Every Time I Type “I’m Cool” in Word, It Tries to Change it to “I’m Cooling”
So, this task, this task I’ve been assigned—or “tagged” to do, it troubles me. It troubles me for a couple of reasons, the main reason being that I know I’m not cool. How do I know I’m not cool? I know I’m not cool because I think I am cool. Didn’t Socrates say, “I think I am cool; therefore I am so totally not cool”. That would be really cool if he did. I am the anti-cool because I think I’m so emm-effing cool. So basically, I’m going online and purveying to you—my blogience, why I am something which I really am not. So, before I go any further, I apologize in advance for misleading any of you into thinking I am cool. I think I’m cool, but the more you read this post—the more you will realize, as the reader, that I am indeed not cool. Are we clear? Clear as Kool-Aide? (harharhar) Now, I present to you,
5 Reasons Why I Think I’m Cool
Numero Uno: The fact that I spelled out, in Spanish, “number one” instead of just typing a boring old “1.” makes me HELLA cool.
#2: I use words like “hella”.
#3: Before I was even old enough to drink, I was already working on my own winery. My technique was to pick grapes from our backyard, squish them up into a sick pulp then strain them in a sieve for their precious juices. Then, add a little sugar and some yeast to the grape juice and—Voila!—you have wine. Or so I thought. When the moment of truth came, I was expecting total underage drunkenness. There was no drunkenness, only stomach cramps accompanied by heavy disappointment. I guess this could go in the uncool category too.
#4: I have SUPER cool reproductive organs! Most women, let me rephrase that, most uncool women only get one baby the first time they get knocked up. How lame is that? Not me! I took pregnancy to the edge with multiple births. Having two placentas in your body is akin to rocking out HARD in the London Underground. It is. Let me tell you, you want to be punk rock and put other people in awe of your coolness—*make two humans inside your body! Penn and Teller got nothing on me beyotches! (*With that I must add that I bow down deeply to the Queens, nay, Goddesses of Coolness—mothers of triplets, quadruplets, quintuplets, sextuplets, seventuplets, eightuplets, ninetuplets, and bakers dozens. Now that is cool! And, I might add, scarier than watching Jacob’s Ladder by yourself…on Children’s Benadryl®).
#5: In high school, I was so hep that instead of hanging out with troubled teens at lunch, I could be found in the school library listening to Jethro Tull and bagging on the drill team with our beloved school librarian, Mr. Atwood. I had friends; really, I was just too cool to hang-out with them. They wouldn’t have understood me anyway.
So there you have it. Five reasons why I think I’m cool. Please don’t ever ask me to list these reasons again. I’m already less cool just for writing this.
Now, to make me feel better about my self-promotion, I give you:
5 Reasons Why I Don’t Think I’m Cool
Numero Uno: Instead of typing “1.” like a normal cool person would, I went the route of the geek and spelled out “number one”—in Spanish! I’ve never even been to Spain!
#2. I use words like “hella”. I try not to, but my inner geek that is trying to be cool often times spews forth outdated slang. I am currently hanging my head in shame just thinking about this uncool fact. So early 90s. So Elko, Nevada.
#3. I have Mariah Carey on my iTunes. Oh my bleeding heck! It’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel indirectly less cool for having this type of music chilling next to my freshly downloaded Boz Scaggs. It’s a crime I tell you! A musical crime!
#4. I shop at Old Navy sometimes. I’m CHEAP and nerdy!
#5. I go to bed at early hours after typing feverishly for a blog that is purely for my amusement. Somebody call the cool-cops, there’s a nerd on the loose!
Okay, enough narcissism and self-loathing for one night. This was a very therapeutic activity, I must say I feel rather balanced right now, and I don’t like it one bit.
EOT
because I really like this picture of CT
Soon to come on Motherhussy:
Motherhussy takes time out to list,
"5 Reasons Why I Think I'm Cool"
shortly followed by,
"5 Reasons Why I Don't Think I'm Cool".
Kewp told me to do the first one, and I have to do what she says because she works for God. I'm just doing the second one to counter the fact that I wrote the first one--it's a yin-yang thing.
Happy Memorial Day, Hug A Vet If You Know One!
