Valentine’s Day is for Amateurs!

Two holidays that I am not real big on…New Years Eve and Valentine’s Day. You may be saying, “But Hot Mama, you are married and those are the two loviest, mushiest holidays of the year. You of all people should loooooove those holidays!” I don’t. New Years Eve always has all of these expectations around it…expectations that are never, ever lived up to. Here is a quick recap of my last four New Years:

2010: Ate some bad fast food early in the day and spent the entire evening trying not to puke all over the New Years Eve pretzel.
2009: Won’t go into details, but I ended up in a fight with my two best friends…I won’t name names, but they rhyme with Bindmling and Germy. It didn’t end in a fistfight or anything, but I am not giving details because I end up looking bad in the end.
2008: Hot Papa allowed one of his friends to talk him into doing a couple shots of expensive single malt Scotch, on top of the crazy amount of beer and champagne he had already consumed. This resulted in Hot Papa puking all over himself and passing out, fully clothed on top of our bed at about 12:15AM. I spent the rest of the night entertaining HIS friends.
2007: I was about 11 weeks pregnant with Smiley, bleeding profusely (sorry for the graphics). I spent most of the day and night laying on the couch, sobbing. Obviously, everything turned out to be fine, but since my doctor clearly did not want to work on New Years Eve, I had to wait until the next day to go to the hospital to see that everything was ok.

It’s the same thing with Valentine’s Day. You have all of these thoughts on how great, romantic, and sexy it is going to be. You both pick out a cheesy card. He gets an overpriced bouquet of roses. She puts on red, lacy panties. He puts on a tie. You eat at the Melting Pot. You drink champagne. But none of it guarantees a good night. A cheesy card will never say what you REALLY mean (and what you really mean is ‘I love you, but I wish you gave me a blow job more often!’ or ‘I love you, but I hate giving blow jobs!‘). Roses will still make you sneeze if you are allergic. Red panties will only mask the fact that you are on your period. A tie will not stop him from farting in the restaurant. Twenty chocolate covered strawberries do not have less calories when they are shared. Drinking too much champagne will still give you a hangover.

I used to  stress over V-Day. I remember being in Middle School and waiting all day to receive a stupid, red carnation from someone…anyone! I made a deal with my best girlfriend that we would each get each other one so that we would not be the only girls not getting one, while the popular cheerleaders were each getting ten. I remember being disappointed when a guy that I was dating did not get me ANYTHING. I hid the gold Figaro bracelet (it was the 90’s people!) that I had bought for him in my purse. I remember the first V-day that Hot Papa and I were living together, before we were married, and he forgot. FORGOT!  (Mindbling, I know you remember that day, as I showed up to your house, proceeded to drink your booze, forced your son to steal a rose out of your bouquet for me, and sobbed for 3 hours. Sigh. The good old days) I was devastated.  From that moment on, I promised myself that I was not going to get my red lacies in a bunch over a Hallmark created holiday. I don’t need a holiday to know that Hot Papa loves me. I already know that. I don’t need a holiday to know that Hot Papa is forgetful. I already know that, too. I don’t need a holiday to eat too many calories, drink too much champagne, or wear lacy panties. I already eat too many calories, drink too many glasses of champagne, and I sell lingerie for chissake…I have an infinite amount of lacy panties at my disposal. I can put them on whenever I want, and at an appropriate time to my monthly cycle.

Do I hate the day? Not really. Will Hot Papa and I still go thru all the V-Day motions? Probably. Will I still get the post V-day champagne and chocolate induced hangover? Of course. Do I expect Hot Papa to sweep me off my feet, onto a white horse, all the while whispering sweet nothings into my ear while we ride off into the sunset? Hell-to-the-no!! He is still Hot Papa, no matter what the day. But he is the man that love…who makes me laugh, fixes my coffee every morning, does the dishes after dinner, says blessings with our kids every night, sticks up for me when he knows I am wrong, surprises me with scratch off tickets when I am having a bad day, and watches chick flicks with me. I wish I could go back and tell middle school me this. Maybe I would have spent a little less time worrying about carnations and a little more time worrying about math. I do have but one plea for Valentine’s Day this year…Hot Papa, if you are reading this can you please, PLEASE refrain from farting at the restaurant? Please? Thanks.

Much Love to all…I hope your Valentine’s Day is all that you dream it to be!
XOXO
Hot Mama

Mindbling’s Tips to Surviving the Snowpocalypse

Sweet baby jesus dipped in cherry Slushie, people. This is Pittsburgh. In the North East. It snows. Granted, it doesn’t normally snow this much in this short period of time, with more on the way tomorrow, but it does snow.

I, personally, believe that blizzards can be fun. Sure, they can be dangerous, and you need to be prepared, reduce travel, and check on your elderly neighbors, but with the right mind set and enough booze, you can turn a blizzard of snow into a blizzard of FUN! Just follow my handy-dandy tips, and wait for the LOLZ!

