Sunday, February 28, 2010

Fetish Night--say what?

Fetish night--say what??? I didn't feel I could possibly leave for a week long vacation until I posted a blog about lasts nights big outing--and by big I mean REALLY big. Ryan and I have a new friend we are really into and she asked if we wanted to go to AREA 51 with her and her girlfriend and witness the freak show that is "fetish night". Of course we were game, being the avid people watchers that we are. So, our dear friend told us she naturally thought of us because it was "Hollywood" night and people would come dressed as "Hollywood" themed characters. Perfect! I wore a blue silk skin tight Kay Unger dress from Nordstrom that looked like it was right off the the Mad Men wardrobe rack. I did my hair in victory rolls and completed the outfit with bright red lipstick and some insane black patent leather heels. I even carried a tiny beaded purse my grandma Olive gave me. Ryan wore a black suit with a white dress shirt and a black tie. He completed his look with a black felt fedora and sun glasses. Together we were a sight to behold.
To start the night off, we took our daughter out to dinner as a little treat for being such a sweetheart. She wore her beautiful new Easter dress and a special little necklace Ryan and I bought for her. She and I had gone together earlier in the day to have our nails done. We were all dolled up and off to the Olive Garden (Ava Graces favorite restaurant). After dinner we dropped Ava at home with the sitter, had a few drinks to start off the evening and headed off to the club.
Well, imagine our surprise when we arrived, looking smashing of course, and found we were the only people dressed like Hollywood movie stars. We entered the club and met our darling friend and her girlfriend and headed upstairs. We were greeted by a tall thin heavily pierced, heavily tattooed young man wearing a dog collar and baggy black pants with lots, I mean LOTS of chains--and a mohawk. I thought to myself "Well, aren't you going to be out of place." To my surprise he was not out of place at all in his outfit. It was US who were out of place not being dressed like we were attending a local showing of the Rocky Horror picture show. We proceeded to wander about taking in all the sights and sounds around us. First of all, the smoke, My God, the smoke. Not cigarette smoke but literal smoke machine smoke. Why on earth does a place need that much smoke billowing around? It was as if at any moment one of those fashionable young men might be a magician about to pull a rabbit out of those awful baggy black pants. Now the next thing we saw were people dancing. However, they were not really dancing at all, it was more like...flailing about, as my mom might say, arms swinging in every which way and people moving about randomly. We watched in amazement as our friend and her GF went to get some drinks. We moved on out of the haze, literally the haze, and went in to the "demo room". This is where the real fetishes took place. Ahhh, the fetishes. You could be whipped or hogtied or even vacuum sucked if you wished. We all stood there, our mouths open watching in horror as this poor over sized women (apparently big girls LOVE fetish night) got into the vacuum chamber and got squished. It was very entertaining. We finally felt a picture was in order but quickly got shut down as apparently people who display themselves in these extremely public displays of fetishism don't like getting photographed. They must be like the Amish. It was really the worst part not being able to take a picture. We did however, get permission to take a picture from the girl wearing the light up nipple clamps.
So, we finally decided that since no one from our party was going to get in the vacuum chamber we should probably head out. I sure as shit was going to get that new 300.00 dress dirty in that sweaty vacuum chamber. Plus, we are leaving for a vacation this morning and we needed to get some sleep. So, my thoughts about fetish night? Well, it was an experience you might want to be more prepared for if your not part of that scene. However, I will probably be going to fetish night again next month--and when I do I will definitely wear my light up nipple clamps--and so will Ryan.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Permanent Vacation

Tonight I had to go to the grocery store to buy food for the cats. They had been out of food for about a day and a half and were really pissed off. They let us know they are out of food by following us around the house meowing and being everywhere we are glaring at us as if to "Feed us, or we will claw the leather coach until it becomes beef jerky". So, off to the store I went. I grabbed a bag of food and went to the register to pay. Of course I always gravitate towards the cash register being tended by the fresh faced boy just out of high school. As usual, this particular one looked high as a kite and sure enough when I asked for cash back he handed me an extra 20. I didn't notice this until I was walking out of the sliding doors into the parking lot. Now, although I am not a religious person, I am a strong believer in karma. I went back into the store, back up to the kid and extended my hand with the extra 20 in it as if to show him an act of generosity. He said " Did I not give you enough change?" I said "No you idiot, you gave me an extra 20 now take it back before I change my mind". I left the store and got in the car with my cat food. I thought about it for a minute and I remembered 2 days earlier when a friends dad asked THE dumbest question I have ever heard (coincidentally, I get asked this almost every time I say I am an Agnostic) he said "If you don't believe in life after death what gives you the motivation to behave?" I told him what I tell most people, including my children. I said, I don't make decisions about how I behave in order to get into Heaven, I make decisions based on what makes me feel good about myself. I think it's simple and straight forward. He wanted to debate this. He suggested that a person who is not motivated by the possibility of spending eternity burning in Hell might not want to "do the right thing". I explained to him that doing the right thing makes my life better and helps me enjoy the cosmic fart that is our existence. He asked if I get depressed by not having anything to look forward to. (I thought to myself, besides your immediately leaving my house?) I responded that I sometimes get depressed when I think about how stupid people won't stop reproducing but I try not to let it overwhelm me. We shared a laugh and then basically agreed to disagree. After a few awkward moments of silence we parted company. Alas, this conversation begs the question if not for today what day ARE we living for? Just for a moment imagine that this is the only life we have. If you lived only for a tomorrow that never came wouldn't you regret that? I was particularly interested in his comment about my "motivation". He asked how I convinced myself to do the right thing without the promise of celestial glory. I told him I operated from a place inside myself I liked to call "being a good person just because it seems like a reasonable idea". Tonight when I had to explain to my son why I didn't keep that kids 20 dollars I told him about making decisions I could live with...and karma. I told him, what goes around comes around and if I fuck someone over it will eventually bite me in the ass (exact words). I also explained to him that I had a good life, a privileged existence. I told him my life is so good I don't even have to work and that kid is working a shitty job at Smith's. He obviously needs that 20 dollars more then I do. He said "Why is your life so good Mom, why don't you have to work?" I said...karma. Your dad got me pregnant not once but 3 times and after pushing 3 babies giant heads out of my vagina HE has to work cause I am on "permanent vacation".