Post-American Idol Traumatic Stress Disorder
I am ashamed to admit that I spent a portion of my night watching American Idol (which will, from here on out, be referred to as “AI” because why spell a whole word when you can use acronyms?). However, my shame is somewhat diluted by the fact that I was not alone—millions of other television addicted, Hollywood-humping viewers joined me in my self-loathing. It’s all over now, AI 2006, and I feel empty—like the online "playa" who has just realized that no matter how many times they’ve had cyber sex, they’re still a 36 year-old virgin living in their Aunt’s basement. What a sad waste of time! On the bright side, Katherine McPhee didn’t win even though she totally fit the glistening wax museum mold of what an AI ought to be. I am utterly pleased to find that the majority of AI viewers this year have grown weary of Vaseline smiles and hair extensions, and are now ready to embrace grand mal seizures and grey hair with open arms. Congratulations Taylor Hicks—if anything, your win makes up for Chris Daughtry’s *premature elimination. (*not to be confused with premature ejaculation)
Now for Motherhussy’s Final Thought:
Several times during tonight’s show, Seacrest and his stylish blazer mentioned that there were more voters voting for “your next AI” than there were for the Presidential elections, like this was some type of massive accomplishment. This is a totally asinine statement. Complete and utter bullshit. Why? Well, let me point out a few facts:
* There are NO age restrictions on AI voters
* There are NO citizenship restrictions on AI voters
* There is NO limit on how many times you can vote
* You can vote BY PHONE for the love of Judas!
* If you don't have a phone, you can vote via TEXT MESSAGING! For the love!
Okay, see what I mean? Seriously folks, if we could vote for our President anonymously, by phone or text message, regardless of our age and United States citizenship status, as many times as we wanted—well, I’m almost sure the Presidential votes would sickeningly exceed AIs pithy 64+ million. But, that’s just me, I could be wrong. Maybe America really has turned in to a bunch of television licking political ignoramuses.
Anywhoo, way too much rambling for one night! I’m going to go kill my television now.
Blogicide
Somebody, quick! Give me a subject to write about...
I swear, if you don't--I'm going to "off" this blog.
A permanent solution for a temporary problem.
HOW'S THIS FOR A BLOGETTE?
Today, officially, my blogger profile has been viewed...(drumroll, please)
One-Million Times!
Oh, ahem...it seems I may need to make a slight correction to the above statement.
Correction:
Today, officially, my blogger profile has been viewed...(drumroll, please)
One-Thousand Times!
I like the even-ness of that number. Please, nobody view my profile from this way forward, as I would had to ruin that wonderful, even number.
EOT
The Difference Between Boys and Girls
This morning, while I was getting the boys ready to go to school, I decided to take the opportunity to give my children some "praise". (Child psychologists say that kids just eat that shi* up) So I said to Cody and Colton in a charming voice, "Guys, you picked out some
really cute outfits today. You look very handsome!"
Colton turned to me, and giving me an indigant look said, "Mom, boys
do not "pick out" outfits. We
throw on some clothes!"
He was right! That's just one of the things I love about being a mother, realizing that my children are much smarter than I am--regardless of how much I try to convince them otherwise.
Moving Right Along...
I don't really have the writing bug this evening, but since I don't like rotten blogs--I thought I would post something just to post something.
Tonight Colton made Cody pee his pants. They were playing rough. I told them somebody was going to get hurt. Cody got hurt. And peed his pants in the process.
I heart motherhood.
It Only Hurts When I Laugh
Last Tuesday night I got the call that no mother ever wants to get, I got the - “Hi honey, I’m on my way to the emergency room with (insert young child’s name here). He’s been hit in the (insert body part here) with a (insert dangerous weapon here). No worries though, I’m sure it’s nothing a few (drops of superglue, staples, stitches, metal plates) won’t fix. ”- call. I’ve received the call, and been the caller several times before—but it continues to suck HARD each time. The child’s name inserted this time was none other than my little James Dean, Colton.
Apparently, Colton was warming up to pitch for his first time ever this baseball season—actually for the first time ever in his baseball career—when it happened. Anthony was catching for Colton as he warmed up, and when he caught the ball Colton pitched, he would throw it back to Colton. Colton would then catch the ball, and pitch it back to Anthony. At first read, this all sounds like a swell little tea party, doesn’t it? That’s only because I haven’t added in the part where the blood and guts go flying everywhere. Well, not exactly guts, although there were guts—there were just contained in everyone’s bodies as they rightfully should be. And I don’t know if any flying was involved. I actually only know the details as pieced together in the police report—I mean, as was reported to me by Colton and Anthony. Okay, I’m rambling. Back to the story…
Colton threw his final practice pitch to Anthony and Anthony caught it, as he should have. Anthony threw the ball back to Colton, and this is when everything in my safe, orderly world fell apart. Colton didn’t put his glove in front of his face like a good little leaguer should, so instead of the ball falling into the glove like a good ball should—it hit off of his glove and smacked right into Colton’s mouth, like a bad ball does. And what do mouths do when they have been split by baseballs? They bleed profusely. That’s just what Colton’s mouth did—I was told.
