Thursday, July 28, 2011



Okay people.  I intended to blog, really I did.  And then a friend took me out for margaritas tonight, and she was all, "Oh, we'll only be out from 7-9 p.m.!" and I said, "Okay, great, because I still have to blog and my sister-in-law and her family are coming tomorrow and I want to clean" and she said, "No problem!" and then she took me to Azteca, which is my kryptonite, and bought me a jumbo margarita, and then a shot of Patron, and then a "small" margarita, and now I'm having trouble focusing not to mention writing and I'm going to take a Prilosec and an Aleve and go to bed because I have to get up at 6:30 a.m. to get ready for my job as a hooker.  Of course, Current Husband sees that I am tipsy and is thinking, "Where are my condoms?" but it is futile, because I am 42 and totally cannot hold my liquor anymore.  I might even have gout or erectile dysfunction or Alzheimers.  And?  I missed the first episode of Project Runway.

But I did have a lot of fun with my tequila-loving friend.

Awaiting the inevitable headache,

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Get In The Van.
I Have Candy. Part 2

So, Part 2.
(Remember, sequels are NEVER better.)

We try to take a weeklong family vacation every summer so that I may make Shutterfly photo albums lovingly captioned with snarky descriptions of our hi-larious times together.  This way, when the kids are in their 30's and complaining about their bad childhoods, I can throw my stack of family fun and nutty hijinx on the table and say, "What now, you ungrateful bastards!?  You got nothin' on me and I have the Shutterfly books to prove it!"

As I mentioned in the last post, there was a lot of drama and even more Dramamine on the first leg of our trip.  (Fear not, Gentle Readers, the worst part of the trip is now over.)  We drove through Southern Illinois, which honestly makes Nebraska look a little exciting, and lo and behold, we saw a sign for Metropolis.  Wha?  You mean SUPERMAN's hometown?  Current Husband is a huge fan of The Man of Steel, so SNAP! We fell right into the Tourist Trap.

Poor YD was still not feeling great. 
But c'mon, honey, rally!  It's Superman!

It's a bird!  It's a plane! 
No, it's my new gigantic knockers!

Able to leap bored housewives in a single bound? 
I certainly hope so.
(And?  When am I going to learn to
suck in my gut for pictures?)

At 11 p.m., we finally rolled into our friends' driveway in Atlanta.  The family we visited moved from our hood over a year ago, and they're the kind of people who will not only let you fly your freak flag, they will raise your freak flag if it isn't up already.  Needless to say, good time were had by all.

The kids played the "I'm the floating head creeping
in the back of your picture" game all week.

We occupied the kids so we could go out drinking.
(Oh put the phone down, they did it to themselves.)

And YD organized a game of Marco Polo,
but apparently she misunderstood the rules.

We really went to Atlanta just to visit our friends, so we didn't go out too much, and besides, it was about 175 degrees outside, plus humidity, which brought the heat index to 280 degrees.  The only thing that could cure our Beiber fever was a bartender with cold chardonnay and a moustache tattooed on his finger.  We were in luck.

He is known in Downtown Decatur as Chardonnay Tony.  

We stayed up talking into the night.  (Back to the friends, not Chardonnay Tony.) We awoke in mid-morning, and drank the best French press coffee ever. (Me and Tony.  Obviously.) We ate.  We drank.  We lounged.  Then we drank a little more.  We watched the funniest damn PBS special ever, which my friend Angie gave to me and has absolutely changed my life, simply called "Ferrets".  It about ferret breeders and the biggest ferret show in the country, The Buckeye Bash.  Here is a little snippet for you, but I HIGHLY recommend you buy your own copy:

That damn ferret song goes through my head all the time.  Then I made them watch this classic movie, because doesn't EVERYONE sit with friends they haven't seen in a year and watch ferret videos and cheesy 70's movies?

Oh yes, Barbra.  My love for you is ageless and evergreen.
And thank you for covering Kris Kristofferson's nipple.

There are so many terrific things about spending time with people you love, but of course, all good things must come to an end.  We pulled away from Hotlanta and headed for the hills of Tennessee, where we enjoyed our Family Stalker Adventure in Nashville.  Stay tuned for Part 3 of "Get In The Van, I Have Candy".  It's like you are trapped on vacation WITH me.  The call is coming from inside the van...get out!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Get In The Van. I Have Candy.

Hello Wifers!

