Parents, They’re Liars: Part 2


Or maybe I’m the only one who lies to their kid…

A while back I wrote about how I lie to my children. Well, as the Halloween holiday approaches, I’ve realized I’ve told a pretty big fucking lie and it’s gonna come back to bite me in the ass.

I have to give a bit of backstory in order to understand what kind of shit storm I’ve created with what I thought was a small, insignificant little white lie.

Back when Mini 1 was about two and a half, Hubs B and I took him trick or treating for the first time and he couldn’t have been more thrilled with the idea of getting shitloads of free candy. Not exactly at first though… I crammed his screaming ass into a monkey costume and carried him from house to house. The first house was our neighbor, who proceeded to basically dump her entire night’s haul of candy into Mini 1’s bag. Un-phased, he kept howling, while Hubs B carried him to the next house, where the same thing happened—lovely elderly neighbor equals tons of candy and by the third house, it was the same situation. Mini 1 had the haul of an entire night of trick or treating, gathered with stoppage at only three houses. This was when he realized what was in his bag. He proceeded to gorge himself on candy until Hubs B and I took it away. This was where the screaming began again. I vowed he’d never accumulate enough candy to put a horse into a diabetic coma again. So, here comes the lie. (I might just be a horrible parent or an evil genius…idk.)

The next year, I began telling Mini 1 about this goblin, called the Boo Goblin that loves to eat your Halloween candy in exchange for a toy. (Mini 1’s grandma had bought him that stupid Elf on the Shelf the year before, so he was all about shit like that. FYI, I suck at that Elf and should probs do a post about that fucking asshole.) He seemed interested, so I went on to tell him that we could still go trick or treating and collect candy and he’d be able to keep ten pieces, but he’d have to give the rest to the Boo Goblin. He still seemed game, so I ran with it. I explained that if he put all his candy outside on our porch, the Boo Goblin would come along, eat the candy, and be so happy he’d throw up a toy. Again, no complaints from Mini 1 and the Boo Goblin was created.

He talked about it for days leading up to Halloween, mind you, he was only three and half then, so I figured what harm could come from it. I bought a crappy toy at the checkout line of Meijer, Hubs B put Mini 1 in the bathtub after a night of trick or treating and the candy went out on the porch, and the Boo Goblin was born. He “ate” the candy, left the shitty toy and Mini 1 didn’t consume a vomit-inducing amount of candy.

Fast forward several years and that fucking goblin still exists, but now that dickhead is bring Legos and shit for two kids! Motherfucker, this lie is a disaster, and I’m almost certain Mini 1 knows it’s a lie, but he’s fucking with me. He won’t give in and tell me because he’s concerned about his toy gathering going out the window.

And to think, it all started because he was my first kid and I was concerned about his health. Poor Mini 2, he got the shit end of the stick. If I had it to do over again, I’d say, “Gorge yourselves, kiddos! You’re too damn skinny anyway!”

On a side note…where does all that candy Mini 1 and Mini 2 collected go??? Oh, trust me it never goes to waste!



Food Love + Boycott = You don’t stand a fucking chance


We have this little sandwich place near our house that we order from once a week, well, if I’m being honest, it’s probably more, but whatever. The sandwiches are good, but they have oatmeal chocolate chip cookies that are fucking unbelievable.

A few weeks ago I ordered dinner using their online ordering system and then left to run some errands before going to pick up the order. I arrived at the store five minutes earlier than my pick up time. No big deal, right? Well, clearly it was a huge fucking deal because a girl with a permanent bitchface greeted (I’m lying here, she basically said fuck off using her face) me at the pick-up counter.

After looking at her watch twice, she then said, “You’re early. Why are you early?” Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t know who you’re fucking with here, Bitchface. My response, “Do you need me to go sit in my car for five minutes and then come back in?”

Of course at the point she says nothing. Just orders some poor teenage kid to get my order ready. After ten minutes, which was now past my pick up time, my order is ready. But not really. They don’t have the fucking oatmeal cookies I ordered. I let it go, despite my obsessive love of cookies. I wasn’t interested in battling with Bitchface anymore.