1.)    Don’t lose power. This can be a toughie, and beyond your control, so understandably, you may lose power regardless of me telling you not to. If this does happen, I suggest safely getting somewhere that does have power. I further suggest that place be a bar that serves food.

2.)    Remove all small children from the home before the snow hits. This is essential. If you know a storm is coming, you have a limited period of time to pawn them off on grandparents, friend’s parents, a well-meaning neighbor that lives juuuust far enough that you can’t drive there safely, you get the idea.

3.)    Remove all large children from the house. Basically, if they are under 21, get them out of there. If you don’t get them out of there before the snow hits, I recommend bundling them up, giving them a thermos of hot cocoa, sending them out to go sled riding, and locking the door behind them. Older children are resourceful! You will be amazed at their survival skills. And far from this being bad parenting, you are actually equipping your large children with the skills they need to succeed at this thing I call life.

4.)    Screw milk, bread, and TP, all you really need is booze, smokes, and Hot Pockets. Even if you don’t smoke, you should really have some, in case one of your snowed-in neighbors smokes. Do you really go through THAT much bread and milk when it’s not snowing? Probably not. Stock up on the things you REALLY use in your day-to-day life. And for god’s sake, stay lubricated! If you are drunk enough, you won’t mind wiping your ass with old New Yorker magazines.

5.)    Have lots of sex. This is really advice for any old day, but nothing beats drunken blizzard sex. I am sure there will be a plethora of November births, giving our blizzard-happy media yet one more storm-angle story to pound to death. So, go for it! Pour some wine, get naked, and stay warm in the process. Body heat, people. This may be a very handy tip if you do not heed my number one tip and actually lose your power. Plus, bonus, we all look better in the dark. And feel like we look better naked when we’re drunk. This one is really a win all the way around. (Side note! I’m a blizzard baby. My parents got snowed in at Deep Creek back in December of 1974. 9 months later, the world got bling. You’re welcome)

6.)    If you are snowed in with multiple people, have a ‘safe space’. Look, I don’t care how much you love your husband, how much you like your roommate, or how cool your parents are. Being stuck indoors with people for any period of time is scientifically proven to drive people banana cakes. This is why there are such stringent tests for serving on a submarine. Most normal people just can’t deal. Pick a room. If you smash your stemless wine glass against a wall, mutter incoherently, grab a New Yorker, and head for that room, that means people need to leave you alone. Set the rules early, and by all means, obey them.

7.)    Turn the local news into a drinking game. This is another tip that can be fun whenever, but takes on a whole new dimension when there is a crisis. I first discovered this game during the Gulf War. We would all have to chug Mad Dog every time they said ‘Scud’. Pick some of your favorite words (I suggest blizzard, Doppler, and Mayor Ravenstahl), grab a big ol’ glass, and let the games begin!

8.)    Play a little game I like to call ‘How about this snow?’. It’s easy and fun. You just wait until some of your neighbors start to venture out to shovel. You just grab your shovel, walk up and down, and say to each of them, ‘How about this snow?’.  While you are there, shovel a time or two. Then move on. It will give your neighbors the impression that you give a shit. They will all be impressed with how much you care, and maybe they will finally forgive you for the great Cinco De Mayo Party Debacle of 2008.

9.)    Pretend you are a Pioneer! This is what I do when things get what I like to refer to as Post-1900. No power? No TP? Let’s pretend we are pioneers! I last got to play this fun game during the blizzard of 1993. You can easily make a bonnet out of a men’s white t-shirt, and some of my more resourceful readers can probably figure out a way to fashion a Conestoga wagon out of bed sheets and a rocking chair. Build an outhouse from snow and your neighbors flower pots! Do it! Indulge your inner boy/girl scout, and party like it’s 1899.

10.)   Move South. While this may sound extreme, if you can’t deal with the snow, I highly recommend this. If you are going to snivel and whine every time we get a flurry, please, do us all a favor and go. It takes a certain type of person to embrace our crazy weather and make the best of it. You very well may not be one of these people. Be honest with yourself. We won’t judge you. Just grab your snow shovel and start walking. When people start asking you what that is over your shoulder, toss it down and move on in. You’ve found home.

Now just have fun, kiddies! It’s not everyday that we get to come together as a city. We got three things that always have the true spirit of the city shining like a golden beacon: Super Bowls, Stanley Cups, and Snowstorms. It’s a Burgh thing.

Xoxo.

Mb

Snowpocalypse 2010

Blizzard of 2010…wow, huh?  Did you expect it?  Personally I didn’t think it was going to happen.  They (they being everyone) said snow is coming (!) time and time again and it hasn’t happened yet, so why would it happen this time?   Boy was I wrong.  I laughed at everyone scurrying around for groceries.  Mocked them even.  The joke was on me…I was the one left without cat food.   Friday night, Chilla and I had Warwie, Richard Gere and his girlfriend, K over for drinks and laughs.   Laugh we did until we realized HOWMUCHSNOWWASFALLING!!!  At that point, who cares? We had food, booze and friends. We were good.

