Hello, 30… Fancy Meeting You Here….

So, with the wake of my 30th Birthday lingering just fifteen minutes away, I have decided that his absolutely constitutes a blog. I rarely find motivation that strikes me at such a perfect time…..so here it is. Who cares what I have to say? Probably few….but I’m calling it like I see it, so here goes…..

Firstly, I would like to point out to anyone reading this who happens to currently think that they have it all figured out…..you don’t. And you most certainly never will.

I like to think of myself as a seasoned child trapped in a body which does not agree with my state of mind. Do I think I am old? Hell no…….I am a mere baby going through the stages that my most brilliant parents reassured me that i would one day find myself going through. I wake up one day and look around with three children asking, “what’s for breakfast,” while I wonder where the hell their mother is and why she hasn’t made them breakfast yet. I see the world through very different eyes these days, and my wisdom would only be wasted if I didn’t share a bit with anyone curious enough to read this. So, here, for your betterment and satisfaction, is a list of things I have learned throughout the journey of my 20’s….

1. Any man who calls off of work more than once every couple of months, or lacks said job whatsoever, is and always will be a piece of shit. No, he will not take care of you, and no, he will not change….this I promise you.

2. No matter how old you are, or how many times you move around and experience new things, you will always want your Mom when things make you sad, or glad, or anywhere in between.

3. Being a Mom takes time and practice that won’t ever find you until you are dead and gone….each day is a new experience and lesson, and what makes good mothers are the lessons you take from each days dealings. You are the mirror in which your offspring look through daily, so don’t be a douchebag.

4. If you have to act/speak/dress like someone you are not….then you will never find the man of your dreams, or even someone to share a cracker with (no pun intended)……growing up in a small town in the middle of nowhere and seeing the women who I grow up with speak and try to act more ghetto than any REAL ghetto I have ever experienced sickens me. Act like you have the brain that I know you have, and get off the ghetto juice.

5. Finding the love of your life is like finding everything that you love about yourself all wrapped up in fancy paper,  ribbons, and bows….no question of who you think they are, because you already know them…no wondering “what if” because you already know the answer. A constant comfort that can only be explained by someone who has found this. A soulmate. They exist. Find one without looking….. and never let go.

6. You must go through hell to find the good things in life. In any way, shape, or form…this proverbial “hell” will help you appreciate the good things. Even when the good goes bad…you know it can always be worse, and appreciate the things you have…..because you made it through. And, yeah you will be okay.

7. There is more to life than what can be written in a book, or stories told. Don’t believe everything you see or hear. But don’t ever question it so much that you forget who you are and where you come from. Your faith in whatever it may be will get you through. And this holds true for everything. Again, I promise.

8. Applejacks DO NOT taste like apples. Or Jack.

9. Dwelling on the past is like eating your favorite dinner (that you have had a thousand times) at a shitty restaurant and wanting to never eat it again. Do not turn something that you love into something ugly because of one bad experience. It’s like I tell my new-food-trying-hating son…you can bake chicken a million different ways and it will taste different every time. Don’t hate on the chicken. Hate on the dish.

10. Mom was right. About everything. She knew better than I did. She did everything before I did, and probably did it better. I heart you Mom, and thanks for knowing somewhere deep down that I would turn out okay 🙂

That is all for now…..I have randomly babbled enough for now….Happy Birthday to me, my motivation has passed and am now wondering what the hell I just wrote, ha ha.  ❤ Love ❤

~Monica

Don’t like your new zodiac sign? Here’s a better one….

Upon reading post after post about the insanity of the newly changed zodiac signs….I have decided that this calls for a zodialogical intervention. I’m starting my own fucking list of signs.
1. Assholarious: you are a total prick, while at the same time light hearted and comedically inclined.

Living example: Daniel Tosh
2.Herpes: the sign of the devil, and most strippers.

Living example: Ke$ha
3. Beo: you stink, and should focus more on personal hygiene and less on Xbox.

Living Example: This guy.
4.Pleghmini: while inclined to attract infectious viruses, you find wealth and joy in Kleenex stocks.

5. Prancer: you wear your flag proudly and have a keen eye for cosmetics. You go girl!

Living example: Big Gay Al
6. Boreus: it will take you a lifetime to finally put your finger on the reason people don’t like you, and why most avoid conversation with you like the plague…unless armed with 5 hour energy…and a handgun.

