Tag Archives: funny

Nelly vs Nellie

I’m always bitching about my age.  How old I feel (not act, there is a difference.).  How old I look.  How old I am.  But what really confirms all of the above is this…

When someone commented on Facebook about Nelly being in a Honey Nuts Cheerios commercial, I got so excited I almost peed my pants.  Honestly, I felt like a little kid on Christmas morning.  “OMG!  Nelly is doing a commercial?”  You know who I’m talking about.  The saucy little rich brat from Little House on the Prairie.  Which, by the way, is one of my favorite TV shows OF ALL TIME.  Just so you know, it’s still in syndication and I will tune in if I spy it with my little eye on one of the ten thousand television stations available these days.

Anyway, I was anxious to see how she looks after all these years.  So, I didn’t waste any time going to Youtube and looking it up.  Here it is people:

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Number One:  I thought Nelly was going to pop in at the last second.  It took me 30.5 seconds to realize she wasn’t.  And that I had the wrong “guy.”

Number Two:  The correct spelling of Nelly’s name from Little House is NELLIE.

Number Three:  Who the hell is this Nelly?  Does he play sports?  Act?  Sing?  I guess he’ll just get added to my list of “who the hell is that” and I’ll have to move on.  Where oh where are the Robert Redfords and Debra Wingers of the world?  Sigh.

 

A Pointless Blog Posting About My Closet

I am a self diagnosed slob.  It’s not just me who agrees with that diagnosis.  DH thinks I should get a prize for it.  So, I’m a little on the lazy side.  But who doesn’t just stare at that wadded up grocery list that somehow managed to work its way into the corner of the kitchen floor every time they walk by it?  It takes some serious energy bending down to that level at our age.  Or any age really.  Please.

My “office” space makes Oscar look like Martha Stewart (Oscar the Grouch or Oscar Madison?  It could go either way.).  Every time I eat, something inevitably ends up on my shirt.  One of the things on my ever growing “to do” list is to buy stock in OxyClean.  And my closet?  That’s a whole different story.  I actually haven’t really entered my closet, like really entered it, in a while.  My summer clothes are kept in a drawer and so are my jeans.  My closet also contains clothes that are predominately to be worn in an office setting and since I can’t find a job in an office setting, they have been hanging there pretty much collecting everything but my dry skin for years.

I decided to venture into my closet, I would say about 17 days ago, because DH and I were going to go out to dinner.  It was a chilly evening and I thought a cute sweater with some jeans would be good.  My closet is not nice.  The Kid has a huge walk in closet.  I don’t know who designed this house, but they got it wrong and it pisses me off.  Really pisses me off.  I have the type of closet that is about 2 feet deep by 6 feet long with bi-level doors.  Is that what they are called?  Bi-level?  I don’t even know.  But the type where when you pull on the knob, they fold in half.  Hey, I never claimed to be a closet OR door aficionado so get off my back.

Well, when I opened my little bi-level doors, I was smacked in the face with a major mess.  The shelf at the top is spilling over with pocketbooks I’ve had since the Bush administration.  The first Bush.  Lingerie that I will never, ever wear because they were my mothers (there’s a very good explanation) and shoes that have sentimental value to me.  Including caked-on-dried-up-mud-on-the-heels wedding shoes from 1992.

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98% of my tops are hanging from wire hangers.  And anything that has not been worn since my first temp job at a now-defunct pharmaceutical company seems to have a slight layer of dust on them.  Okay, so maybe a bit more than “slight.”  It seems that a very wet cloth is in order.  And forget about the floor.  I have shoes that fell out of style when The Fanny Pack came into style.  And dust bunnies that have grown into full grown rabbits.  Big ass mean rabbits with fangs.

          No Wire Hangers!

No Wire Hangers!

Since I was trying to get ready to go out to dinner with DH, and I’m pretty sure he was talking about going out to dinner that evening not next Tuesday, I had to pick something and get out.  Quick.  But there was another problem.  I soon discovered that nothing fit.  Nothing.

So, I need to clean out my closet.  Not only because it is the pig sty from hell but because what is the point of allowing clothes that do not fit take up perfectly good real estate.  I thought for sure that that would be a project I would do while recuperating from my surgery.  But it turns out that I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without it feeling like a big rubber band has wrapped itself around the middle of my leg.  

And anyway, I really hate projects.  What will happen is I will be all enthusiastic and start tossing clothes into a heap.  Then I will look at this heap and it will suddenly feel overwhelming.  And then I am going to want to do everything BUT clean up that heap.  Like go pour myself a glass of wine or try to run around the block with my broken knee because that pain would probably be better than the pain of cleaning up a mess that I willingly created all on my own without anyone telling me to.