Woke up Saturday to 23 inches.  Those mounds are actually cars.

Chilla and I decided we needed smokes and cat food RIGHTNOW! So we walked up to West Liberty to see what was open and what was happening out there.

It’s interesting how an event like this brings people together.  I’ve lived in this apartment for 6 years.  I know almost everyone on my street.  As we were walking, we pasted a house that I have never seen the occupants. Today, they were outside shoveling the driveway.  2 guys, one white, one Asian.  They said hello, we chatted about the snow for a bit.  Chilla and I were CONVINCED they were a very lovely gay couple.  Isn’t our neighborhood diverse? And then we moved on.

Barely any car’s on the road but lots of people with the same idea as us.  Again, people saying “Hello” and “Good Morning” as if we live on set of Cheer’s.  If it was a sunny day in July, I guarantee no one would even make eye contact with us.  Sunoco was open, so we pushed our luck and walked to see if Dunkin Donuts was open.  SCORE!  Coffee, a Boston Crème donut and an orange-cranberry muffin later we were heading back home.

Digging the car out turned into a block party.  Chilla worked his ass off digging out our front door, my car, our neighbor’s car and another neighbor’s parking space.  He is the man!

Richard Gere decided to have a bonfire at his place for the neighbors so we headed over there for drinks around 6pm. I’m not even sure open flame is legal in Dormont.

As we are all drinking and chatting, I mention that we talked to that nice gay couple that lives up the street.  EVERYONE BUSTED OUT LAUGHING. I’m all like “What?”  Apparently, they are not a gay couple and I don’t live in a diverse neighborhood.  Richard is like “they are father and son” and I’m like, “no they’re not. The one guy is Asian and clearly gay. My gay-dar was going off full tilt.” And he’s all “ that’s the son! The mother was Asian but she died last year.”  And I’m all like “OOHHH…are you sure?” All the other neighbors confirmed this.  I am an idiot with a broken gay-dar.  Oh well, they were lovely all the same and now I know who lives in that house.

Commence to drinking….Nothing beats an outdoor bar.  Everything stays nice and cold. Easy peasy. So cold in fact that even with the bonfire, my feet were frozen.

At about 8pm we decided to have everyone over to our place for more drinks and some food…inside.  You know, where its warm.  Needless to say it was drunken debauchery at its finest.  9 people went through 3 bottles of wine, 1 bottle of tequila, 1 bottle of margarita mix, 1 bottle of vodka and plenty of mixers.  That’s not including all the alcohol consumed the previous 2 hours at the bonfire.  Chilla got up and did the dishes before I could take a picture of the destruction that was our kitchen but I snapped one after.  Look at all those glasses!

Snowpocalypse 2010 was a great time, but don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to do it again for like another 16 years. (Remember Blizzard of 1993?) We drank, we ate, we met new people and bonded with old friends.  Fortunately our power stayed on and we could still flush the toilet.  I hope you had a great experience this weekend too.

UrbanDictionary.com – The Experiment

I’m sure you’ve seen the latest in ridiculous Facebook status updates. Go to urbandictionary.com , type in your first name, copy and paste this as your status, and put the first entry for your name under comments. <Okay, okay, I admit that I did do the “post your bra color” one but I was forced into it by my cousin…I swear, and you can’t prove otherwise. >

After seeing 1 gazillion status posts of this, I decided to see what it said about my name.

Carla

An admirably smart and beautiful woman who is also classy and good humored.  So True!

Cheerful, bubbly and happy. True

Most importantly, is good hearted and has great intentions.  True

*Passionate and loving. Very True, just ask Chilla

Person who does not realize how gorgeous she is.  Really? I think I know

Good dancer. Totally true…you should see the Flipcam videos

Loves to please others.  True

Note: Aggressive at times. True…just don’t piss me off…ask Mindbling and Hot Mama about the night at Dukes Station

Also, shorter than most.  Whawhawhat???? I’m 5’7…is that considered short these days?

“The only thing I want is to have a Carla in my life. “ Awww, Chilla did you post that?

Girl: “I wish my hair looked like Carla’s.” So True, Everyone says that!

Okay, that went well. I’m digging this Urbandictionary.com.  I’m going to roll the dice and look up Wormy.

Wormy

A word use to define anything.

“Damn girl your wormy(fine) as hell.” I know I am, right?
or
“This shit is wormy(stupid).” Hmmm, never thought to use it like that but okay.

A small mystical creature of unknown origins sought after for their soft fur and strange stomach lining.  I wax a lot and do have that weird Latex Fruit Allergy, so Okay

Hunted for prey. Well shit I hope not.

To shove a finger into an unexpecting victims anus
(whilst they are fully clothed) and proceeding in shouting WORMY at the top of your voice when doing it. Oh Hell No!  Are you fucking kidding me!!!  I need a new name! Who does this?  If you are out there please stand up…I want to know who does this and why!?