Monday, February 22, 2010

Ruvry Nails

Today I decided I needed to get my "glam" on to get ready for my upcoming trip to Vegas. So, after some microderm abrasion (I know, not very glamorous-but still very important) I decided to go to the nail salon with my new Bettie Page haircut and freshly pierced nose (don't worry Mom--it's a tiny diamond stud) I figured a "mani pedi" was in order. So I headed to Lovely Nail. I went inside and picked out my polish. I sat down with two girls who looked like they might be relatives of Jackie Chan and started getting pampered. Now, it's not very often that I get a manicure, let alone a manicure and a pedicure, but today I decided I would.
I looked around the bright pink salon painted in a lovely shade of Pepto Bismal and tried to take in all the sights and sounds around me. Of course at Lovely Nail there wasn't relaxing instrumental music or small rock water fountains, there was only the loud Vietnamese shrieks of hysterical women as one of the women saw the other woman's car getting a traffic ticket. I was startled to hear what sounded like a mother frantically searching for a lost child, but, as it turns out it was one of the nail techs trying to explain, and convince, the other nail tech that the car receiving the ticket was in fact NOT her car at all. After a few minutes of verbal brawling in a foreign tongue they simultaneously burst in to laughter as the actual owner of the car came out and discovered his ticket.
After the dust had settled I looked around and noticed the posters in the salon. I imagine if I had a salon I would have posters that made the customer feel...well...inspired. I don't think that was the goal behind the poster of the 5 hands with dreadfully long nails all collectively playing a flute. And I have to admit, I didn't exactly feel inspired by the Siamese cat wearing purple acrylics but I did start to think maybe the poster of the 2 inch long red and yellow silk tips might look good on a circus clown. I tried to just relax and enjoy myself but I felt distracted by the one women motioning to the other woman to look at something on my foot or feet. The other woman stretched all the way across the counter where she was working on my nails to get a glimpse and snicker at my horribly wonky toes or whatever they were looking at.
About this same time two women came in together with a stroller and a baby. They both had blond hair, they looked similar enough and the older woman was cooing over the younger woman's baby in a very loving way. I looked at them and said "That's nice, are you guys doing a mother daughter day at the salon?" The younger woman looked at the older woman and the older woman looked at me with what I am sure could be THE look from the expression "If looks could kill". Anyway, the older woman then said "I am NOT her mother. I am not even old enough to be her mother. I am only 38." Now, I imagine the other woman was in the her mid twenties, so naturally, this was very insulting to the older woman. I was embarrassed and very apologetic but my efforts were in vain. Mean while the one Vietnamese woman was hurriedly trying to explain what had just happened to the other Vietnamese woman when I heard the victim of my comment say to the younger woman "Come on DAUGHTER lets get our polish".
I thought to myself I better add this comment to the list of things NOT to say to someone--along with "When is your baby due?" (never say that unless you can actually see the baby emerging from her body. Also, never ask an expectant mother "Are you SURE it's not twins?" I tried to hurry up and dry as fast as possible so I could get the hell out of there but before leaving I asked if I could pay with a check and one of the Vietnamese women said "Sure. Make check to Ruvry Nails "(Lovely Nails).