Living example: The old dude from The 700 CLub….
7. Terdgo: tormented with an existence defined only by the length and girth of your excrements. You killed something in your past life.

Living example: Justin Bieber
8. Queebra: check your panties, girlfriend

Living Example: Snooki
9. Squirrelpio: your longing for nuts and trees is outweighed only by your annoying giggle and morbidly small brain.

Living example: Sarah Palin
10. Canocorn: you shall have everlasting life.

Living example: Dick Clark
11. Crisces: as spastic as a colon can be….you keep the prescription drug companies in business and crazy houses open. Thank you.

Living example: Denise Richards
12. Uscarius: a horrible existence is the one you were dealt…thank goodness for Halloween.

Living example: Kirsten Dunst

I hope you all find your proper category and embrace your new existence.

~Mo

Lady A…..with a twist….of vodka.

Everyone on this planet has been subjected to Lady Antebellum’s hit song “Need You Now” at least 9,000 times in the last  six months. The song is everywhere. While I appreciate music and all that it is worth, even the bad stuff, I couldn’t help but fill in the lyrics with my own take on the situation. Off of the top of my head…here is what the chick really wanted to say:

I just dropped my valium,

Now it’s scattered on the floor.

Reaching for my vodka, I think that I’m on shot number four.

And I wonder if I should have done those lines.

To me it seems I’ll be just fine

It’s a quarter after noon, I’m completely trashed and drunk-dialing now.

You said I shouldn’t call and you hoped I’d take a fall but I am trashed right now.

And I don’t know how to just shut my mouth, I am trashed right now.

Another shot of Cuervo, just ran into my closed front door.

Wishing you’d come get me, how’d I get here on the floor?

And I wonder if you’re on the other line.

Maybe I’ll call you one more time.

It’s a quarter after noon, I am effing smashed,

And drunk-dialing now.

Said to get a life, you already had a wife but I’m smashed right now.

And I don’t know how, but I just fell down, I am hammered now.

Yes I’d rather puke than have you reject my call.

It’s a quarter after noon, I’m running out of booze and drunk-dialing now.

And you said I made you sick got hit with an ugly stick but I’m sloshed right now.

And I don’t know how but I just found out that I’m having your baby now.

I’m inebriated now.

Oh baby I just fell down.

Hearting True Blood…it’s an art, really.

Any of you who know me, I mean “KNOW ME-KNOW ME” understand, and most likely share, my love for the HBO entertainment goodness that is True Blood. I feel compelled to write about it since last night’s episode was the best this season, in my opinion…and where would you be without my opinion? Probably face down in a bowl of split pea and ham soup being molested by circus clowns. Just a hunch…

Anyway…for those of you who know not of the wonderful display of modern day naughtiness coupled with the vampire-esque darkness that is True Blood….you must go, faster than immediately, to the nearest DVD renting receptacle, Best Buy, or online viewing site of your choice and catch up on previous seasons and the episodes of Season 3 thus far. Do it….do it meow.

Now, for those of you who are in the know and caught last night’s episode…..feel free to post thoughts and insight here. What’s up with Franklin, our delightfully bubbly and incredibly text savvy vamper? Is he gone for good? Do you find Tara’s facial expressions to be increasingly annoying, such as myself? Perhaps you have a hunch about next week.

PS: I hate the word hunch and I used it just now.. .time to update my “hate words” list.

Cigarettes are bad…mmmmmkay

I found myself watching re-runs of Will and Grace last night after I ran out of roach and ant spray and my Friday night killing spree fell short of a massacre. Worry not…I am on my way to get more spray after writing this.

Now, I am normally a lover of commercials, especially when well thought out and especially comedic. More entertainingly, though, I wonder how it is possible for chocolate and junk food commercials to get away with casting skinny 98 pound women to wrap their lips around chocolate and french fries, yet cigarette commercials have been banned. Clearly, the effects of cigarettes have become common knowledge and the harmful chemicals and addictive nature of smokey treats have brought advertising the product to a screeching halt.

Shouldn’t the effects of eating chocolate and junk food be handled in the same manner? Should we not have fat, disgusting, cholesterol infested candidates for casting in commercials that promote the stuff?