“I just gave John a wormy and got my finger stuck”

Dirty; wrong Whats dirty and wrong is the above definition!

“That chick acting mad wormy”

Alrighty, I’m rethinking this whole Wormy name.  My real name is just plain awesomeness and so my blog name needs to be awesomeness too.  When Chilla and I get married I plan on changing my nickname to CC.  I know, cute right? Lets Urbandictionary that for shits and giggles, shall we?

CC

Stands for Crowd Control, used in MMOs when you stop mobs from attacking you. A type of ability, or character role meaning when attacking a group at least one mob is unable to attack. Blah..blah…blah, who cares

“Zulah will CC when we hit groups of mobs”

A sexy hot chick who is the life of the party. That’s me! At least I want that to be me! I knew CC would be the perfect new nickname!!!

“Damn that girl is wild. She’s such a CC!”

Carbon Copy, derived from the once used method of creating copies when typing using carbon paper for the additional copies. Now used for the addresses of additional e-mail recipients (Cabon Copies of the original message).  Blah…blah…blah, who care’s

I’ve learned a few things from this little experiment.  I have been and will always be Carla. That is truly who I am and I really like her.  I hope you do too.  For now, I’m Wormy but not by definition. I have NEVER stuck my finger up someones butt and screamed at the top of my lungs “WORMY!” and I can tell you this for sure, I never will. CC is the person I will become someday soon and I’m really excited to meet her.

Why I Drink, Reason #4 : Family

Oh, my sweet little Polar Bear. Some of the old blog readers might remember her from this story. From then until now, things have remained relatively normal. For Polar Bear. Sure, half the time we see her she is whacked out of her brain on pills, drooling on herself and others, but the other half, she is pleasant. Funny. Charming, even.

I have attributed her ‘normal’ streak to the steadying influence of her husband, who we shall call Mr. Bear. I also attribute her pain pill addiction to Mr. Bear, but hey, no one’s perfect, and at least she has consistently seen her children these past four years. Silver lining and all that.

Mr. Bear is my sister’s third husband (my sister, who is clearly insane, has had three husbands. Me and my clean bill of mental health? Zero.). Let’s take this opportunity to review my sister’s weddings.

Wedding Number One:

Polar Bear married her second child’s father in the office of the Brentwood mayor. Afterwards, we all went out to the Old Country Buffet to celebrate. The mere act of typing that sentence makes me want to hurl myself out of the closest window.

Wedding Number Two:

Polar Bear married her youngest child’s father. This was by far the most normal of the weddings. It was held outside at Boyce Park. Wormy came, as did my friend Coffee. Coffee wrote a bad check. On purpose. She took ‘It’s the thought that counts’ to its natural conclusion. We BBQ’ed, danced, and generally had a great time. It was actually a lovely day. (Some of you astute readers will notice that Polar Bear did not marry her oldest child’s father. That is because he decided halfway through her pregnancy that he wanted to become a woman. Let’s leave it at that.)

Also, a sidebar here. Polar Bear and Husband Number Two had taken a bus downtown to see some play for Valentine’s Day. Afterwards, they caught a bus home from Sixth Avenue. They were standing on one of those sidewalk grates that are so common around Pittsburgh. Apparently these grates cover underground transformers. One of these transformers, the one that happened to be directly underneath my sister and her husband, decided to explode, engulfing the both of them for a period of a few seconds. No one was seriously injured. I believe my sister’s pantyhose were singed and there might have been some missing arm hair, but it was more scary than it was damaging.

This did not prevent Polar Bear from suing the local utility and using the proceeds to set up an ill-advised karaoke company. These are just the type of things that happen to Polar Bear.

Wedding Number Three:

This marriage did not revolve around a child, because my sister had blessedly gotten her tubes tied after child numero tres. No one is sure of the details of this particular union. Because my sister has problems with truth-telling, the story has changed roughly one zillion times. No one has ever seen a marriage certificate, or any other tangible proof that they are, indeed, married. We just call Mr. Bear her husband because we all gave up a long, long time ago.

Because before Mr. Bear, oh boy, before Mr. Bear, shit was off the chain. For example: Polar Bear had left her second husband for a couple that she had met while volunteer firefighting.

Let’s break that sentence down. She LEFT HER HUSBAND to live with a COUPLE that she had meet while VOLUNTEER FIREFIGHTING. *headexplodes*

Of course, the couple was ape-shit crazy, too. No one really talked to her during that period. So, I was only half surprised when one morning jr., who was in third grade at the time, called me into the living room.

Jr. – “Mom. I think Aunt Polar Bear is on the news.”

Me – “What? Lemme see…” walks in living room, looks at TV, look of slowly dawning realization flits across face, followed closely by heartbreak and immediate relief that we have two totally different last names … “Dear god ….”

It seems that the woman of the couple my sister had been shacking up with decided to torch their house. So there was my sister, with her hair all crazy and her teeth not brushed, wrapped in blankets, sobbing to channel 4 Action News.