The cut must have been bleeding pretty badly at the field, because when I joined Anthony and Colton in the Emergency Room well over an hour after the accident, Colton’s lip was still bleeding. I thought for sure we were going to have to amputate. Fortunately, there was no lip amputation that night—just stitches. Five of them.
The high point of the night was trying to talk Colton down before the stitches. I was trying to distract him with all manner of conversation such as, “Colton, did your horrible Father even say he was sorry after he threw that ball right at your face?” and “I know you haven’t eaten for five hours, so I’m sure you’re starving right now. If you could eat anything in the
whole-wide-world, what would it be?” Colton may have been on the edge of a lip amputation, but he did not lose his sense of humor. In response to my question of, “What sounds good to eat?” he simply answered, “Lard.” And then he continued to elaborate on what types of lard he would like to eat. Lard balls, lard puffs, lard burgers…if you could put lard in it—that’s what he wanted.
I was really proud of him at that moment. He learned one of the most valuable lessons in life—how to laugh through the tough times and the scary times, and he was laughing! Of course, with a split lip that wasn’t very pleasant for him. He would laugh, and then try to refrain because it hurt so much. I was caught somewhere between laughing with him, and crying for him. It was a conflicting situation--let me tell you. It’s something else to see a little boy with a split lip laugh, and cry in pain at the exact same time. I’m sure it would have made good sitcom material--or Lifetime (except he would have to have cancer or something to make it on Lifetime).
All in all it was an eventful night. It has now been almost a week, and the stitches come out in a few days—but I will never forget the night Colton and I spent in stitches.
My 15 Minutes of Fame
Pastor Katherine is famous, and she kindly sent some attention my way via her site:
http://www.kewp.blogspot.comShe's youthful, she's intelligent, she's God-loving, and she pretty much kicks Christian Pastor a**...
Can I say that?
Cinco de Mayo--Schminco de Mayo!
Want to know what's better than a bunch of Mexicans getting drunk and pounding on pinatas filled with leche?
My husband.
HAPPY 34 BIRTHDAY ANT!
I would post some incredibly sappy, embarrassing post--but I think since it's your birthday, I will refrain from such writing--for a day.
Thanks for sticking around another year and gracing us all with your wit, your charm, and your way with the ladies. *wink, wink* Can't wait to see what 35 brings!
Love you!
A Question & A Comment
Question:Was it inappropriate that I wore a t-shirt to work today that said, "God is a DJ" on the front?
I wore the t-shirt under another shirt.
Comment:While standing in the line at the grocery store this afternoon, a cute little old man told me that I look "just like the women in the magazine". The women in the magazine were Heather Locklear and Denise Richards.
Cute old man. Cute,
crazy old man.
Politically Sic
Today I did something incredibly stupid. I got involved in a conversation about illegal immigration with someone of Mexican heritage; a conversation about illegal immigration with someone of Mexican heritage—via chat. A conversation about illegal immigration with someone of Mexican heritage, via chat, with that person also being borderline genius (if not genius). Very stupid, indeed. Although a blog about this incident would be a delight to many of my (three) readers—I will abstain from the painful details. Let’s just say I almost lost a muse and made myself look like a complete bigot ass-face. I looked like a fool. Those were not my intentions at all. You know what they say though, the road to hell…Anyway, let that be a lesson to you all:
“Never get into emotionally charged political conversations on the internet—or off of the internet for that matter.”
To correct the situation, I say:
"Si se puede!"
There. Now everything is better. On to issues more important than immigration reform, like oral hygiene.
The other night as I kissed Anthony good-night, my lips were lingering over his ready to plant one on him, and I caught a whiff of something disturbing. My nose recoiled in horror! What was that smell? I knew what that smell was. It was the smell of someone who hasn’t brushed their teeth since the morning, and in the meantime ate something dead that had onions or garlic on it, and then rinsed repeatedly with something sweet and sugary. It was ill. So gently, so as not to shatter his fragile ego, I said, “Honey, did you brush your teeth yet? They smell like corpse.” Anthony, of course, got defensive.
“You’re the one with the bad breath,” he skulked.
I told him that although my breath may not be pleasant, it sure as heck doesn’t smell like I’ve been chewing on a piece of pooh.
“It smells like I’ve been chewing on pooh, huh? How could I chew on pooh? It’s not like pooh is something you can just sit there and gnaw on. It would be more likely that I was eating pooh, not chewing on it.”
Once again, I was put in my place. Rendered retarded, if you will. I think it’s my lack of a college degree or something, but I keep setting myself up to look foolish. Or, I could look on the bright side and be happy about the fact that I am surrounded by those who are of superior intelligence. I guess I need to finish my education before going into debates about immigration—or matters of consuming pooh.
End of Transmission.