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Bettie Page Bangs

So, I have been in limbo for a few months now. I need a change but I don't want something to dramatic. I want something that seems authentic-not phony-or created. I need to get in touch with my inner beauty but I don't want to forget entirely about my outward appearance. So begins the quest for a "new look".
I have Ryan cut my hair straight across the bottom to try to keep it from getting straggly every couple months or so. It has been "growing out" from a short spikey "A line" for the last several years. I have been trying to grow my hair long again, since after I cut it while I was at Paul Mitchell the School. But now I'm bored. Bored of the long straight style I have had for 2 years. I have been putting pressure on Ryan to tell me what he likes when it comes to different hair styles. He says (like any good hubby would) "I like it right now. Long. Just how it is." Well, that's probably a safe answer for most husbands--but not mine. I tried to explain to him the thing you DON'T want to say to someone who has a bug up their but about change is "I like things just as they are". Duh.
So, lately I have trying out some new "looks". I have been dressing exclusively in black. I am back into my earrings and piercings and I am thinking about doing something a little "edgy" with my look. This weekend we went to the lesbian bar "The Paper Moon" it was a blast--anybody who knows me knows I HEART lesbians. But after going to the bar I decided to throw out the idea of going "shorter" it's kind of a popular lesbian look, in case you didn't know. Next we went bowling and I decided not to try the mullet (popular among some bowlers). Saturday we went to the RV show. I won't even get into the hair you see there, but, what I did see was my gorgeous sissie-in-law looking like my twin. She with HER long black hair and me having HER exact same hair cut. Ironically exacerbated by the fact we were dressed in tight jeans, black boots and grey jackets (looking fabulous if I might say so). Of course, if I had to pick a twin, it would be Tami. But, I do start to feel like a bit of a poser when we show up dressed a like. Now you might say it's because great minds think a like--I'll accept that, however, I felt it was time to strike out on my own. I'm sure it is in the genetic make up of a younger sibling to follow in the footsteps of the older sibling but I knew at that moment, it was time for a change, I had to let Tami keep the original hair-do (I think she had it first, lol) and try something different.
So, I decided I would cut my hair. I'm already moving towards a kind of "retro" thing with my wardrobe so why not go all the way and cut the iconic "Bettie Page Bangs". I called my friend, my best friend who I went to hair school with and told her I was going to a popular salon up here (one she happens to hate) and get my bangs cut. After she reprimanded me for being a bad friend--not asking her to do it, AND going to that lame salon--she said go ahead, if anyone can wear "Bettie Page Bangs" it's you. I think she's right. I mean shit--I have always loved the movie stars of the 40's and 50's--I did name my daughter Ava (after Ava Gardner) and I had to stop myself from doing this exact hair cut in the past because of a lack of confidence that I could pull it off. However after talking to Kelly I decided to go ahead and do it--and not just do it--but do it TONIGHT.
Well, turns out it's not as easy as it seems. After about a half an hour I emerged from the bathroom to my little daughters joyful shouts "Oh Mommy, you look so beautiful...just like Snow White". Uh oh. Back to the drawing board. I looked at a photo of the bangs on the computer and went back in to the bathroom to hack away for a few more minutes. I re emerged (only after said daughter was asleep) and sat down to look again at the picture on the computer. Perfect! I no longer resemble Snow White at all. I now look like the black haired beauty of the 50's-if she had received a bang trim from a 10 year old with a tremor. Just kidding. It looks AWESOME. It is so hot. I even styled it--complete with victory rolls, a big purple bow and bright red lipstick. I feel like a movie star. Yeah!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

You Can't Take It With You

Have you ever noticed how much "stuff" we have? I mean shit, if we didn't have so much stuff we wouldn't need such huge houses. We could drive smaller cars, no one would ever need to pay for a storage unit, and we wouldn't have to have such huge fucking purses. We are obsessed with stuff. In fact some people let their "stuff" determine the course of their life. Who we marry, where we live, what we do for work, (based of course on how much money we will make to determine how much stuff we can buy). We are a society of consumers based on having, storing, accumulating, showing off, coveting and down right worshiping our "stuff". Although, what we really want is to have other people worship our stuff right? Doesn't THAT feel good?
This can't be normal. I am afraid our "stuff" is taking over our lives, interfering in our relationships. In fact our "stuff" can easily become a priority and prevent us from having the one thing we really NEED to survive--LOVE. Ahhh, but who needs love when you have "stuff".
We love our stuff, we love other peoples stuff. We love dead peoples stuff so much so in fact, we fight over it. How many people have lost a friend or relative after fighting over somebodies stuff that has died? Now for those of you who know me, I am NOT a stuff person, but even I have caught myself saying to a loved one "When your dead can I have your stuff". It's almost as if we look right past the living person and miss opportunities to simply love each other. And for what? Because of our obsession with stuff.
What about trying to move into together. My God...the STUFF. There's no room for your stuff. Who's gonna sacrifice THEIR stuff? How about we get rid of all our stuff that is MINE or YOURS and buy new stuff that is OURS so we can start a life "together". Really? You couldn't start a life with the stuff you HAD before? It's as if to say "we" are not a "we" unless "we" go through the rite of passage that IS purchasing "stuff"--together--it's ridiculous.
I say if it works use it and make it earn it's keep. That's right, make your stuff justify it's existence. If it isn't getting used-in other words, it is unable to prove it's worth, get rid of it. In fact, I feel so strongly about this...I will even try to get rid of YOUR stuff while I am on a vacation at YOUR house, (just ask my mom). There is just something about the accumulation of stuff that makes me very uncomfortable.
Now that being said, don't think for a minute I don't have my own "stuff" (while most of it is non-tangible emotional baggage), it still qualifies as stuff. But have you ever noticed how judgemental we are about stuff? It's almost as if to say a person with emotional "stuff" can be dealt with but a person with really awful "stuff" in their house is a problem. Haven't you ever been somewhere, someones house and left thinking "God, THEIR "stuff" is awful." and then said "We are definitely NOT going back THERE." Why is it that other people's stuff is "shit" and your shit is "stuff"? Is this really how we measure OUR value? Is it how WE measure someone else's value? It's the equivalent of saying YOU are ok because your STUFF is ok. Who is to say who's stuff is "OK" and who's isn't? Who gets to decide whether or not having a garden gnome makes you acceptable? If I don't care about garden gnomes your having a "collection" doesn't mean shit to me. What about giving some body else YOUR old stuff? What makes us think OUR stuff is so great that once we decide we don't want it we still think someone else might? Isn't this a little presumptuous?
The importance of our stuff really cannot be measured. Have you ever tried to pack for a trip? Oh shit...what "stuff" am I going to bring? It's a tough decision whether or not to bring this or that? Why do we bring so many clothes when we end up wearing the same thing the WHOLE trip?
I think we really have become a society of "stuff" worshipers who can't distinguish between what is US and what is our "stuff". Well...I don't believe in life after death...I do however, believe in death, and this expression seems to be what one might call a "universal" can't take it with you. Whether I'm right or not about the afterlife, no person is taking anything with them anywhere after they are dead. Call it what you will, Christian philosophy--valuing good works over material possessions, or the simple physics of being dead (you can't carry anything with you once you are dead) the point remains the same...none of it really matters in the end. (Unless I need a place to put my "stuff" and your "shit" is in the way--then we're gonna have a problem.)