Soon after this, Polar Bear met Mr. Bear and relative peace and calm have reigned. Until.

Saturday morning my sister was returning a vacuum she had borrowed. She was not alone. She brought her new ‘friend’. Her new, morbidly obese friend who smelled like she hadn’t seen the inside of a shower since the 90s. Her hair was literally stiff with … Christ, I don’t want to think about what it might be stiff with. She lumbers inside, wheezes her fat ass onto my couch, croaks out “I like your house”, and proceeds to fire up a Newport (I don’t smoke in my house).

She (the friend. Let’s call her Mount Fatterus) then proceeds to tell me she is getting married this Friday, and she moved here for the ‘jobs’. All I could think was this doesn’t strike me as a good situation, and how can I get her off of my couch and out of my house so I can prepare for the delousing?

So I wasn’t all that surprised this morning when Polar Bear texted me to tell me she had left Mr. Bear. I am sure that somehow it will come to pass that Mount Fatterus is involved. And now I get to look forward to seeing how far this crazy train ride will go.

Family. You really can’t pick them, and you just can’t kill them. Pass the beer nuts.

Reflections of a Mad Woman

I have had a lot of time on my hands the last week and a half due to the fact that E-man has still been recovering from his surgery. That, and it has been freezing outside. Oh, and I develop some type of seasonal agoraphobia this time of year. It makes me a crazy person. Seriously. I threw a laundry basket across the room just this morning because the clothes had ceased to fold themselves. Sigh.

Anyway, having all of this time at home has caused me to have some reflections of which I will share with you. I like the word ‘reflections’ better then say…‘psychotic delusions’ which is probably more what would be going through ones brain when one has been stuck in the house with no adult interaction for ten days.

First thing: People spend wayyy too much time on Facebook. I felt myself slipping into this role during the past week when I began wondering what my high school boyfriends were up to now (90% of them are still the same ridiculous, pot headed losers that my parents always hated, 8% are married with kids of their own, 1% are gay and 1% are dead. I know it’s sad, but true.) Once I started, I could not stop. I felt ashamed of myself, in a very creepy, skeevy, dirty way…sort of the way I feel about the fact that I have a shirtless, sexy picture of Taylor Lautner as the background on my phone. So, in an effort to stop my ex boyfriend stalking, I just started stalking people that I know and associate with regularly. I got into a heated Facebook status debate about my love for Barack Obama. I began putting my Gmail status to ‘offline’, and then surprised Wormy ten times a day with instant messages while she was at work. I began text messaging my mother. I began peeking out my windows, waiting for one of my neighbors to appear so I could accost them. Stalking of my friends and family did not give me the gratifying feeling that I was hoping for. So I turned to daytime television which leads me to…

Second thing: Daytime tv is a joke. How many times should a person have to hear “You are NOT the father!” before the network realizes enough is enough? How many times does Meredith Viera have to throw herself at Matt Lauer before he will decide to just take her in the green room and give her a good go of it? How many times can Dr. Phil possibly say, “How’s that working for you?” Well, gee Dr. Phil, it must not be working too fucking well if I am here on your show, airing my dirty laundry to the entire nation. I used to hate commercials, but I am starting to realize that sometimes, the commercials are better then the actual show which leads me to…

Third thing: I find certain things very unconventionally sexy. For instance the freecreditreport.com guys. Something about their catchy lyrics, their scrubby-rolled-out-of-bed-and-looked-this-happy appearance, and their ability to make my kid Smiley get up and dance on the coffee table kinda rings my bell. I like them. I would totally download them to my ipod. I don’t even care if they sing about bad credit…I’d let them look at my score any day *wink, wink*.

Also, the Old Spice half horse, half man. I am sorry, but that is one sexy mythological creature. I don’t even care if anything thinks that is sick and weird…I like a man who is two things at once. I asked Hot Papa if he thinks that I am weird for having fantasies about the Old Spice centaur (yes, we are secure enough in our marriage that we feel comfortable enough to share strange fantasies with each other), and he said…yes. He thinks that is totally bizarre. Whatever. He has been gone so much lately that I thinks it’s perfectly natural that I would start to allow my mind to wander to things like shaggy haired jingle singers and partially human men. Which leads me to…

Fourth thing: Ten days is a loooooong time. I need to get out of my house. I need a date with my husband. I need to see my friends. I need to take off my sweatpants. I need to put on some makeup, perfume, and a low cut shirt and find someplace to have a few drinks…possibly dance around and make a bit of a fool of myself. Not a complete fool, just a little bit. So, lucky for me, my 14 year old brother, Drummer is coming tonight to baby-sit so Hot Papa and I can paint the town red. Thank God! One more day of this and I was going to be committed…or jailed for stalking.

The Problem With TV. Also, Edible Hookers. That Should Be A Thing.