So, let me get this straight. Our country is infested with fat asses who pray to Gods with names like Ronald McDonald and assorted colors of M&M characters whom cost our country billions a year in medical expenses and funding for their electric motorized shopping vehicles. We can turn on the television at any given time and see the very products that most likely put them in this state being gobbled down by skinny bitches sporting daisy dukes. Yet Joe Camel and Marlboro Man have been laid to rest due to the harmful products they promoted?

Makes sense to me.

We the RoBotS of the United States….

There comes a time in our lives, well MOST of our lives, when we find out that some of the things our parents raised us to believe are not exactly true. No, you will not get a cold from going outside without a jacket, your eyes will not stay crossed if you hold them that way, you will not get a wart of a frog pees on your hand (though strippers, in some cases, are a completely different story), thunder during storms is not God bowling, and eating before you go swimming will not cause projectile vomiting or labor-like cramping…in most cases anyway.

This brings me to my point…are you ready for this? Get a life and beliefs of YOUR OWN. Live a little. Pop the post utero bubble you are surrounded by and get off the tit.

Too many of our younger generation THRIVE souly on what their parents and even more catastrophically, their churches, tell them to do. Now, don’t get me wrong…guidance and insight from your elders and peers is a good thing. But living your life by a book of any kind, or by the words and thoughtless banter of beliefs passed down through generations of your family is most certainly robbing yourself of a personal relationship with yourself.

Take a moment, Twilight loving generation, to question WHY things are….and WHY you feel the way you do about important issues in your life. Turn off your Fox News, block out the left or right wing conversations that go on around you and shove your Skullcandy earbuds into your head as far as the masses of your dome will allow them. And think.  Go ahead, I double dog dare you. You may be surprised what you discover.

Call me your best, and I'll act like the rest.

IN RESPONSE TO THE QUESTION:  “Who is your best friend?”

Who cares? A “best friend” title given to someone very special to you is only a recipe for disaster.

In my experience, a friend deemed “the best” has somehow always managed to fall short of their BFF expectations. But first, let’s look at the expectations of said “BFF” and all that they entail…at least where I come from.

1. Do not sleep with my boyfriend/husband….unless given permission, in which case you should cut me off from any further drinking, feed me some Ramen Noodles and Ibuprofin, and send me to bed…next to my boyfriend/husband.

2. Listen to me bitch about my life while I only pretend to be concerned of the contents of your own.

3. Water my plants and feed my dog while I am away on trips. The trips I had no intentions on asking you to come along on, since I knew someone would have to stay behind to take care of chores mentioned above.

4. Keep my secrets. And by “secrets” I mean “things I have told you not to tell anyone although I know you are probably building a text in your head to send to your “other” BFF as soon as our convo is over.”

5. You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you shouldn’t pick your friends nose.

6. Tell me when I look like a cow and do not let me leave the house looking like an asshole. I don’t care who you are, or how long you have been friends. A girl NEVER wants the other girl they are hanging with to look better than them. BFF or not.

7. A true friend will change the unidentified fecal odor trap attached to your children. Diapers are love.

8. And finally, a true “best friend” never calls themselves, or you, a best friend at all. Real friends don’t need titles or matching key chains. Unless, of course, you are 12…in which case your BFF’s change weekly. True friendship is understood and often goes unspoken. That is all.

7.

I Hate Random Words….

I am fairly sure I am not alone when I say that I have a plethora of words I despise. I don’t know why I don’t like them, I just don’t. Either way…this is  product of such a conversation

Recently, I posted a status stating how I did not like the word “blessed”…and so my wonderfully insightful sister, Amy, decided to ponder the subject while she was having no luck counting sheep one night and message me her analysis….here are the thoughts we share on the subject…enjoy.

