If that's what you're into...

To the (several) people who have found my blog by googling "jodie sweetin bathing suit",

You're really weird.

Sincerely,
Chaylene

Triple Dog Dare

Try to watch this and not cry.

I feel like ass

Something unholy has taken up residence in the inner workings of my chest.

My 2 1/2 year old had bronchitis last week, so I'm pretty sure this is some version of that. I'd really love to lay down and go into a coma for a few hours...or days.

I am starting to lose my voice as well which is kind of a blessing in disguise. I tend to yell too much, as in "YOU GIRLS REALLY NEED TO STOP YELLING AT EACH OTHER!". Parental double standards run rampant 'round these parts.

Oh, and it's raining buckets right now. We spent part of the morning sitting on the front porch, coloring and, in the case of the little one, ringing the doorbell 50,000 times, working the dogs into a crazed frenzy. It was quite entertaining.

I'd hate to leave this post as boring and depressing as it currently is, so here's a little something to lighten the mood.

Maybe he'll fight Godzilla with it

One time I was nice to the Jesus People

My door bell rang while I was making lunch for the girls and that means one of two things: A package or the Jesus People. Unfortunately, it was the latter.

I knew I was in trouble before I even opened the door. An old lady was clutching a pamphlet in her hand while two other younger, but just as matronly women stood behind her on my porch.

I must be softening a bit because my first thought was not to shout obscenities and writhe on the floor. It might have had something to do with the fact that my children were standing right there, or it could have been they just caught me off guard.

"Hello (hands me the pamphlet), we're here from Danvers Baptist Church. We're just out in the neighborhood talking with nice folks like you about our congregation."

Huh? Nice folks like me? I wanted to tell her she had the wrong neighborhood, but she cut off my thoughts.

"What church do you go to?"

Then, as if she could read my mind, "...or do you go to any church?"

I told her we didn't go to church. She was a pro, that one. I only noticed a faint wrinkling of her brow. She went on.

"Well, the most important thing is that you know where you will be spending eternity."

I thought about that for a second between head nods and a cordial half-smile. I could have been a total bitch about it. I don't go to church for a reason. I don't believe in God, Jehovah, Yahweh, King of Kings....or whatever they're calling him these days.

There really isn't any need for them to get past the fact that I don't go to church. If I wanted to go to church, I have about a hundred to choose from in my community alone (seriously, why the fuck would I drive to Danvers? They don't even have a titty bar).

I didn't appreciate the interruption in my day, especially since we were already about an hour off schedule for a decent nap time. I don't hate religious people, but I don't like religious people who feel the need to come to my house (!) and try to guilt me into going to church.

But I didn't throw a tantrum because that would have only reinforced their preconceived idea of someone who doesn't go to church. The way I see it, why not put forth the truth?

I don't have to go to church to be a good person. I don't have believe in a divine being to live a good and decent (depending on your definition of "decent") life. I'm living proof.

I don't beat my kids (often). I don't lie, cheat or steal. I don't even remember the last time I broke a law, even a minor one. The only thing I'm guilty of is wanting to sleep in on Sunday mornings. Oh, and that whole not believing in God thing.

It's kind of like when I get funny looks from the other moms at the grocery store or the park because I have tattoos. Now that it's getting warmer, more of my ink shows. Sometimes I forget that I look different from most other parents, but then I get a scrunched up disapproving look tossed my way and I am reminded.

Sometimes I'd like to give them the finger, but I know that would only give them the self-satisfaction of knowing they were right about me. Instead, I let it slide. I'm 33 years old; too old to worry about what the "cool crowd" thinks about me. My children are well taken care of, happy and have manners that rival a lot of adults I know. Besides, I didn't get a bunch of tattoos for the sole purpose of pissing conservatives off. If that were the case, I'd think about getting "CUM DUMPSTER" across my chest...maybe in Olde English lettering, with a dolphin jumping over the top.

I don't have a freakout session in response to their disapproving looks and judgemental bitchitude. They'll have a hard time snarking on me to all their subdivision socialite friends if they see that the only difference between me and them is skin deep. If they want to make fun of me, they'll need to find something else to harp on...like my shitty car.