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

The Hornets Nest

I decided, since my parents are religiously following my blog, I would give them a few reminders of the "good old days". Ahhh but that begs the question which fond memory shall I begin with? There are so many--it's hard to choose. Like, the time they had a dinner party and I convinced all my cousins visiting from out of town to go outside and B.A. passing cars (bare ass or "moon" for you novice pranksters). Or, there was the time Leslie and I told my parents we were picking lemons for lemonade when in reality we were making lemonade grenades. Or, any one of the numerous times I threw water balloon's off the deck on our three story house onto passing cars. Possibly the time Leslie and I squirted the meter maid with a water bazooka and then made her chase us around downtown Petaluma trying to evade a ticket for loitering. There was the time one of my friends and I (not sure if it was Leslie) taunted the neighbors from the apartment building across the street so badly we had to run home and seek solice in the house from an angry mob of Mexicans. It seems Leslie was my constant companion on these adventures (hopefully her mom isn't reading this blog or she'll be like "Bob...I knew it all along, it was that Cassie that corrupted our innocent little Leslie" (innocent my ass). Anyhow, I know my parents always love to tell the story of the "hornets nest" so let me share a family favorite with you.
For those of you not familiar with my childhood home in Petaluma, I grew up in a beautiful three story Victorian home in a small town on a cozy street where all the neighbors knew each other and took pride in the appearance of their homes. One day when my father (the one who bought the wee alarm) went out on to the upper deck that over looked a vast landscape of rolling hills and grassy meadows he noticed what he thought were rather large hornets nests. He was puzzled and studied them for quite some time. He came into the house and got my mother and asked if she had noticed the hornets nests on the side of the apartment building next to us. She too was puzzled and together they studied the nests for quite some time. After pondering the sudden appearance of these elaborate nests they decided to come in and find me, and of course my partner in crime, Leslie. They told us to step out on to the deck and take a look at the unusual hornets nests. They asked us if we knew anything about them. We did our best to act surprised and said "No, we know nothing about them." They were satisfied for the time being and sent us on our way. Now, I am not certain if the investigation began that day or several days later but my dad, still bothered by these large hornets nests and concerned for our safety from potentially wild africanized hornets decided to spray them forcefully with the hose. As he took on the challenge of ridding our neighbors building of these pests, he became surprised at the "nests" miraculous transformation. As he began to wet the nests he noticed they became heavy and saturated. They began to fall apart rapidly and slid down the side of the apartment building. He called us back on to the deck and said " this girls" he vigorously sprayed the "nests" and we watched in horror as the giant wads of toilet paper we had soaked in the sink and thrown onto the neighbors apartment building began to slid slowly down the wall. We remained silent for a moment, all of us staring at the wall in awe. It was about this time I am quite certain Leslie suggested she had to be leaving and getting back to her house to finish up her chores. I don't remember the resolution to the "nest" incident but because of the frequency of times the story has been told--it must not have been too bad.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The "Wee Alarm"