Flash to a week later. Online order placed, cookies added and once again, I go to pick up my order and Bitchface is there. “We don’t have your cookie,” Bitchface announces as soon as I reach the register. What the fucking fuck!!??? I just look at her as the same teenage boy from before gets my order ready and asks where my cookies are. Bitchface turns around, glares at him and tells him they don’t have any, which prompts him to say, “Well, I put them right here when I was getting the order ready.” Again are you fucking kidding me?? Bitchface sold my fucking cookies before I could there!! The kid hands me my order and apologizes to me, all the while my eyes are staring right at Bitchface.

Glutton for punishment, a week later, I place the same order and head in there to pick it up. NO FUCKING COOKIES AGAIN!!! This time I’m fuming and Bitchface headed for the hills as soon as she saw me come through the door. I’m now dealing with the manager who must be married to Bitchface because he’s just as pleasant…a total fuckwit dickhead. Dickhead tells me he doesn’t have my cookies and my response was, “For the last three Fridays, I’ve ordered dinner from here and for the last three Fridays you haven’t had the cookies I ordered.” (Now, I may have ordered the last three Fridays in a row, but generally I legit order once a week. I’m certain I’m their best customer.)

Dickhead: You should’ve ordered earlier in the day, like at noon. We had them then.

Me: *Laughing* I wasn’t hungry at noon.

Dickhead: The food is on a first come, first serve basis.

Me: *Laughing even louder now* That’s some good business practices you have while running a restaurant. I’d love to see what happened if you ran out of bread since you serve sandwiches.

Dickhead: *Handing me my order minus the cookies* Can I get you anything else?

Me: Just the cookies.

Dickhead: We don’t have them.

Me: Since obviously you sell a lot of them, wouldn’t it be smart to make more, especially seeing as I placed my order an hour ago. That would give you plenty of time to make more.

Dickhead: It’s first come, first serve.

Me: I’m contacting your corporate office.

At this point Dickhead says nothing and Bitchface has now emerged from her hiding in the backroom. I give her a good long stink eye before adding, “By the way, your corporate office is the city I live in so you can guarantee I’m gonna be up their ass.”

I was fuming by the time I got home and Hubs B was just as pissed off about the missing cookies. Between my love of food and Hubs B’s boycotting skills, they’ve lost our business. And I’m certain they spit in my food as soon as my name comes up on their order sheet.

Standby because I sent a scathing email to their corporate office, in which I included a screen shot of a Google map of all the sandwich shops within walking distance of their store. I’m looking forward to their response.


Kiera Knightley, she’s just like me… and you

celebrities they're just like us

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I get People Magazine and it’s kinda the highlight of my week when I find it in my mailbox.

I usually read it cover to cover and one of my favorite parts is the last page, which is an editorial titled “One Last Thing”. It’s where People Magazine asks a few questions to a random celebrity and they give their answers.

So, as I read every week, it got me thinking. Celebrities always say they’re just like regular people. I decided to put this theory to the test and answer the questions in the “One Last Thing” portion of the magazine and compare my answers with the lovely Kiera Knightley. (She was this week’s celebrity interview.)

Here it is:

PM2                                                                Kiera Knightley

The blogger, 35,                                            The actress, 29,

drags her ass out of bed                              hits a high note in the

at the crack of dawn                                  new movie Begin Again.

to go to her regular job.


Last injury

Me: My back. I’m getting old and for some reason setting up and taking down a massive blowup water slide, proved too difficult, causing me to be unable to complete simple tasks like walking or loading the dishwasher due to the pain. There’s also a pretty decent possibility that it was also caused by heaving a hefty Mini 2 up off the grass after he lay there crying when his brother nailed him in the head with a Croc. All of this occurring when they were supposed to be playing in the water slide that took me twenty minutes to set up.

Kiera: Over Christmas I tore my quad muscle. I was filming and I had to run through a door. I hadn’t warmed up, and it got very cold, and when I tried to run it just happened. I couldn’t do very much with it until it healed.