Hey-o. Mindbling here. We at Bitchburgh are aware that there is a whole lotta vagina going on up in here. Granted, the blog is called “Bitchburgh”, so you should expect some estrogen-centric ramblings, but, we know we have a fair amount of male readers. We also know some of our female readers may benefit from a glimpse into the inner workings of the male brain (hint: sexsexfoodpoopbeersex). So, we would like to give a hearty Bitchburgh welcome to guest blogger, Malkin and Malkin. This sports loving-single father-civil servant would like to share some of his life observations with you. You would be wise to listen. Happy reading! And Viva La Vagina!

OK people. Here’s the deal. I’m old. And occasionally angry. And have been through some stuff. Most people my age have been through stuff. So I’m not much different than the average Joe, or Lou or Honus. Well maybe Honus, because I have only ever heard of one and for some reason, people haven’t honored him by naming their kids after the Pittsburgh legend. Cowards.

But that has nothing to do with this shit.  What this is about has to do with life. And what is real, what isn’t, and what should be. So let’s get into it. If you are out there, looking for the American dream-type situation, which would consist of the ridiculous scenario where the dad comes down the stairs to the breakfast table where his 2.5 kids are eating cereal and somehow not spilling half the shit on themselves and the floor, and his hot MILF wife with respectable cans hands him a cup of coffee, and the prick smells it and calls his son champ, and you want to rip the handle off of the fridge and drive it through his chest….wait…..I’m getting too real already. Anyway, if that’s the life you are looking for, then stop. Because I’m here to tell you. That is T.V. bullshit.

 We see too much of this shit, and we start to believe it. And it’s just not going to happen to most people, brothers and sisters. Because the odds are…we’re going to F it up. Let’s take the show King of Queens, for example. Fat sports-loving dude with a hot, pissed off wife. OK. “Good for him,” you might say. But the shit just isn’t real. It just gives some Fred Flintstone-looking jack off false hope that he can find a hot wife and find her bitch qualities endearing. NO.

Ok, look. Let’s say the fat dude, who will also be bald by age 37, gets that chick. He locks her down with his quick wit, and it’s on. He’s living with a hot chick, going to work, and watching sports, occasionally with his friends. What eventually happens in the real world is, even though he is not a Clooney looking mfer, he gets complacent, the angry hot chick keeps jabbing him, and things get ugly.  He gets drunk on Flag Day and decides to tell her to go F herself. She bloodies his nose, he punches the wall, the next thing you know, he is looking to pay some drug addicted ho in Lawrenceville to hit her with a bat, and the wife is banging the dude with abs that works at COGO’s.

She is willing to give it all up for a stud cashier, and he is contracting crack heads. I doubt that shit would last 9 seasons on CBS.  Two seasons on HBO, tops. As long as there was plenty of nudity and a graphic scene where the crack head beats the scientology out of Leah Remini with an Easton Black Magic ( the finest bat ever made)..

 What else? Lost? That show is nuts. Kind of cool. But when it started, and we thought it might be something that could happen, it pissed me off when the fat dude asked out the hot chick at the music exchange, BEFORE she knew he hit the lottery for $114 million, and she said yes. Hurley on top of her? That chick would have experienced more damage than anything that happened to the Oceanic 6.  OK, Enough with the fat dude/hot chick topic.  I root strongly for all nontraditionally good looking people to reach out of their league and connect with the hot people. I wish me, and those of you in this category, much luck. And for those of you that are hot, do your thing.  The truth is, someone got sick of banging Megan Fox and moved on. Weird.

I have spoken briefly about what is real and what isn’t real. Now here is what should be real. It is my contention that the older I get, the less I want to get into the whole ‘finding a companion’ thing. Sure. It is nice to have someone of the opposite sex to…well…have sex with. But…at a mature age……do we really need to be doing many other things with that person? For instance….watching sports. Or eating. I mean hey. If you have found the ultimate transformer then that’s awesome. I salute you from my forehead to my crank. But for most of us, it’s highly unlikely. 

Now it is true that most of my kind think about sex several times a day. So I guess having the interlocking body part available at halftime of the game is a good thing. But most of us don’t. Most of us have to seek out a person we are attracted to, invite them somewhere, ask about them, figure out if the person likes us enough to bang, and then try to complete the interaction. But what usually happens at this stage of my life, is that the person reveals during the initial meeting, that she has something protruding from her lower body that resembles a..kind of..a.  penis because doctors think she may have inadvertently eaten her twin brother while in the womb.

TV shows us what COULD be real, then pulls it out from under us.  To me anyway. And all those jack offs that created bullshit shows like the Jetson’s and thought we would have some crazy futuristic shit by now can F off because I still have a piece of shit car that runs on fucking gasoline, and I can’t find a place to park it in my neighborhood, where it seems a lot more like 1971, what with the discarded heroin bags on the sidewalk and what not, than 20freaking10 (under my breath) assholes….. Giveth and taketh away.