Yesterday I decided to bite the bullet and start on Project Closet regardless of what my knee felt like.  I pulled on the little knobs and opened the doors.  I started to the right by grabbing a fistful of hangers with dresses on them.  I stared at these dresses for a minute.  Placed them back and closed the doors.  Then cursed in my mind.  Well, actually I cursed out loud but no one was there to hear me so it’s basically the same thing.  Then went downstairs and watched reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy” before they killed off Dr. McSteamy.  Damn.  I miss that man.  And maybe I’ll clean my closet tomorrow.  Maybe.

Old Man Winter Must Die

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That dark blue crap right there means “Heavy.” Awesome.

I live in the NorthEast.  Last week we had 50 degree weather.  It was awesome.  I took my walks with no coat, ate lunch on the sidewalk of New York City and drove with my windows open.

I am currently looking out my window.  They said there would be snow.  Mixed with ice.  And sleet.  And I’m thinking this is all a cruel joke.  It’s as if winter is mocking us.

I know I’m being a total ingrate.  Last winter it barely snowed at all.  Well, if you don’t count October.  But technically that isn’t winter.  If we didn’t have October, the kids would have gotten out of school on the original last-day-of-school date.  Or pretty damn close to it.  Stupid October.

If I sound bitter, that’s because I am.  I’m tired of the teases.  It’s worse than the proverbial dangling carrot.  I’m on a diet.  So I will compare it to someone putting a plate full of nachos with oozy cheese and greasy beef piled high with sour cream and a pitcher of margaritas with a salt shaker in front of me knowing I can’t touch it (ok, shouldn’t touch it — we all know I probably would).  It’s cruel and unusual.

Didn’t the groundhog say spring was coming early?  I think Phil needs to die with Old Man Winter.  Sorry animal lovers.  I do mean it in a joking way.  So don’t get all PETA on me. Thanks and don’t remove your snow tires yet.  You’ll be needing them.

Hotel Living At Its Finest

I love hotels.  No really.  I do.  I don’t know if it’s because someone makes my bed or because I can call room service when I get hungry.  I just love them.  I love the smell of the soap.  I love the fluffy pillows and down comforters.  I know.  I’m weird.  DH would much rather chew off his own arm than stay in a hotel, so we don’t do it often.

When my annual scrapbooking retreat comes up, I’m so delighted.  No laundry, no cleaning, no cooking.  And I get to stay in a hotel.

I’m not a picky hotel-stayer.  I don’t mind the humming of the A/C or the sound of the elevator shaft, or the noise of the ice machine.  I don’t even mind if there are people skipping, running or beat boxing down the hall.  But staying in a hotel does have its risks.

I shared a room with 3 friends.  2 to a bed.  That doesn’t bother me.  My bed-mate was a good friend from high school so she’s seen it all.  After scrapbooking all day and late into the night, we returned to our room completely exhausted, I just wanted to go to sleep.  And I did.  It was wonderful until about 2:00am when a large bang woke me.  Followed by plenty more of the same.  What the hell?  Is someone irish dancing on the ceiling?

I sat up and listened for a minute only to hear Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” really, really loud.  And it seemed to be stuck on the same verse.  With the bass turned to it’s deepest.  Then the sound of laughter.  Deep, man laughter.  Lots-of-men-laughter.  I was patiently waiting for the sounds to wake my roommates.  What the hell did these girls take before going to bed?  Ambien with a side of whiskey?

I waited for what seemed like an eternity for the noise to stop.  Surely, these men were raised properly and not by wolves.  Surely, they would realize the error of their ways.  Every expletive was running through my head.  I think I was in complete disbelief.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m pretty laid-back.  In fact, I can be a bit passive.  I don’t like to cause a scene and I don’t like a confrontation.  But my patience had just about worn thin.  So I got out my iPhone flashlight and made my way across the room to find the hotel phone.  In my hoarse voice, I shouted at the poor front desk woman that the party above my head needed to stop immediately.  Her reply?  “I guess you are trying to sleep, huh?”  No.  Actually.  Not really.  I like being a ball buster at 2am for no reason whatsoever.  She was very nice. I was just pissed off.  Sorry for the ‘tude front desk lady.

Of course, the sound of my voice woke my roommates.  Finally.  They weren’t too happy that I woke them.  They didn’t know what the fuss was all about.  Are you kidding me?  I am not known for having good hearing. DH and the kid are constantly telling me I am deaf.  But come on.  If I can practically make out the words to their conversation, surely even the hotel across the street can hear these clowns.