I've been a bad blogger, and I know it, but sometimes it feels good to be bad.  No, really.  It does.  Grab your puke cups and let me tell you all about it.

Saturday, July 16, 5 a.m.
My alarm goes off.  I ignore it.

Saturday, July 16, 8 a.m.
I've been pushing the snooze for three hours.  At 10-minute intervals.  Anyone who roomed with me in college knows this is not an exaggeration.  I wake up in a panic, and realize we are now two hours past when I wanted to be on the road for our 13-hour drive to Atlanta.  Shit. 

Saturday, July 16, 9:30 a.m.
We are finally on the road after a solid hour of MomPanic.  We stop at the first McDonald's on our trip, in Bettendorf, IA.  We order breakfast, because I cleared out the fridge yesterday so things won't mold while we are gone.  I order orange juice for the kids, because it's healthy and will offset all of the other crap we are eating.  (This is called "foreshadowing".)

Saturday, July 16, 9:40 a.m.
Current Husband looks at me in a panic and says, "Oh No."  This means we must find the nearest McDonalds immediately, as they have the cleanest bathrooms.  His uber-sensitive digestive system has failed us all, 10 minutes into our 13-hour trip.  We find said McDonalds in Moline, IL, where the kids and I will sit for the next 15 minutes while they abuse me for letting Daddy order a sausage biscuit.

Saturday, July 16, 10:35 a.m.
Finally, we are closing in on hour first hour down on the trip, when Youngest Daughter says, "Mommy, when you find the next bathroom, I need you to stop."  Really?!?  She can hold out a little longer, right?  "Um, Mommy, my stomach is a little upset."  Crap.  Hello McDonalds.  Here we are again.  I pull up into a spot, and walk around to the van door on her side, and find to my dismay that she is still in her pajamas.  There is a man in an SUV next to us, apparently waiting for someone, and we are providing a nice distraction for him.

ME:  "Honey, you have to put some clothes on to go into McDonald's." 
YD:  "Why?"
ME:  "Because you can't be out in public in your pajamas."
(NOTE:  Unless you are me in 2003 and you are sleep deprived and desperately need Motrin for a sick kid and the only grocery store in your small town closes in 10 minutes.  Think you will see no one, run into school principal, school nurse, and pastor. Understand you deserve this.)
YD:  "I don't have time, Mom, ...BRULLLLP."


We march into McDonalds, both covered in warm puke, past full line of people waiting for drive thru who undoubtedly deleted orange juice from their order.  Or left altogether.  I take poor little YD into bathroom and wash her off, change her clothes, and stand under hand driers so the vomit on my shorts will at least dry so we don't have to smell it in the van.  We get back to the van, and the SUV next to us is surprisingly gone.  I dig through our luggage and find a clean pair of shorts, and change into them behind the McD's dumpster because I honestly do not give a shit anymore.  I'm done impressing anyone here.  We discuss returning home.  CH and I decide to carry on and hope for the best.

Saturday, July 16, 11:22 a.m.
YD vomits again in plastic grocery bag in back seat.  I blame Rush Limbaugh, whose voice seems to be settling CH's intestinal discomfort.  We stop at a BP, because our theme has become "environmentally damaging".  I clean YD up again, and buy some Dramamine, which God made for situations such as these.  CH and I again discuss abandoning travel plans, but we've both taken off a week of vacation, we have non-refundable hotel rooms in Nashville, and our friends in Atlanta are expecting us at 9 p.m. and have scheduled accordingly.  We carry on.  The Dramamine works. 

YD and her puke cup, upgraded from her pajamas and a plastic bag.

All told, we visited seven McDonalds bathrooms in 15 hours across five states.  I'd like to take a moment to thank McDonalds for keeping their bathrooms cleaner than your average gas station.  The Son was tapped to take one for the team, because I don't use a bathroom without buying some product.

He's a giver, that one.  Only a 12-year-old boy
would still be packing away food next to
a vomiting third grader.

Will we make it to Atlanta?  Or will our ADHD take us off the road to unplanned and uncharted destinations?  Stay tuned for Part 2 of "Get In The Van. I Have Candy." on Tuesday!  

Monday, July 11, 2011

The Fountain of Youth

My name is Julie, and I am a sorority girl.

Why is it that most of the time when I tell people I was in a sorority, I say it with a little bit of apology?  After years of movies about sororities being filled with Legal Blondes and party hard sluts and busty Daddy's girls, I'm here to set the record straight:

It's all true.  And it was awesome.