Last time I sang out loud

Me: Today while on the way home from the grocery store. I belted out Rod Stewart’s Maggie Mae with my windows down and everyone within an earshot got an amazing tone-deaf version and I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

Kiera: Probably when I did this film. And it will probably be the last time! I’m sure I sing around the house or in the car, but I’m not really aware of it.


Last time I danced

Me: Last week (OMFG!! I found a similarity!!!) in my bedroom with my kids. We danced to a bizarre techno version of Bastille’s Pompeii Hubs B found on SoundCloud.

Kiera: Last week at a Croatian music festival call FOR Festival (where her husband James Righton’s band Klaxons performed). How I dance and for how long depends on how much I’ve had to drink.


Last thing I returned

Me: Besides library books, nothing. I’m impulsive and too lazy. I buy things but never return them.

Kiera: A pair of trousers that I bought over the Internet that were way too big for me. I hate shopping, so I’m a crap shopper. This just proves I’m a crap shopper, because the trousers didn’t fit.


Last vice I indulged in

Me: Last night (Again, another similarity!!) I ate my weight in churros and drank a several glasses of sangria. All of this after indulging in quesadillas loaded with sour cream and cheese. I really, really like food.

Kiera: Probably the two glasses of rose I had last night. I really, really like a big glass of white wine, big glasses of red wine, big glasses of rose, whatever. I’m equal opportunity. Absolutely.

Now you be the judge, but it’s like we’re leading parallel lives. Shocking, isn’t it?


FYI…The answers to Kiera’s “One Last Thing” questions came from the July 14, 2014 issue of People Magazine. One, two please don’t sue!

Yeah, another post about food


Now I know I’ve made it pretty clear I love food and not to fuck with me when it comes to what’s considered a treat. So today, after a particularly trying day at work, the kind that usually involves alcohol and really good food to soothe me, I remembered I had an ice cream cookie sandwich in the freezer.

See a few days ago Hubs B went to the store on an ice cream run where he so kindly picked up not one ice cream cookie sandwich, but two. He knows me well. I ate one immediately and placed the other in the freezer for a day just like today.

After a small (but kinda big) pity party for myself, I decided to celebrate by enjoying my ice cream cookie sandwich. Yay!! Food!! I opened my freezer and expected it to be sitting right where I left it, considering it’s been weeks since I went grocery shopping, but it was not there. I pulled everything off the shelf I left it on, still no sandwich and the panic began to set in. Then in something that bordered between rage and fear, I tore through the freezer, pulling everything off the shelves. Panting and sitting on the kitchen floor with a pile of frozen food around me, it still couldn’t be found. FUCKING SHITBALLS MOTHER WHORE, WHERE’S MY FUCKING ICE CREAM COOKIE SANDWICH???!!!

Then it hit me. Hubs B. At that moment he was out running (exercise…what the fuck?) and the more I thought about it the more I knew it was him. How could he betray me like this? Devastation turns to anger as I picture him enjoying my bad day correction. He better pray with everything in him to some kind of god that he didn’t eat that sandwich, because he’s never getting laid again if he did. (This is a lie. I’m the one who can’t hold out, but I was seriously angry.)

Hubs B walked in and I immediately accused him:

Me: Did you eat my ice cream cookie sandwich, you motherfucker?

Hubs B: (A sheepish look on his face.) Yes. I’m sorry.

Me: Why? I’m so sad right now.

Hubs B: Dessert food has a two-day statute of limitations in this house. You left that shit for at least four days. And I ate it on the same day you went out with BFF and had Harp Shandies and ate a bunch of cinnamon sugar donuts.

Me: I brought those donuts home for you.

Hubs B: No you didn’t. You bought them for yourself and then felt like you needed to share them with me.

I couldn’t deny this, so I just backed off. Doesn’t mean I’m still not pissed about the cookie sandwich. Good thing I love Hubs B more than food. Shocker, I know.


Mouthgasm: A follow up to the fruit post


After the tragic fruit incident at work today, I needed something to help me recover. So, what do I do? I drive to Portillo’s and order an entire chocolate cake. Yep the whole thing. Not a slice…the whole fucking cake.

Here’s how that went down. I walked up and the girl at the register smiled at me and asked what I would like to order.