AMY’S MESSAGE TO ME:

Good morning sissa! As you can see, it is 3:31 A.M. and I cannot sleep:( So, in true can’t sleep fashion, I am sitting in the living room watching/but not listening to, because the volume is so low, Dazed and Confused-a classic cult film, and pondering the meaning of life and the immense amount of crap I have to do in the next week. Somewhere in all of that, I found room to ponder your religious views:) I believe your hatred of the phrase blessed is due to a false view of the meaning of the statement. Someone who believes in God and his creation of us all believes that we were all created in our own unique mold. So, in essence we were all blessed the day we were created with unique gifts. For instance, you with creativity, an amazing sense of humor, and stellar artistic abilities, I with devastating beauty, brilliance, and superior well, everything:) Just kidding, but you get the idea. When a believer says they feel blessed, they refer to the abilities they were given- not God’s choice to spare them or grant them a win or a new house, or fix their broken Big Screen. We all enjoy the joy and pain of free will. The choices we make mold our life. The gifts we are given give us the tools to make our life what we want. God sees us through our lives supporting within his grand plan. That is about as philisophical as I can get, so if you have more questions or comments, please direct them to Dan Brown, Dr. Seuss, or some other ruler of the universe guru:) This has been your Sunday School lesson for this week, now you can sleep in on Sunday:) I like you a loooot. I pledge allegiance to the flag, of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all, PLAY BALL!

p.s. There are believers who share this scewed view of the word blessed and throw the phrase around like bad sushi. Those people make the rest of us look bad, and make people like you hate nice words like “blessed”

MY RESPONSE:

Ha ha! Thanks for the insight sissa, although my hatred for the word has nothing to do with the meaning it holds at all. For instance, I enjoy the word “fortunate” and many other words that hold similar meaning to the hated word at hand…but I truly hate the ACTUAL word “blessed.” Much like I hate the words, fundus, ornry, owly, quiche, vulva, Farve, labido, and stool. It is the way the word sounds to be that makes it undesirable. I think it stems from living in the south where at least 6 times a day you hear “Have a blessed day” from strangers in stores, gas stations, brothels…etc. The word is not a joy to hear when rolled off the tongues of heavily obese(another word which I feel is rediculous, but will use for descriptive matters) clearly unbathed, toothless gas station attendants. Also, the use of the phrase is clearly overused when people are pumping out “Have a blessed day’s” to every person they come in contact with. What if one of them is a satanist?…would that not be like offending a christian by saying, Have an evil day? ha ha ha ha….

Either way…it is the word that makes me ill. If the word banana held the same meaning as blessed, I could handle that, because the word banana is great, and fun to say.

“Have a banana day”
~Love, Sissa

Turkeys for Toddlers

Recently I started attending Wednesday bowling nights at the Brunswick Bowling Alley here in Augusta. A group of friends let me in on the “dollar beer” festivities that go on, so I figured I would take the opportunity to get out of the house, away from the very children that I spend 98% of my time with….unless you count the times my one year old breaks into the bathroom while I am trying to have a moment of PEE-ACE (hilarious, I know), then the stat would rise to 99%. Anyways…..

While anticipating a night out amongst adults, even if it WAS to the bowling alley, I finished up dinner, dishes, and kisses goodnight before heading down to enjoy my $1 beer, uh…I mean $1 bowling games. 

Upon walking in the door, something very strange struck me…the sound of children.  Not teens, tweens, or even inbe-tweens…but toddlers. Babies. Newborns. I checked my phone to be sure it was indeed after 10pm on a week day and calmly strolled into the alley while hoping that some sort of curfew would begin its enforcement very shortly. I got my goofy bowling shoes while barely escaping what would have been a one man game of smear the queer with what appeared to be a two year old. “CANDY,”  he shouted! “DO YOU HAVE ANY CANDY?!”  I looked around for his parents and saw his Mother racing from the lounge with 2 draft beers fumbling in her hands. “THERE you are, you little shit…get over here!” She shot me a dirty look, as if I had any interest in her snotty nosed kid, and walked quickly back to their lane, dripping beer on her kid’s red mop of hair the whole way. Surely, I thought, this must have been a rare case of idiot syndrome and poor parenting.  unfortunately not. Apparently the water around here contains high levels of idiot and asshole…. directly linking the actions of so-called “parents” to the bowling alley.

I couldn’t believe what was going on around me. There were newborns in carriers resting on table tops between pitchers of beer and shot glasses, redneck men gathering up their children in a football hold while launching their bowling balls down the lane, toddlers playing tag outside the lounge doors while their parents went inside for a smoke, and wide-eyed kids sitting quietly while their ghetto fab guardians picked a fight with the good-ol-boys the next lane over. What the hell were all of these people thinking?!