Tonight as I was putting Devin to bed (in his sister's bed instead of his own) I reminded him to use the bathroom BEFORE he got in bed rather then AFTER. I told him "Go in and go potty or I'll hook you up to the 'wee alarm' and you don't want that--do you?" Ahhh, the dreaded wee alarm. I have (through years of fantastic story telling) glorified the "wee alarm" to resemble something of a medieval torture device for the young bed wetter. For those of you not familiar with the wee alarm--let me explain. The wee alarm was a device my father bought for me when after about the age of 6 or 7 I just couldn't seem to get my bed wetting under control. Now the reality was that it was a normal, infrequent occurrence that happened less then rumored by my father but naturally more then I would like to admit. In any case, he purchased a pad that was made of some thin sheet of metal covered in cloth with a clamp on either side that was then attached to a battery. When I peed on the pad it was supposed to send a small shock through the pad in turn waking me, prompting me to relieve my bladder in the toilet and saving my parents the hassle of changing my bedding in the "wee" hours of the morning (no pun intended). Well, the way I have described it to the kids was as if it were THE device used to electrocute Jack Nicholson in the movie "One Flew Over The Cuckcoo's Nest". Now the way it actually worked well, I don't really know. How could that be you might be asking yourself, me being such an accomplished bed wetter? Well, the wee alarm was created by someone who did not have a child with my overly active clever mind, (obviously). My father was very hopeful that the wee alarm would be the answer to our soggy night time struggles. Little did he know I had no intention of being electrocuted just because I couldn't wake myself up to pee in the bathroom. So every night he would turn it on, tuck me in and leave with high expectations. The next morning he would come in and find me just as he had so many nights before not in my bed at all but in a make shift bed my mother had made for me on the floor of their room dry and toasty soundly sleeping all the while having peed all over the wee alarm with no electrocution having taken place. After several weeks of this he finally realized that I had been (after he left my bedroom) immediately unplugging the wee alarm, peeing on it and going into their bedroom in new pajama's just like I always had. He was horrified. I am not sure of the where abouts of the "wee alarm" today but I do know my fathers expectations that a child of mine will not pee in or on something at their house are much lower because of my experience with the "wee alarm". I think he thought I must have taken some sadistic pleasure in wetting the bed, which of course was not true at all. For me the pleasure was in outsmarting him and peeing on the "wee alarm".

Monday, February 15, 2010

Oompa Loompas and Side Show Bob

Have you ever noticed how scary the Oompa Loompas were when you were a kid? And yet, haven't we all at some point in our adult lives encouraged our kids to watch Willy Wonka and The Choc. Factory? Maybe it is the same phenomenon as having a baby-you do it, it is scary and painful but you do it again because you forget how bad it was? Maybe it is the simple yet profound message Willy Wonka tries to teach in his catchy theme song delivered by those creepy green men, who by the way, I believe are singled handled responsible for making midgets an overly spectacular experience, not to mention, the cause of many childhood nightmares. On a side note--did you ever notice how bad the Oompa Loompas cartwheels were? Watch it again, they're creepy AND their cartwheels suck. Anyway, do you remember the message? It was basically take responsibility for yourself and accept that your actions will be the determiner of your fate. Right?

Who do you blame when your kid is a brat
pampered and spoiled like a Siamese cat?
Blaming the kid is a lion of shame
you'll know exactly who is to blame:
The mother and the father!

So, this brings me to Side Show Bob. Tonight after a full 3 games of bowling, well, 2 with the kids and one by myself, we went to the Training Table and had dinner. The Training Table is a restaurant I imagine was opened by some masochistic employer who wanted to punish his young employees. The way you order food at the Training Table is to pick up a phone located at your table and, when the people in the ordering station see the light flashing and hear the buzzer buzzing, they take your order. Well, can you imagine that most of the people that go to this restaurant are, to some degree--idiots--but more importantly, families with small children. Of course it is IMPOSSIBLE to keep your child from lifting up the receiver and setting off the call station alarm in turn making some employee say "Can I take your there anybody there? Uh...did you want to order?" All the while, to the delight and laughter of the children at the table with their parents in the background saying "So and so...hang up RIGHT now--that is NOT funny, you hang up that phone right this minute!" It's simply torture, but their cheese fries are kick ass so we have to do at least once or twice a month.
Anyway, one of my kids ordered chicken fingers and when they arrived we noticed one of the chicken pieces had cooked right on to another piece and formed the ultimate chicken finger that resembled, as one of my children said "A cock and balls". Of course we all broke into hysterical laughter and I begged that child to hold it up so I could take a picture of it and send it to Daddy who was at the fire station. He did, and I did and then we all kept laughing until, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Devin's elementary school teacher and her husband. Right at that moment, that exact moment in fact, I began to motion to Devin to put down his chicken-finger-cock-and-balls the teacher said "Well...hello Cassie" in a kind of Jerry Sienfield addressing Newman sort of way. I tried to pull myself together and regain a shred of dignity. I then replied "Hello to you too Ms. Blankity Blank" I had no idea she was actually a "Mrs." but low and behold she is and there she was with her husband in tow. I said to Brady "Try to get a hold of yourself Dude, I don't want to look like a complete idiot, this is the teacher who used to complain about Devin and what a clown he was in class. I don't want her thinking I am to blame for that." To which Brady replied in a rather loud voice "Who HER? That lady sitting with Side Show Bob?"For those of you who are not familiar with Side Show Bob he is a character from the Simpson's with really awful hair. That proved too much for me. I simply couldn't control myself, I burst out laughing, paid our bill, took the kid and got the hell out of there.