For the average gentleman that seeks two kinds of satisfaction with out the exhaustive mental aspect of word articulation. I give you the ULTIMATE transformer.  The mute prostitute…..ok…stay with me………that morphs into food upon completion of sex act. Ya bang, ya eat, ya sleep. Awesome. That’s all I have to say people. Take care. And have a nice whatever..

iPad Excitement

In anticipation of the big Apple revel this week BitchBurgh gives you this:

Friends Don’t Let Friends Throw Money Away…

Hot Mama’s Domestic Tip for the Day: Having the occasional bout of passive aggressiveness is a great way to get your house clean. Pissed off that your spouse won’t help you? Do it yourself…something about slamming doors, pots, pans, and feet, all the while giving the silent treatment seems to release endorphins in a way comparable to running a couple miles.

Before I get into my story, I would like to give myself and Wormy a high five…we both got up at six this morning and worked out. We are well on our way to being hot, fierce bitches. Go us!!

Anyway, this past Wednesday, my oldest son E-man  got his tonsils and adenoids removed and also had an intestinal hernia repair. Since he is not able to go to school or do much of anything, we have been hunkered down in my house since then. Hot Papa has been working a lot of overtime, so he has not been home very much at all. My younger son, Smiley, has not been here very much either because my mom and gram have been taking care of him so I could focus all of my attention on E-man. After four days of being in the house with my post operative child (who, by the way, has been awesome and has not complained one time), watching countless hours of children’s programming and not having an adult to talk to, I felt that it was a good idea for me to get out for a little bit.

Lucky for me, my next door neighbors Harley and Mrs. Davidson were having a little get together. Hot Papa went first for a couple hours and when he got back, I went over. They had lots of yummy food and a fire in the outdoor fire pit. After a couple hours, Hot Papa came out and said that he needed some cigs, would I mind going to the store to get them? I would not mind. I asked Harley if I could borrow his truck, as I did not feel like going back into my house to look for my keys (we all know where that leads to) Harley said fine, he would go with me but I had to drive because he had already had too much to drink. You gotta picture Harley…he is a typical biker dude…shaved head, goatee, lots of tats and skulls on most of his clothes. On this night however, he was wearing a one piece thingy over his clothes that was essentially a union suit with a ton of pockets and then a giant, furry Elmer Fudd hat.

Hilarious, but strangely Harley can pull this look off. You also have to picture short little me behind the wheel of a giant Chevy Silverado.  I live next door to a Get Go, but it was past eleven so we drive on down to the Seven Eleven, which is literally a minute and a half drive from my house. I asked Harley if he would got into the store for me…I do not like going into convenience stores at night, they freak me out. I felt much better waiting behind the wheel of a giant truck. I handed Harley a fifty dollar bill and he walked towards the store. What happened next I am not real sure of, but within ten seconds, he is standing at the drivers side window.

Harley: Did you give me money?

Me: Um, yeah…I gave you a fifty.

Harley: I can’t find it.

Me: What the hell do you mean you can’t find it?

Harley: Did you see what I did with it?

Me: Dude, I handed it to you twenty seconds ago…how could you lose it between then and now?

I got out of the truck and we proceeded to look everywhere. Harley checked all his pockets and then proceeded to remove his union suit right there in the parking lot of Seven Eleven. He checked all his jeans pockets, his shoes, he even took off his Elmer Fudd hat and looked in there. No fifty. About fifteen minutes into our search, the parking lot began to get crowded. The newspaper truck was there. A crazy woman pulled up next to us in a beat up Escort and asked us what we were looking for. After Harley quickly explained, the woman told him that if we stopped for a minute and looked for JESUS and asked Him for help, that we would find the money. A cop pulled in and began looking at us suspiciously.

Thank God I had only had two beers! Harley, however, had been drinking since noon. In hindsight, I probably should not have trusted him with my money to begin with. I should have found my own keys and driven down there by myself. I was feeling sick to my stomach and watching Harley tipsily check the same spot six hundred times was not helping matters! A half hour had gone by. Hot Papa was calling me, wondering where the hell we were and I imagine suspecting that we had stopped at the local watering hole for a couple shots of Tequila. I told him that Harley had lost our fifty. I do not think that Hot Papa believed me, but at that point, I did not care. I had to find that money before some crackhead beat me to it. A light bulb went off! I remembered that I had seen Harley put a piece of gum in his mouth before he got out of the truck. I asked him to check the garbage can outside the door. He took the top off of it and TAAAA DAAAAA!!!!! There was my fifty, sitting on top of an empty Big Gulp. After I swatted Harley and told him how lucky he was that I did not kill him (yeah, right, who am I kidding? That dude could probably knock me unconscious with his pinky finger, but since he was the one who had thrown a perfectly good fifty right in the garbage, I imagine he was letting me have my moment of being a bad ass.) Harley finally went in to get the cigs, I called Hot Papa to say we would be back in  2 minutes. Harley got back in the truck and as I go to start the engine…what do ya know, that MFer won’t start!!