Now, i know that parenting is not something that comes easy. It is a learning experience at every turn and not every choice is going to be perfect, but common sense should tell these people that small children should be home in bed at midnight, not partying it up like Paris Hilton at the bowling alley while their parents get shit-hammered on dollar beer. My biggest issue was the fact that the management of Brunswick didn’t seem to give a shit, much like the sorry excuses for police officers that were eating pizza and nachos in the lounge while slamming cherry cokes and exchanging high fives over the points on the buck that a fellow idiot/asshole had just shot on the hunting channel. 

Some people have no shame, but dollar beer is dollar beer….even if it means dragging your kids along to get it. Perhaps this isn’t the fault of parents or Brunswick at all, but rather Budweiser and Miller for producing such a wonderful product that can be enjoyed for a mere 100 pennies on Wednesdays…….I am sensing a slogan change…”Bring your kids along too, cause this Bud’s for you”.

Its Hard Out Here For a Blimp…

It’s not every day that your grocery shopping experience turns sickening and leaves you completely irate and wanting to scream obscenities at a fellow shopper.  I usually try to embrace it when these situations do arise and forever embed them in the”some people fucking amaze me” file of the “you have GOT to be dry- humping me” epicenter of my brain.  Please, allow me to explain…

 The boyfriend and I were happily discussing the differences between Hominy and regular canned corn while browsing vegetables at our local Kroger store this evening. This particular Kroger has decided it their standard practice to shelve veggies directly across from the bulk candy.. of course completely stocked with chocolaty goodness, gums, licorice, sour patch kids, and every Little Debbie Snack Cake you could dream of shoving in your face.  Pretty smart marketing strategy if you ask me. Temptation can be a bitch while trying to make decisions about which spinach to buy while there are King-Dongs staring you in the face. Mmmmmm…King Dongs…

Still browsing the veggies, I hear a decelerating “huuuuummmmmm” directly followed by an abrupt squeak of brakes which can only be one thing.  A motorized shopping vehicle has come blazing into our isle. The sound of several unknown items obnoxiously slide to the front of the motorized basket as it comes to a screeching halt. “Sir!” Neither of us turn around, but both know there is no one else within ear shot of the bellowing shopper. “SIR?!” Finally, we turn around and witness the obvious travesty that is unfolding right in front of us.  A middle aged woman perched proudly in the small space provided to her on the motorized shopping vehicle is pointing in the air. I notice this second of course, right after realizing that her arm was not, in fact, the roll of honey buns I had mistaken it for. This bitch was fat. Now, I don’t mean debilitatingly fat like Gilbert Grape’s mom. She was juuuust fat enough to feel the need to park her lazy ass in a motorized cart to zoom around Kroger in search of her next meal; thus avoiding any actual physical activity or “exercise” she might have endured. Anyway….back to the story.

“Sir, do you think you could just, ya know, help me get those…” she was pointing her roll of honey buns at the top shelf of the Little Debbie display.

 “I just really can’t reach it and I would hate to knock the whole thing over.” The driver of the undeserved motorized shopping vehicle was clearly desperate for the gooey decadence of Little Debbie Marshmallow Treats. The boyfriend, being the nice guy that he is, heads over to her vehicle and reaches for the box she is staring at longingly. “Yeah, that one, and if you could grab two of them… I really just can’t….oh, thank you!” He puts the boxes into her basket, somewhere between the bag of Funyons and Rocky Road ice cream. “No problem,” he says.

After cruising slowly down the rest of the isle, being sure to overt her eyes from the vegetable side, the sound of the motor faded.  “Are you Fucking Kidding Me?!” I asked.  I was completely sickened. I wanted to take every Twinkie and Starcrunch in the place and launch them at the back of her fat head.  I could catch her.  Surely she was probably on her way to grab some fat back, or some cookie dough to roll her hot dogs in. I was irate, and I would stand there and do nothing about it.

In case you haven’t caught on to the point of my rambling, the bitch was fat. Not crippled, not disabled, not old, just fat and fucking lazy. Not only did she not need the motorized cart that she was hammering down in, but she couldn’t even get off her lard ass long enough to grab the box of shit she shouldn’t even be allowed to buy in the first place. Its a good thing that the Funyons and ice cream were within arms reach, or there may have been a code red in the middle of Kroger. 

Some people have no fucking shame…..