Oompa Loompa doopmadee doo
I've got some more advice for you
always brush your hair and do a good job
otherwise you'll look like Side Show Bob

Sunday, February 14, 2010

My Funny Valentine

Today I figured it would be appropriate to profess my love to my one and only, my soul mate. However, I have serious "issues" with who ever invented the greeting card. I'm convinced that the only thing worse then having body issues is feeling like I have to pay 5 dollars for a card some idiot wrote that says "Today and Everyday, My Love--My Darling". First of all what does that even mean? Are you trying to clarify that it's not just sometimes my love, occasionally my darling? I mean come on people--you know the reality is no one really gives a shit unless the card has something besides sentiments inside it. Of course it's nice to be reminded that someone is thinking about you but nowadays, a greeting card is no longer a thoughtful token of our affection or significance to a loved one, we've almost come to expect a card for everything from having a birthday to graduating from high school. Really? Graduating from high school? Aren't we expected to do that? Shouldn't we be concerned that graduating from high school has become some great feat? Can't we pretty much just count on graduating rather then celebrating because we did? I mean shit why didn't Ryan get a card after his vasectomy that said "Congratulations on becoming a 'sport' model". They seem so superfluous. There are some things that are just not necessary--like letting your friends know that things are starting to get serious between you and your shower head. Sometimes we just don't need to wish someone a Happy St. Patricks Day. Like really? If St. Patrick hadn't driven the snakes out wouldn't someone else have done it? That IS the essence of a lot of greetings cards isn't it? Congratulations on doing something someone else could have or already has done like graduating high school or getting a promotion, job well done on something that would most likely occur naturally like recovering from an accident or having a baby--like, surprise--at some point that baby's coming out whether or not YOU do anything.
Now this is not to say that the people buying the greetings cards are not sincere and thoughtful people--on the contrary, they are the people who fall for this conspiracy hook, line and sinker. It is the average thoughtful friend, parent, lover, grandma who doesn't buy the overpriced greeting card that feels like a real douche. Me on the other hand, I send a card when I feel the repercussions of NOT sending one would far out weigh the shame of falling victim to Hallmarks plan for world domination. That being said anyone who has ever sent me a card (especially those containing monetary sentiments) don't think for a minute I don't absolutely enjoy receiving them. The joy of opening a card and having a crispy green 20.00 from your grandma fall out defies reason. Now watch--I won't receive another greeting card from anyone for the rest of my earthly existence. In fact, I have not received an anniversary card from my own husband for the last several years because we have gotten in a fight 3 years in a row ON our anniversary. He purchased a card 3 years ago and has left it in his sock drawer this whole time. Every year the day we make up he says "Well, I guess you'll have to wait until NEXT year to get your card" like I haven't already read it. Maybe he should buy card that says "Today and Everyday--with the exception of our anniversary--My Love, My Darling".

Saturday, February 13, 2010

The Grave Digger

For those of you who read the title of this particular blog and thought of the man who digs the hole a coffin goes in are about to get schooled in the world of Monster Jam. Tonight we participated in an annual Curtis family tradition--Monster Jam. That was of course AFTER 2 basket ball games, one pick up from a sleepover, one play date, one trip to the Skybox (AWESOME--more to come tomorrow about the Skybox) and one award ceremony...oh, and a few melt downs (one that included some one yelling "mother F'er" right as the parking attendant asked if we could pay the parking fee and move along--as if our 10 year old screaming the F word about his sister not sharing her fries with him wasn't amusing to her. I attended Monster Jam tonight with my kids and two of my favorite men--one was my husband (and college boyfriend) and the other a college friend who was possibly hoping to become my husband. Now, I might be reading more into this but we'll let him correct me if it's just my ego getting the better of me. I do know however that my mom wanted me to marry him--in fact, I believe my mom once said at a dinner party he came to many years after I had been married "Oh Charles, I always hoped Cassie would marry you". It was awkward to say the least. I don't know who felt more uncomfortable, me, Charles or Ryan (oh..yes, he was standing right there). Anyway, bless her heart as the saying goes, without my darling mother who would I have to provide me with such an abundance of comedic material, right mom?
So, Ryan and Charles and I headed out to Monster Jam with our 5 kids in tow--4 boys and Ava Grace-who, by the way, wore a beautiful pink and black rockabilly dress with a huge baby pink bow in her hair, she looked like an absolute rock star. We arrived at Monster Jam and quickly realized our seats were in the nose bleed section. Of course, I suggested we blow off our purchased seats and sit in one of the thousands of empty seats in the lower bowl. So...I proceeded to walk in to the lower bowl just as cool as a cucumber (with all 5 kids might I add) and relocate. Meanwhile, Ryan and Charles choked under the excruciating pressure put on by the 80 year old seating attendant and sent me a text that said "Cassie...we got busted" so the attendant had to let one of them in the not-quite-as-shitty section of seats to retrieve the rest of their party and move to the terribly-shitty-seats in the upper bowl. I had to ask myself "Why the hell do they care if we move when there are literally 1000's of empty seats?"
Anyway...we bought some overpriced popcorn to go with all the drinks we smuggled in. That was an interesting experience trying to teach the kids how to pack in contraband without looking obvious, or gravely injured--Devin put his drink in his pant leg and looked like he was suffering a major groin pull for about a 1/2 mile until, in plain view, 10 yards before the check point he pulled out his drink and said "Here sneak my drink in for me." So I added it to my spandex pants (mandatory attire at Monster Jam) alongside my orange flavored Rockstar, Ava's Sprite and Ryans Mt. Dew.
We watched the show uninterrupted for the most part, of course there where the usual questions and complaints "Can I get some food? I need to go to the bathroom, so and so is touching me, how much longer til it starts, how much longer til it's over, ect. ect. you get the idea. Ryan and Charles and I cheered louder then any of our kids and louder in fact then most of the dirthead Monster Jammers sitting along side us. It lasted slightly longer than we expected with the climatic moment being the "freestyle round" where the monster trucks jumped off incredibly large mounds of dirt to music that if you heard it on the radio you would immediately turn it off...however, tonight, it was just right. The last spectacle of the evening, besides the 300lb lady and her 95lb husband sporting a fantastically awesome mullet, was the moment that the Grave Digger (every bodies favorite monster truck) lept off the jump and after several dramatic seconds of teetering--would he make it and stick the landing or would he put on a show for the crowd-crashed right down on his backside. As soon as he hit the ground the crowd went wild, Ryan and Charles and I being no exception, we spilled into thunderous applause for a show worth waiting...2 hours for.