So instead of ranting at the churchies to get off my porch, I took the pamphlet and gently but firmly shut the door, all the while smiling and nodding like a crazy woman.

Dear Loud Lady in my exercise class today

It is not necessary to "whoo hoo" your way through the entire class. When the instructor yells out, "How we doin'?!", I believe this is somewhat of a rhetorical question. Please do not count the remaining reps of an exercise out loud, especially when you are two counts behind. That is the instructor's job if she chooses to do so. You are not her Ed McMahon, so please refrain from bellowing "HOOO-WHAAA!" at regular intervals throughout our time together.

This is your first and final warning. If you are to continue in this fashion, I shall be forced to retain photographic evidence of your prominent camel toe and share it with the blogosphere.

Thank you in advance,
Chaylene

Battle of the tumors

Not to be outdone by Democratic Presidential hopeful John Edwards, Tony Snow has announced that his cancer has returned.

Next up, Bob Hargis will hold a press conference to discuss his cat's feline leukemia.


Paul Simon is rolling in his grave.

Suddenly I feel like a genius

On my way home from the video store today I saw a woman pumping gas.

She was wearing a pot leaf t-shirt.

And smoking.

And she was pregnant.

I'll cut a bitch

Apparently the couple that was, as my real estate agent put it, "in love with the house" are on the fence now. They practically told my realtor to expect an offer. Then their crazy bitch realtor lady, Caroline, stepped in to fuck it all up.

It appears she has been planting the seeds of doubt in their minds.

Our house is old, built in 1912. The wiring is up to code, but we do not have as many amps as a new construction home, and Caroline told them they might be able to get homeowners insurance because of it.

Total bullshit.

When I told my husband this, he was incredulous. We have homeowners insurance. We couldn't have gotten our mortgage without it. What kind of realtor tells their clients lies?

If this couple thinks they are going to find a better house for the price, they are deluding themselves, and I think they know this. Caroline however, is apparently out to lunch.

I keep imagining what else she is telling them.

"They keep a dead body in the basement."

"Plaster walls give you cancer."

"In houses built before 1925, your insurance requires a spiritual cleansing. That can get pretty pricey."

"Hitler was born here."


The whole situation is making me stabby.

Hypothetically...

Let's say you were doing business with someone, a monthly business. Maybe, I don't know, renting storage units for example.

Let's say that when you first called inquiring about information and quotes, the owner himself took your call and couldn't have been nicer.

Let's say you went ahead and used his company over a bigger, national chain because, as you told him, you "like to give your money to local businesses"--the 'little guy', so to speak.

Let's say the minute you signed the contract with Mr. Little Guy, he turned into a complete and utter asshole.

Let's say that they were rude when they dropped off the storage units and got pissy when you asked them to put the 'open side' facing the door you would be taking your stuff out of. Let's say you didn't tell the delivery guy to go fuck himself even though you told them which way to face them before he got the things off of the truck.

Let's say that they were raging jerks on the phone when they called to ask when you were planning on having the storage units picked up because they "really needed to get those back here. It's been 6 weeks!" (Even though they told you that you take "all the time you needed" when you originally asked about it).

Let's say that, months into the business arrangement, you noticed that you weren't being charged on the credit card you gave them.

Let's say, out of the goodness of your giving heart, you called them to make sure you were being charged correctly.

Would you or would you not expect them to at least be cordial about it--that they would at least thank you for pointing out a discrepancy in their favor.



Yeah, I thought so.

They make pills for this, don't they?

It appears someone is interested in the house.

They are a young couple with a dog, no kids. The husband is a pharmaceutical rep. (I'm assuming that isn't code for "drug dealer"). They are looking for their first home. That's pretty much all I know.

My realtor took them through the house after the wife emailed her for an appointment about a week and a half ago. They've since questioned her on the average monthly bills and wiring.

From what my real estate agent told me, the wife is in love with the house (especially the wood floors) and the husband seemed very interested in finishing the walk up attic for an office.

So, why aren't I jumping up and down? They sound serious, and they are asking the type of questions we asked about the house we just purchased. Realistically, this could be it.