It took about 5 minutes, but the noise finally stopped.  I mean, really stopped.  Dead.  In it’s tracks.   I wonder what the front desk chick told them?  “Yo dudes, if you don’t stop the party the wacko lady downstairs is going to pretty much go postal on you so let this be your only warning.”  I like the thought that these tough grown men could have possibly been a little bit afraid of me.

The next morning at breakfast, I looked over every single man that walked in.  I believe I found them.  They looked something like this:

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I knew I had my men.  They sure were lucky I wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.  Next time, it won’t be so pretty.

Go Outside and……Oh, Never Mind

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Remember when we were children?  There was no such thing as the video game.  We had no smart phones or computers to keep us busy.  What we did have was the Great Outdoors.  Our mother’s favorite thing to say was, “go outside and stay outside.”  I think we were only allowed to play inside of it were raining.

I remember leaving after breakfast and only coming home for lunch and dinner.  Our rule was we had to come in for good when the street light’s came on.  DH’s mom had a cow bell attached to the front of her house that she would ring to let her boys know it was time for lunch, dinner or bed.  It was a simpler time.  It was a carefree time.

When the kid was little, I remember feeling so resentful that I couldn’t let her play as I did.  Why couldn’t I?  When did it change?  I mean, I think they had just as many perverts back then as they do now, maybe even more.  My parents weren’t afraid some psycho was going to snatch us off the street.

Because I had to conform to society and because I loved my kid and was scared shitless of what the media said, I kept her in.  Safe and sound.  I remember if she played outside in the yard, I would pull up a chair. I mean, we would hear on the news that weirdo’s were coming into people’s yards and taking their children.  Out of their own yard!  That right there is some scary shit.

What are our kids going to tell their children?  Probably something that sounds a bit like this:  “When I was young, we would play Wii until the cows came home.  And there was this really cute place called a Park and all the moms would sit on the bench and watch us like hawks while we played.  I remember this one time, your grandmother had a heart attack because she lost sight of me for about 40 seconds.  Haha!  It was a trip.  You should have seen the look on her face.  We almost had to call 911 on her.”

I can totally see why we are called helicopter parents.  These poor kids will not have street smarts. My kid sometimes forgets to look both ways before crossing the street because she always assumes it’s my job.  I don’t think she can find her way out of a paper bag.  I’m afraid when she goes off to college she’s not going to know what to do.  How to navigate.  We’re going to have to pin a GPS device to her jacket.

Look, I know I’m exaggerating a bit.  I have dropped the kid off at the mall with some friends and she comes home unscathed.   I’m learning to let go a little.  Be a little less afraid.  So let’s see….three years, 6 months and approximately 1 week until she leaves for college.  A little more time for me to hover.  Then what?  Advice to give our kids who are going off to college:  don’t put your drink down and travel in packs.  Let’s hope they listen or I’ll be having another heart attack.  Or twelve.

Hide and Seek

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One Saturday morning last summer, I was the only one up in the house.  I never get those mornings.  So I decided to watch a movie.  On our big flat screen TV.  A TV that can be seen at least a mile away.  In a living room that my husband likes to refer to as “the fish bowl.”

I have gotten into the habit of not getting dressed when we have no plans on a Saturday.  I know.  It’s not a very good habit.  This was my attire this one specific morning:  T-shirt.  Underwear.  If you show up at my house on a Saturday, I can’t promise you I’ll be decent.  You might want to call first.

So there I was watching a movie, minding my own business when the doorbell rings.  Picture this:  one 45 year old woman wearing a t-shirt and underwear nose diving onto the floor face down.  Then crawling by the front door, a front door that has windows on either side, through the foyer and into the kitchen.  All done in military style.  You would have had to be Ray Charles not to have seen me.

So, who was interrupting my Saturday morning?  Jehovah’s Witnesses.  I know this because I looked at them as I was crawling past the door.  2 of them.  They must think they are like a bag of Lays… one just isn’t enough.

As a parting gift, they got a very nice shot of my ass.  I’m pretty sure the image was burned into their corneas.  They never came back.  I think what they saw scared them straight off our street.  You’re welcome neighbors.  You owe me.