I'm kidding.  Sort of.  I am a Chi Omega - Eta Beta, baby.  And yes, there were some Legal Blondes and party hard sluts and busty Daddy's girls in our house, but usually the sisters were only that for a night or two during the year.  I had a few party hard slut nights, and bi-polar stalker nights, and woe-is-me-oh-the-drama nights, and a whole hell of a lot of really kick ass fun nights.  (And a number of drinking nights and a few throwing up in various vessels nights, but I try to focus on the party pics.)  Here are just a few examples of some nights at Chimichanga, as we so affectionately sometimes called it, which I am not bound by grip, motto, or law to keep a secret:
  • Barb putting maxipads on her elbows and knees and practicing falling down the stairs.
  • Tina "sleeping" on the floor in the entryway after a night out and people putting a masking tape outline of her body on the carpet.
  • Someone plugging up the toilet and everyone in the house lining up to see it, while one girl sobs and says, "Some horrible fraternity boys put some horse shit in our toilet!"
  • The entire house, which at the time was around 100 girls, cramming into the living room to watch "Dirty Dancing" about 30 times.
  • Getting out of bed at 11 a.m. on Saturday, a little rough from the night before, hitting the kitchen for a donut and then heading out the sundeck for three hours.
  • Singing.  Oh so much singing.

 There they are - the sisters of Chi Omega, 1989
OD said, "What's with the hair? You all look electrocuted."

I'm sitting on the deck.  Because I'm a loner. A rebel.

During rush in a skit.  I'm the hippie on the left.
Barb of the maxi pads is center, Kate on the right.

Last weekend was my 20-year Chi O reunion in Chicago.  It's hard to believe it's been 20 years, particularly after seeing these gals, who honestly look fan-effing-tastic.  My former roommate, Kate, and I drove to Chi-town on Saturday morning, so we missed the Friday night fun.  Apparently, even though the organizers of the trip booked the rooms in a distant corner of the Westin, they got their first noise warning at 8:45 p.m. and their second one at 12:30 a.m., threatening eviction.  So of course, they went out.  By the time Kate and I arrived Saturday a.m., we joined them at a restaurant,where everyone was in running clothes, gripping their waters and coffees and completely hung over.  It was just like walking into the dining room at the sorority house on Saturday morning 20 years ago.  Some things never change.

With my homegirl Kate.  We inexplicably wore a LOT of costumes
during college, where there were very few costume parties.  Huh.

With the girls of Eta Beta, pledge class 1987,
who could make it to Chicago last weekend. 
Twenty years and 25 kids later. 
I'm in the cream, and from this angle,
apparently 7 feet tall and missing a hand.

What sor-whores do when they get together -
drinking, eating, polka dot writing, pregnancy tests.

It was a great weekend, and I was sore from all the laughing.  Somuchfunbestimever.  But my point here isn't that sororities are fun.  My point is that you need to keep your friends close.  I have my posse of seven high school friends who get together regularly (See you in November, girlies! Rally!), and my college friends who get together less regularly but are going to do better, and some groups of friends from different towns in which we've lived, and I'm here to tell you a little secret:

Your girlfriends are the Fountain of Youth.

They keep you young, they think you're terrific even thought they've seen you at your worst, and if laughter is the best medicine then you are the junkie to their dealer.  There is nothing like a night with old friends to make you feel young again.  So if you haven't seen some of your girls in a while?  Call them, and make some plans.  It's worth it.

Chimichange Love, Eta Betas! 

I...had...the time of my life....and I owe it all to you!

Thursday, July 7, 2011

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 68

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.

Today’s topic: Random Acts of Whoreness

Hello Mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers who actually read this blog.  I've missed the three of you.  Well actually, I haven't, because I've been with you in Nebraska all week, Mom.  (Juanita and Lupe, you are on your own.)  This is why I can't breathe and am having the second-hand smoke tar scraped out of my lungs tomorrow.  But I know you crack the kitchen window open because you love me, Mom.

Not Whoreticulturey, but adorable, no?
OD and George the Superpet, ready for takeoff!

Last week, my mom flew from Padre Island to her summer home in Elkhorn, Nebraska, because who doesn't dream of a summer home in Nebraska?  This trip has been planned since March.  Mom arrived on Wednesday.  On Saturday night, Dad showed up somewhat unexpectedly, but not TOTALLY unexpectedly, because this is how he operates.  He makes a last minute decision and then drives 20 hours straight to "surprise" everyone.  We all know that he pees in a bottle when he makes these trips, but we have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy about it in our family.  