In the back of my mind, I can't let myself get excited. It's almost if I think "This is it!", I will inevitably be let down.

Maybe my calmness is a sign that this really is it...but since I'm thinking in those terms, it won't be. I don't believe in omens or signs anyway, but I want to. I also want to believe my horoscope when it says, "You will have the most amazing sex of your life on the 17th" or "Your peers worship your wisdom and beauty" or "Your ass looks fabulous today!".

I'm a realist to a fault. That, combined with acute fits of pessimism and a chronic case of fuckyouitis makes it really hard for me to enjoy things.

Whenever I go on vacation (which is a rarity), I literally get knots in my neck muscles from trying to remember what to pack. I make extensive lists, then worry I've forgotten to put something on those lists. By the time I am able to relax, I then have to start the list-making and stress all over again. I hate hate hate having to get to the airport so much earlier than necessary. Maybe I'm just a hopeless control freak?

So, all this to say that I am not getting my hopes up about these potential buyers. Really, it's easier this way. If they don't buy the house, I am not too let down. If they do, I'll be extra excited.


Then I get to worry about moving.

Quality Family Time is Important

You know what we do for fun at my house? We play Fox News Channel vs. The Kids. By "The Kids", I mean my kids, Mina (5 1/2) and Audrey (2 1/2).

For dinner, I served Baked chicken, broccoli and raspberries.

Mina: I like broccoli. Broccoli makes you smart.

Me: That's true.

Mina: And broccoli makes you walk faster.

Me: That hasn't been proven. Can you back that up with facts?

Mina: It's true.

Me: Why? Because you say it's true? Don't spout your lefty propaganda around here.

Mina: What's "ganda"?

Husband: Next you'll try and tell me carrots have feelings.

Audrey: Carrots are good!

Me: No need for ad hominem attacks here, little missy.

Husband: It's a strawman argument.

Mina: The strawman is in the Wizard of Oz.

Me: Frank Baum was a Communist.

Husband: Pinko Commie, just like the rest of the drive-by media.

Mina: Pink is my favorite color!

Me: Mina, why do you hate America?

Gah!

Last night before I went to bed, I had a headache behind my left eye. This morning when I woke up, it had migrated to behind my right eye and down my face.

I feel like there is pulsating live wire trying to escape out of my sinuses--but only out of the right side of my face. I need to lay down in a dark quiet room after a cup of hot tea. I should not be operating a motor vehicle, but I have to pick up my 5 year old from preschool soon.

I also have to go to the Avon store for some Mustache-B-Gone before my husband starts to think he's married to one of the Mario Brothers.

I can only hope that my sweet, cheery daughters decide not to fight today or squeal or screech or try to rip each other's face off every four seconds.

A girl can dream.

Help The Police

Thank you to Elise for making my morning.

This all I have today

A couple of of the dolphins recused after Hurricane Katrina are pregnant.

No word yet from Howard K. Stern

One time I hated my (old) job

A hairstylist thrives on referrals. No amount of advertising, coupons or "specials" can replace positive word of mouth. Back when I was behind the chair, I loved referrals from clients that I liked (which honestly, was most of them).

One of my clients was a woman I'll call Diana. She was a little on the shy side, but over time loosened up and even got a bit adventurous with her hair. After a few appointments she told me that she hated the way her fiancee's current stylist cut his hair and was trying to get him to come to me.

"Great!" I thought, "Diana is so fun and sweet, her fiancee must be a great guy!"

Wrong.

I didn't like him the moment his pompous ass walked in the door--late.

I always prided myself on running on time. I hated when clients were late because it could throw off the rest of the night. Generally though, if it was a person's first appointment I cut them some slack as they had never been there before. 99% of the time they apologized profusely and I got over it.

But this guy had been there before, to pick Diana up from an appointment. I remember he waited in the car while she checked out, instead of coming in. Not a total deal-breaker, but it really should have tipped me off to the type of person he was. And he didn't make any mention of the fact that he was ten minutes late for his appointment either.