Friday, February 12, 2010

The Chicken Lobster

Did you know that a female lobster is called a chicken or a hen? I find this interesting--but not surprising, in fact I might say. As the night fast approaches (well, not that's only 10 am right now) I was contemplating my options for this evenings festivities. Bowling with friends or the "Rail" for gay night? Of course both have their strong points and their drawbacks. Let us weigh the options. Bowling is fun, the couple(s) we are planning on going with are great, you can buy pitchers of beer and drink them at your lane and it is relatively safe--well, with the exception of that time I accidentally let go of the ball at it's pinnacle of height in the backward position and it almost landed on Ryan's foot. Mostly safe, lets call it mostly safe. The draw backs however include (but are not limited too) the wait time-which essentially could be filled with drinking and air hockey (I live for air hockey) so maybe that one is not really a drawback. Also, lots of annoying people with their annoying children doing those annoying things children do, big draw back. 3 out 5 stars on the people watching.
Now let's examine gay night at the "Rail". First of all, this option is probably 5 out of 5 stars on the people watching. If it's anything like what I've seen on TV their will be lots of hot gay dudes with most of their clothes off or wearing clothes that are not really clothes at all but things resembling loin cloths made of spandex and mesh. Next, the booze are usually great and the music is off the hizzy--fo shizzy. Not to mention gay guys are all around great to party with. Now, the draw backs. I am not gay. Ryan is not gay. Quite possibly, none of the people going tonight are gay. That's about the only drawback I can come up with. In fact that might not even be a drawback. If we aren't gay we aren't going to have those pesky drunk guys hitting on us. Also, no one will be putting GHB in my drink--that'll be nice--big plus in my book (yes, that has actually happened before).
So, after careful consideration, I feel I am leaning slightly towards gay night but I know Ryan is leaning toward bowling (surprise--NOT). I guess after dinner tonight we'll need to make a decision. Well--as some of my favorite in-laws might say "We'll have to just wait and see" or maybe even "It's up to us" or my all time favorite "What're you gonna do?"
Now back to the lobsters. When I first started thinking about going to gay night I found myself asking why don't I have a big group of girlfriends I can do these things with? The first thing that popped into my head, the most obvious of course, was that there is no one I would prefer to spend time with then Ryan. He is the ultimate playmate. And, the reality is that I DO have girlfriends, lots of them, just none that I party with in large groups--and none that I hang with without Ryan. Next, I thought about the lobsters. I remembered a story I once heard about female lobsters and then it came to me, the real reason I don't party with girls.

Here's the story:

When a chef is cooking a pot of male lobsters it is essential he put the lid on the pot because as soon as the male lobsters realize they are in danger they start forming ladders to help each other climb out of the pot. However, when a chef is cooking female lobsters a lid is not necessary. The female lobsters, sensing their own impending doom, start grabbing each other and holding each other down. None of the females want to let any of the others get out of the pot. It's almost as if they are saying "If I'm gonna die, your gonna die too bitch".
This story always rings true for me. In fact, I would be hard pressed to find a girl who hasn't felt the claw of the chicken lobster at the back of her neck at least once. Maybe that's why I gravitate towards cocks--oh BTW, that's what you call a male lobster.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Death Juice

I started this process with the intent to share my life experiences and vast knowledge of obscure documentaries (including, but not limited to, Forgiving Dr. Mengele) with the friends and family members who had suggested I start a blog. As I gave thought to the content and, of course, the direction I wanted to take the blog, I figured it best to check out other friends blogs. After I talked myself back in off the ledge--yes, some of them really were THAT bad--I decided I had to try to incorporate some of the more popular aspects of the traditional blog. First of all, I need to let you know every time my child does something even the slightest bit interesting-not necessarily interesting to YOU--but interesting to say, me or their grandma or some person who has been in a catatonic state on a deserted island for many years listening exclusively to Milli Vanilli. Secondly, I must include how happy I am with some ridiculously boring aspect my life, to which everyone reading it will need to re-evaluate what is wrong with THEM that they don't get that much pleasure out of scrubbing the built up dust and grease concoction off the top of the kitchen cabinets. But most importantly, I must include a recipe--one of my favorites--one that will make all of my friends green with envy. So here it is, the one that will have everybody asking "how does she find the time to make something so complex?"