After I bang my head off the steering wheel a few times, call Hot Papa to tell him the latest, and look around to see if Ashton Kutcher is going to pop out and tell me that I am being punked, Harley looks at me and says, “Well here is your thirty eight dollars. I think we are in the fucking Twilight zone.” This struck me so funny for some reason and I erupted into bales of laughter. Harley found a pissy looking couple who had obviously been fighting to give him a jump and finally, after forty five minutes we were back on the road for the one and a half minute drive to our street. Hot Papa was pissed and half asleep when we got there, but I was still laughing, I did not care. I have been saying ,”well here’s your thirty eight dollars.” to everyone about everything since then. I can’t stop myself. I find it to be hilarious, though no one else seems to find the humor in it. Oh well. It’s Hot Papa’s fault anyway. If he didn’t need his stupid cigs, we would not have been in this predicament. Moral of the story: Don’t smoke.

Be Careful What You Wish For …

I’m not the type of person who gets hung up on labels. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. Growing up poor and then being a single mother has taught me many things. 1. Pulling out doesn’t work as a birth control method, 2. You really CAN have too much white rice, 3. Drinking is not cheaper than therapy, 4. $20 goes a long way at a thrift store, and 5. I have and will always have better things to worry about than whether or not my ass says True Religion.

Anytime I do start to think that maybe I would look good in Prada, I reflect back to a something that happened to me when I was about seven. Jordache was HUGE. Everyone wanted Jordache jeans. You weren’t shit if you didn’t walk around with that horse and its flowing mane emblazoned on your ass.

I was just becoming aware of ‘advertisements’ and I bit. Hard. I spent an entire week working on my parents. Begging. Pleading. Crying. Running away. Emptying their Scotch. Selling my sister to the neighbor. Nothing worked. They were blind to my pleas.

Looking back, I know why. We were poor. Between my mother’s inability to keep a job, and my dad’s ability to drink a paycheck away in one bar sitting, we were always struggling to get by. That’s why adult me knows that my poor mother probably had to go without food for a few days to afford to buy me the best gift ever – A Jordache purse.

This, to me, was better than jeans. At seven, I was just beginning to understand that I would be a woman one day, and what better way to say I HAVE ARRIVED! than a lavender Jordache PURSE! I almost died of happiness. I immediately filled it with my Bonnie Bell lip gloss collection and a picture of my hamster. I took it everywhere with me. I slept with it. If my sister so much as looked at it, I would swing back and hit her directly in her face. With my Jordache purse.

One evening we went out for a family night on the town at McDonald’s. We were half way home when I realized I didn’t have my purse. I immediately started to hyperventilate. My dad pulled over, kicked the Busch Light cans out of the way, and started to look for it. It wasn’t in the car. We went back to McDonald’s. It wasn’t in our booth. My sever-year old brain was whirring on overdrive, trying to remember where it could have gone. When it hit me. The Bathroom! I had gone to pee, put it on the door hook, and forgot it! Filled with relief I ran to the restroom. And it was not there. Someone had stolen my Jordache purse.

The Washington, PA McDonald’s had never witnessed a scene such as I caused that night. To this day, it probably remains unrivaled in terms of volume and tears. I was, in a word, heartbroken.

It took me years to recover from the loss. And it taught me to not get too attached to ‘things’, because ‘things’ can go away (of course, so can daddy’s, a sibling’s sanity, and one’s will to live, but those are different blogs!). I put so much stock in that purse; I let it define ‘me’. I finally dried my tears, fed my Sea Monkey’s, and moved on. But I had undergone a fundamental change that would stay with me forever.

Instead of being proud of having expensive things, I became proud of having cheap things. “Nice sweater!” “Thanks! It’s Banana Republic. I got it at the Thrift Store for $3!” Or, “That is a great area rug. Where did you get it?” “Someone was throwing it out. Can you believe it? Once I scrubbed out the blood stain, it was good as new!” You get the idea.

I became the reverse label whore. If it cost more than ten bucks, I wasn’t buying it. This frugality came in very handy when I myself was poor; it got me and junior through some rough times. And old habits die hard. I make more money now, but I am still loath to throw perfectly good drinking money away on clothes. And god forbid they be name brand.

Which is why I am deeply concerned about my recent obsession with Uggs. For some reason, these highly unflattering and overpriced winter boots have invaded my psyche. Much the same as my childhood lust for Jordache jeans. I am trying to battle against this feeling, or, barring that, make Mavrick buy them for me (this crusade has been met with the same success as my long ago attack on my parents, minus the lavender purse consolation prize).

I see them everywhere. And they look so darn cute when worn with the right pants. And sometimes you just want something because goddamnit you want it. And I want Uggs. Not an Ugg purse. I’m not seven anymore. I want a real pair of Uggs. And you know what? I might just put seven- year old me in a time out long enough to go buy a pair. And I will do my best to never leave them in a McDonald’s bathroom.