I should mention at this point that when I did men's haircuts, I washed their hair after the haircut (unless they had 4 pounds of pomade or 63 gallons of gel on it) to get all the loose hairs rinsed away. For a while I washed it before and after, but it became a pain in the ass and all but a few of my male clients found it excessive.

After some pleasantries, I asked him what type of haircut he wanted.

"I don't know," he quipped, "Aren't you supposed to know what looks best on me?"

What I actually said: "Alrighty then. Let's get started."

What I wanted to say: "Right about now, a hatchet in your forehead sounds pretty good."

So, I put the cutting cape around him and he stops me. "Aren't you going to wash my hair? Diana said this was a nice salon."

I explained as sugary-sweetly as I could muster that I would be shampooing his hair afterwards, and he seemed to relax a little.

The rest of the time, he was pretty quiet and then it came time to pay. At the front desk, I thanked him for coming in (I did!), and handed the ticket to the receptionist. As I walked to the back, I heard it.

"Twenty eight dollars?!! And I tip on top of that?!"

Part of me felt insulted. I gave him a damn fine haircut, and he was bitching about the price? The other part of me was relieved. I hoped that this meant he wouldn't be back.

Wrong again. He came every THREE weeks for the next year. He was late for about every third appointment and I truly believe it was because he was such a control freak. He knew I would have to wait on him, and I think he liked being "the boss". He wasn't late every time or he knew I would have to say something. Sneaky prick.

One time, I was cutting his hair and my husband called to ask what he should make for dinner. Mr. Assface found it laughable that my husband would be making dinner for me, himself and the kid all by his widdle ol' self. Turns out Mr. Assface never step foot in the kitchen--ever. "That's my wife's job" (My sweet adorable client had actually gone through with the marriage to this loser). Never mind that his wife worked the same hours as he did doing the exact same job (and I'll go ahead and assume she gets paid less than him for it too!).

Lest you think him simply an old school neanderthal, he didn't mow the lawn either...or fix shit around the house...or take out the garbage...or take the cars for oil changes, etc.

When Diana mentioned that they were going on a Vegas vacation, she relayed in detail the depths of Mr. Assface's cheapness. I'm all for saving a buck, but no one's going to tell me how many drinks I will be "allowed to have" each night of my vacation. I honestly don't know how she didn't kill him in his sleep.

He would do other things to "test me". He'd see someone getting highlights and ask how the chemicals worked. He'd ask why I was using one shampoo in favor of another. I know he didn't care. He just wanted to see if he could make me stumble. I know he thought that because I was a hairstylist, I couldn't possibly be smart, and I proved him wrong every chance I got.

At Christmas time, the salon I worked at closed between Christmas Eve and New Year's. As a rule, it was a slow time and it gave us a chance to recover from the insane hours we put in around the holidays.

The last week before our "holiday break", we reminded clients that we would be gone until the first business day after January 1st. As it turned out, Mr. Assface happened to come in the last night before we were off.

When I told him that we would be closed for about a week, he gave me an incredulous look and said, "B-but, what if someone needs an emergency haircut?! Will you have someone on call?"

Someone on call?!

What I actually said: "No. We are taking a well-deserved break. If someone needs a haircut that bad, they can go somewhere else."

What I wanted to say: "Well, Mr. Assface, if your pussy hurts that bad while we're gone, I suggest you consult a doctor. I'm certain they will have "someone on call"."

It's been a little over a year since I quit working to stay home with my girls and surprisingly, I haven't run into this guy in public yet. I know it's coming. I can feel it. I hope for his sake that when I do, it's not after I've been drinking.

What I should say: Hey, how've you been?

What I will say: You are a fucktard.

Gonna' make you sweat

Why do they have to play such awful music in the exercise classes I go to? It's like a gay nightclub circa 1992, except without all the sexy sweaty homosexuals to dance inappropriately with. (*For the record, I LOVE going to gay nightclubs any chance I get.*)
"Cool down" is even more embarrassing. We travel from The Manhole to a cheesy, lite rock cruise ship. Celine Dion is a screeching mess of a woman. I have no interest in stretching while she's singing. Retching, yes. Stretching, no.