1 battery
2 eggs (make sure they are rotten)
1 pee
1 poo
1 dandy lion
1 milk (from a milkweed)

And VOILA! It's just that simple. The off gas alone is sure to kill even the most stubborn pests. (I am assuming it was intended to be used on his younger brother)

*Recipe donated by my 10 year old son. Of course the donation was submitted involuntarily, by me, after I found it in his back pack. I asked Brady " Son, when did you have time to come up with such an elaborate concoction?" He said "In class of course". Ahhh, the joys of public education. I want to publicly thank Brady for his submission. Also, I want to thank George and Barbara Bush for their "No Child Left Behind" act--good thing cause who knows what the hell they'd be making if they were left unattended anymore then they are now.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

My Maiden Voyage

I haven't decided yet whether or not this "blogging" thing is for me. But I guess wearing the shirt that says "More people have read my shirt then have read your blog" won't be quite as humorous anymore? In fact, you might say it will be a little ironic. I decided after being approached by quite a few people that I should start a blog because first of all, Facebook doesn't allow nearly enough room for me to elaborate on my deeply philosophical and pessimisstic rants about how lame everything is (yes, that is my style)--in fact it was a toss up between "The Hesh" and "Ugh" as the name of my blog. And second, I can re read what I am about to post BEFORE I offend people where as most of the time I don't have an opportunity--that's mostly based on impulse control--to edit my offensive comments before they offend someone.
So here it is, my maiden voyage in the blogging world. The thing about me is, you can't take me too seriously or you won't get my sense of humor. I guess I should start by telling you a little bit about myself. First, you can always count on me to tell the truth about what I think and I how I see things. Second, you can pretty much count on most people agreeing with some part of what I have to say but not having enough nerve to admit it. Third, I have done a lot of things people are not comfortable with during my life time and that makes me a little bit of a guilty pleasure to be around.
Right now I live in SLC, Utah with my husband and his children--well, our children but that isn't always how it seems--you know that moment when you look at them and see them eating their buggers and your like "OMG, THAT is not my child!" Well, that exact thing has happened (on more then one occasion, might I add). We spend a lot of time together messing around, acting like clowns and pretending we are on our own non televised version of "Nitro Circus". My hubby works for Salt Lake City Fire Department and is gone about half the month. That means I have a lot of "free time". I mostly raise children and lament about what my legacy will be when I am gone (most of my hobbies include a little danger and a lot of bad judgement). My desires in life have never been...ordinary. I aspired to be slightly more then average and one step above forgetable. I'd also like to make a small contribution to my community (as long as it is not too inconvient or time consuming)--so far I believe I have achieved all of my life goals.
Anyway, I stay at home farting around with hobbies and kicking ass (almost nightly) on Jeopardy. I love riding dirtbikes and I am obsessed with weapons. I cannot watch enough obscure documentaries and I get sucked into fretting about (almost daily) some catastrophic current event happening somewhere in the world (last month I suggested to my husband we adopt a Haitian baby--he said no...then he got a vascectomy). On the other hand I am a normal girl and I have all the normal issues that go along with being a women of the twenty first century. I like make up, I am a hairdresser by trade, I love going out with my hubby, and I have major body issues. Overall, I am very happy and very satisfied with my life. I make a pretty constant habit of pointing out lifes ridiculous hypocricies (as my mom would say--man's inhumanity to man). I plan on writing a book someday to document my life experiences. Hopefully someone will get some enjoyment out of it or gain some ability to self reflect--as some rude person once said "Heck if Cassie can do it anybody can do it" that was in reference to going to the LDS Temple, not writing a book, but you get the idea--and, yes, I am Mormon. I no longer attend church or believe in God. I don't believe in life after death and I don't believe in "the power of the Universe" but that doesn't stop me from being a pretty fucking cool person. I am a Darwinian and a Humanist (look it up). I believe in the Golden Rule. I think it is a good baseline. I'm pretty sure it is safe to assume no one wants to be treated like an idiot or an asshole so to the people who treat others this way I have to ask--what is THAT all about? But I can save that rant for another day. I hope people who read this blog see from my experiences that life is meant to be enjoyed. I believe it was Mark Twain who said "The only way to have health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like and do what you'd rather not". Well, I can't do that. I'd rather enjoy life. I like eatting food that is bad for me, I love drinking coffee and beer and I would rather die doing something that brought me a moment of pleasure then live a lifetime regretting never having done those things I really wanted. Maybe that is one of those things about me that people find so intriguing. Maybe that is why people describe me as having a magnetic personality. Maybe that is why just when you thought you were out--I pulled you back's funnier if you say it like Al Pacino.