better.  There goes that voice again, “No Mo, Not A Good Idea.”  Oh screw the voice.  I’m hungry dammit and besides I’m not starting my diet until tomorrow.
One hour and one toilet later, me and my gut were still running, but not in the way you are thinking.  I will refrain from describing what was coming out of me.  Let’s just say it definitely wasn’t rainbows and unicorns.  So, was it the burger or the ice?  I don’t know but the regret monster was working double time.  My bad decision ran through me (pardon the pun) like a freight train on crack and in a short 3 hours I was ready to party.
Guess what was the first thing I did to ring in the new year?  Perhaps it was the vodka.  Was there ice in it?