And why did they have to hire "Hot Guy Painters, Inc." to paint the gym? Management could have at least sent out a mass email warning me that I'd be doing squats four inches from the window they were edging. The worst part? They didn't even look up from what they were doing. Dammit people! Throw a girl a bone.

I like exercising. It makes me feel better, sleep better and ultimately squelches any guilt I feel about the cupcake I ate after breakfast this morning.

For me, it's not really about health though. If it were, I would have given up cigarettes and french fries a long time ago. It's about vanity.

I'm chugging through my 30's here and after a couple of babies, the body starts to rebel a bit. I absolutely refuse to wear "Mom Jeans". High-waisted, peg-bottomed pants will never hang in my closet. I also refuse to willfully wear anything with words printed across the ass, but that was an executive decision passed down in high school. And no sweat pants. Thank the babyjesus for yoga pants (all the comfort, none of the humiliating elastic).

In order to still be able to shop for fun clothes and not cry in the dressing room, I work out. I have to. My genetic makeup demands it.

I suppose the gym may be onto something hiring these delicious young men to repaint the walls. Maybe it's subtle motivation.

I'm not sure what they're thinking with the music.

Nobel Peace Prize

What do (Environment-obsessed) Liberals and (Jesus-obsessed) Conservatives have in common?

Faith.

When someone finds out I am a godless heathen, the first thing out of their mouth is usually, "Why not believe just in case?" Their reasoning is that if I'm right, I've lost nothing and if I'm wrong, then I still get to join their harp and lute band in the sky after I'm dead. When I counter that I've been down that road, and little things like facts and science dictate that I no longer buy it, they tell me to "have faith". For example, faith is supposed to make me overlook evolution ("It's just a theory!" "Scientists can be wrong!").

On the drive home from my parent's house last Friday, I hit some bad weather. It sucked and I was a little freaked out by the horrendous winds and snow. I needed a distraction from my impending doom, so I set my radio to WLS and caught a chunk of the Sean Hannity talk show. I figured I could channel my fear into rage and keep my car on the road.

Sean was discussing global warming and the fact that he doesn't believe we humans are responsible for it ("It's just a theory!" "Scientists can be wrong!"). Then a woman called in and mused that even if global warming is some kind of "cockamamie lefty propaganda designed to hurt capitalism" (to paraphrase Mr. Hannity), shouldn't we err on the side of caution just in case? In essence, shouldn't we have faith that the scientists are correct. Either way, we win by taking an active role in preserving our planet.


Maybe I'm grasping at straws here. It just struck me that both sides are essentially asking the other side to do the same thing: Have faith that the other is right.

Of course, this is coming from someone who neither goes to church nor recycles, so both sides hate me.

At least they can agree on something.

Are you really that suprised?

Ann Coulter is running at the mouth again, not that I thought she ever stopped.

If you read the article, it is obvious she tries to backtrack at the end, but the damage is already done. Maybe the hormones aren't working correctly. Maybe she's angry science hasn't yet come up with a way to remove her Adam's Apple. Maybe, and I think this is the key here....

Maybe she's just saying what's really on her mind.

Don't get me wrong, I am not applauding her vile vitriol. I think she is the epitome of cuntiness. But I have to give her credit for her outstanding example of making a complete fucktard out of oneself in the name of Conservatism.

I wish more "right wingers" would follow in her footsteps.

They sugar-coat the spew with their "hate the sin, not the sinner" bullshit, but the truth is they don't like Gay people or really anyone who doesn't buy into their fairytale. And why would they? I don't really care (or maybe it's more of a fear factor) for people who collect Longaberger baskets or who followed The Grateful Dead or Phish around back in the day. The difference being that the people I don't like chose to love overpriced schlock and annoying jam bands.

I'm fine with the fact that people like Mr. Coulter don't like me or people I call my closest friends. I'm especially pleased when they make their case publicly. It just isolates them more and more from normal people with reasoning abilities above a second grade level (no offense to any second graders out there).

Nothing would make me happier than if they got ol' Tranny...I mean Annie to speak at the Republican National Convention come election time. Hell, give her a government job--maybe put her in charge of the Protest Banner Committee. Anything to drag the far Right deeper into the swamp of unelectability.