True Story:  One time he traded in his pickup for a new one when he arrived in town and forgot to take the bottle out.  The great part is that he wasn't mortified that the service guys found a jug of his urine; he was mad because mom got that one from the hospital for him.  It was custom.  I think this goes a LONG way toward explaining why I turned out this way.  Sorry Gaga.  I wasn't born this way.  I was purposely molded into the dysfunctional person I am today.

This is a recap of my week in Nebraska, with random appropriate bits for Whoreticulture Friday.  You could say this week is the ADHD version.

Three hours into the trip on Interstate 80, fourth Hummer truck:
Current Husband:  "You ever think about driving that big rig?"
Me:  "I'm pretty sure that truck can drive itself."
CH:  "But I bet it would be fun...."
Me:  "Step on it and I'll see if the driver is interested in giving you a spin."

Dear Grocery Store:  Do not put bright pink signs on your produce that say, "NICE MELONS" and not expect me to pick them up and fondle them.  Or put the sign on myself.  Or make my teenage daughter take the picture.  Or not pull my shirt down so as to hide the jelly rolls I'm sporting.  It's businesses such as yours that force me to be immature.  The melons, by the way, are real, and they are SPECTACULAR.

Speaking of melons....

 This is Paige the OB-GYN, my high school friend who terrifies me with her stories about uteruses (uteri??) falling out of people who don't do Kegels (let's all do one together...clench...and...RELEASE).  We got together at our friend Meem's house in Omaha on the 4th, and Paige brought her Tit Coozie.  But apparently she skipped kindergarten, because she didn't bring enough for everyone.  Do you know me AT ALL, Paige?  I get to see my high school posse in November in Austin, Texas, and I expect a gyno-swag-bag.
(Running off to trademark that name.)

The trip ended with CH and I attending The Black Keys concert in Council Bluffs, Iowa.  CH and I arrived at the concert area to find that it was:
  1. An outdoor venue.
  2. With no seating.
  3. And it had been raining all day.
So we bought a poncho to sit on the grassy knoll, and after four or five Blue Moons, the above picture is how I actually saw the concert.  (Don't look into the light, Carol Ann!  Run away from the light!)  No, I'm kidding, I spent the entire concert rambling drunkenly to CH about how awesome Pat Carney plays drums, and how amazing Dan Auerbaugh is on guitar, and singing loudly, and then, you know what's coming, DANCING. 
How do these two dorky-looking white dudes
from Ohio make such big, fat-ass blues?  How?

Then we went to the slot machines (big, big mistake) and then I made CH walk me to the band bus to see if I could snag a Key to get in a blog picture.  But it wasn't meant to be, because my Dad was there to pick us up, smoking and honking in his Buick Enclave in the casino valet driveway.  Did I mention that I'm 42, and I had my Dad drive me and my boyfriend to a concert, and then pick us up at midnight?  I felt like it was 1984 and I was seeing Def Leppard when the drummer had both arms.  THAT old school, baby.

And thus concludes this episode of "What I Did on My Nebraska Vacation".  I hope you all had a fantastic Fourth of July, and none of you had the firework I have re-named "The Dancing Grandchildren" due to it's sudden and unexpected shooting of fireballs straight out 50 feet in all directions toward the screaming and terrified children.  No grandchildren, grandparents, or animals were harmed in the lighting of said firework.

One more bit of randomness, not necessarily whorish in nature?  I have a whole new respect for Olivia Wilde, actress and apparent Honey Badger fan:

In case you missed it, I found this little gem of joy through The Bloggess, and it deserves a second viewing.  It just brings a smile to my face.  Honey Badger don't care, Honey Badger don't give a shit!  I need this t-shirt.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday Wifers, and have a great weekend!

UPDATE FRIDAY 3 p.m. - Many of my friends eschew the comments section, which never works and is impossible, and e-mail their comments to me.  This one, from a college friend who came home with me one Easter, was impossible for me not to post.  This is Hand To God true:

"You kill me! I choked on my pretzel laughing about your dad and his "custom jug!" I totally remember going to church with you, and your dad had a beer t-shirt on under his jacket!"

 Seriously people.  You can't make this shit up.