Snow Bored-ing

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I was bored during the storm today.  I figured I probably should try to actually do something before I developed hemorrhoids from sitting on the couch for too long.  So, I decided to google what to do during a blizzard.  Here were the top 10 suggestions and why they just weren’t going to work out for me:

1)  Shovel – that’s what I have a husband for.
2)  Build a snowman – that’s what I have a kid for.
3)  Sit by the fire – Since the kindling is buried in half a foot of snow, that doesn’t appear to be happening.
4)  Go sledding – I like my head in one piece, thank you very much.  Besides, I’ll probably just pee my pants.  Watch out for the yellow snow!  Sorry.  I couldn’t resist.
5)  Watch TV – No shit Sherlock.  That’s why I’m googling what to do during a blizzard.
6)  Go exploring – Do they think my name is Lewis?  Or Clark?  I don’t know.  Do you see a resemblance?
Lewis and Clark

Lewis and Clark

Me

Me

7)  Cook something –  Hahahahahahahahahaha!  Yeah, right.
8)  Organize your home – Organize my hmmm?  What?  I’m sorry I don’t understand the question.
9)  Play games – Monopoly sucks the life out of me.  Clue?  Mr. Mustard in the Billiard room with the candle stick.  Same shit. Different day.
10) Call a friend – Nah, they are all better mothers than I am and are probably out doing something fun in the snow with their children.  Those bitches are always trying to make me look bad.

 

Oh well.  I tried.  I hope they get the roads cleared soon.  I need to go get some Preparation H.

 

Shop Wrong

What I saw at the grocery store on the day before the prediction of a major snow storm:

Parked in the nose bleed section

Parked in the nose bleed section

  1. A parking lot that looks like the parking lot of the Staples Center before a Justin Bieber concert.
  2. Half of America.
  3. A truck spraying “de-icer” out of the back of it that smells like dog shit.  No really.  Dog Shit.  I had to look at the bottom of my shoes before I realized where the smell was coming from.
  4. An old Cadillac with the rearview mirror dangling, the windows wide open, and a large wagon attached to it that said “Red Flyer” on the side.  I didn’t think they made them that big.  He was parked on the curb.  He must be one of those survivalist people.  Dude, you’ll be able to get out of your house by Saturday, I’m sure of it.
  5. A woman proclaiming in the loudest voice she could to her daughter how sick she was.  “Cough, cough.  I really don’t feel good.  Hack, hack.  I don’t feel like being here.  Phlegm and sniff. ” All over the cucumbers.  And cucumbers were on my list.
  6. Something that sounded like a freight train in the isle next to the peanut butter.  I was afraid to look.
  7. Every single register was opened and the lines were snaking around into the isles.  What was weird is that people were actually jolly.  Hmm.  Good for them.  Keep your jolliness to yourself. I don’t want to see it.
  8. A woman buying a 50 pound bag of dog food.  In case she gets stuck in her house for 3 months. At least her dog will live.  Unless her pup is willing to share.

Last but not least, me.  I saw ME at the store.  What the hell am I thinking?  Going to the grocery store the day before the storm from hell is supposed to hit?  I hate grocery shopping on a good day.  I make fun of the people who go to the grocery store the day before a major storm.  Well, I guess if I looked at the news more than once a year, I would have known and gone yesterday.

But It’s going to blow over.  Want to know why?  Because I was at the store buying enough shit to last my family and me a week.  With half of America. That’s why.  You can thank me later.

Scrub a Dub Dub

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Yes, I use a washcloth.  In fact, I’m a washcloth scrubber.  (Be careful where you scrub though, apparently you can scrub natural bacteria right off your vajayjay and cause an infection.  I read that somewhere.  I know it’s tempting but refrain.)  Anyway, doesn’t everyone scrub with a washcloth?   Apparently…not.

I recently had a conversation with some friends about washing with a washcloth (yes, I know…very compelling) and I was completely shocked to find that, according to them, it’s rare to wash with one.  Well, in my circle anyway.  Dirty, dirty circle.

Just a bar of soap and their hands work fine for them.  Huh.  What about all those crevices?  Those certain unmentionables that I don’t think I want my hands touching on a good day?

Well, “that’s what the soap is for,” they tell me.  Ok, so I gave it a try.  The only problem is, I got the overwhelming need to wash my soap…with a washcloth.  Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m a pretty clean person.  I mean, it’s not like I go out and sling mud or anything.  It’s just that, well, we have….crevices.  I mean, they call them wash cloths for a reason, right?  It’s a cloth to WASH with, correct?  Maybe I’m missing something.

I have to admit that I like my washcloth.  I have a bit of a love affair with my washcloth (get your head out of the gutter).  My washcloth as seen more…oh.  Never mind.  How about those Mets?