Less work for me, I say.

Throw down

Yesterday, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I noticed that the house two doors down had a "For Sale" sign in the yard.

Let me tell you, she's itchin' for a letter bomb in a bad bad way.

It's not the fact that she's selling her house that bothers me. Hell, there's homes for sale all up and down the blocks surrounding mine. It's the fact that she's priced 20,000 dollars below my asking price. Bitch.

I looked up her house to do a "comp" and saw that she's got 4 bedrooms (I've got 3), one bathroom (I've got 2 full bathrooms), and no garage (I've got a 2 car, detached). On the outside, it appears we have similar square footage, and both our yards are fenced.

My only consolation is that I know who her realtor is, and she is straight up cu-razy. How do I know this? She used to be my realtor once upon a time.

When my husband and I were looking for our first house, we started out looking around on our own. After going to one fateful open house, I somehow managed to get hooked up with Sarah, The Craziest Realtor on the Planet.

At first, she was like any normal person who sells houses. She looked up homes in my price range and set up viewings. She even drove me around in her own car. After a month I was tiring of the process, but she was nothing if not tenacious.

Sarah would call me about a new listing and come pick me up to look at them. The most memorable house she took me to was a cave-like shack off Main Street. The people who lived there either didn't know we were coming over or didn't want to sell their house. Not only was there an unmade bed in the living room, but a sink full of dirty crusty dishes in the kitchen sink. And it smelled of cat piss. Being well past my drug-addled party days, I passed on that one.

Eventually, I decided that Sarah wasn't helping much in the home search, and decided to go it alone, but not before she took me on one last round of viewings.

I met her at her realty office to pick up the info sheets. Her husband was there and decided to join us. He was a big bear of a man with a porno moustache, a toupee-like mop on the top half of his head and a glorious mullet on the bottom half. He gave me the creeps, but since I didn't have to be married to him I figured I'd let it pass.

As soon as he got there, he asked me if I wanted to see what he got his wife for her birthday. Hoping this wasn't some kind of trick, I feigned interest. After reaching into the inside pocket of his Member's Only windbreaker he produced not a chloroform-soaked rag, but a jewelry box. It was a diamond necklace.

"Wow, that's very nice. Happy Birthday Sarah."

"Yeah, heh heh heh. Guess I'll be getting some tonight, eh?"

"Um, yeah. Good for you big guy."

It was going to be a long fucking afternoon.

First stop was a house that I actually found myself. It needed a LOT of work. Basically it would have been a rehab project for my husband and I, and it was priced accordingly. Sarah, Mr. Sarah and I took a look around and marveled at the potential.

Then Sarah decided that she and her smarmy husband should buy it themselves and flip it. So much for that.

On our way to the next house, Sarah decided that I needed to see her house. I won't lie to you, I was frightened and contemplated my escape. However, Mr. Sarah was in the back seat and I was convinced he would be able to reach his big bear arms out the window to scoop me back into the Lincoln Towncar if I attempted a dive.

Even though this was the first realtor I've ever worked with, I knew taking clients to one's home wasn't common protocol. When I asked her if she had forgotten something (like the duct tape and blindfold), she told me she just wanted me to see her house.

I should clarify that my price range was about one fourth of what her home probably cost. It wasn't like she was showing me something comparable to what I was looking for. No. She just wanted to show off.

We spent about a half hour there while she gave me the tour. I was stunned by how unprofessional (not to mention creepy as hell) this all was. I was on guard the entire time. I didn't know these people and I was in their house alone. My husband was at work and didn't know where I was. No one did.

I wasn't worried about getting killed. I was worried about getting propositioned.

After that day, I stopped returning her phone calls. A couple years later, they ended up buying a church (but still continuing their realtor business). Turns out, Mr. Sarah is a minister. You saw that one coming, didn't you?

Now Sarah is my neighbor's problem. I almost feel bad for her, but then I remember she's low balling me and I feel a certain sense of satisfaction.

So, good luck Asshole Neighbor! I'll be going to your first open house and pooping in your closet.