Me: I’d like a chocolate cake, please.

Girl: (No longer smiling) Um, ok. A slice of chocolate cake.

Me: No. The whole cake.

Girl: Um, ok. The whole cake?

Me: Yes. The whole cake.

By now I was getting a little annoyed, but I really wanted my damn cake. So I continued to have this idiotic conversation.

Girl: Is this for here or to go?

Before I could answer, she stopped me and informed me that I needed to purchase an entire cake at the catering counter. The register I was currently standing at only took orders for “regular” sized orders. What the fuck does that even mean??

Still needing my chocolate cake, I stepped down to the catering counter, which should just say, “Counter for fat ass ordering an entire chocolate cake.” And here’s how that went down.

Another smiling girl greets me.

Girl #2: Hi, what can I help you with?

Me: I would like a chocolate cake, please.

Girl #2: A slice of cake.

Me: (Growing really annoyed, I may have let out a small huff before responding.) No, the entire cake.

Girl #2: The entire cake?

Me: Yes. (I’m not completely sure but I may or may not have said, “fuck” out loud.)

Girl #2: Is this for here or to go?

Me: (Rolling my eyes and possibly letting loose another “fuck”.) It’s for here. I’m going to consume an entire chocolate cake myself. Just give me a fork.

Girl #2: Oh, ok. No problem.

Me: Hey, that was a joke. It’s to go.

By this point Girl #2 said nothing, just bagged my cake and handed it to me. I can’t imagine I’m the only person to ever order a whole cake from Portillo’s, but the two girls working the counter sure made me believe that I was.

But none of that mattered when I ate that first slice. AHHHHHHHHH-MAZING… It was orgasmic!

Don’t judge me, someone brought fruit to work today and called it a treat!!


If it’s healthy, it isn’t a treat!!


The start of my day was pretty shitastic. I woke up and thought it was Friday. Woot! Nope, fuck me, it’s Thursday. Crabby and pissed off, I arrived at work and opened my email. A bunch of pointless shit, but then I saw a message with the subject “Treats in the lounge” and my day was suddenly looking brighter.

Now I love food. Food makes me happy, especially really good food. Any type of chocolate, cupcakes, donuts, coffee cake, candy, basically any dessert type food. Well, honestly, it’s just food in general. But on a day like today, I was really hoping for the shitty kind of food. The kind with white sugar and white flour; all processed and fake, just all around the worst shit you can eat.

I hauled ass down to the lounge while visions of gourmet cupcakes, Portillo’s chocolate cake (Don’t ask why I focused on this. I kinda already knew this wouldn’t be waiting for me, but a girl can dream), cream cheese Danish, maybe even pink frosted donuts from Dunkin Dounts. The list was pretty extensive and the more I thought about it, the more excited I got. I was almost skipping by the time I reached the lounge door.

I whipped the door open and there sitting on the table was…wait for it… FUCKING FRUIT!!!! FRUIT!!! What sick ass motherfucker calls fruit a treat???? And to make matters worse it wasn’t even the good kind of fruit, like the kind that’s already cut up and ready to eat. It was fucking whole apples, pears, oranges, the kind of shit that takes work to eat.

Luckily I was alone in the lounge because I legit yelled out, “What the fuck?” and I even thought about chucking an apple against the wall. I had to take my anger out on someone. This was a cruel, sick joke and I wasn’t laughing.

A note to my co-workers: There was almost a murder at work today. (Granted it was only an apple, but do you really want that on your conscience?) The next time someone sends a message saying “Treats in the lounge” for all your sakes, you better fucking hope that you legit mean it. My self-control is at its minimum and one more fake treat announcement will surely do me in.

On a side note: A shout out to my boss who left a box of PopTarts on my desk yesterday. That was the only thing that saved my co-workers from getting an email from me telling them all to suck a bag of dicks.



Why My Work BFF Being on a Diet is Ruining My Life

So my work BFF has decided to go on a diet. I’m totally against diets, I hate them, but because I love her, I’m all about helping her stick to it. Work BFF is the reason I want to come to work every day. She makes everything about being there more entertaining, including lunch. She has the most disgustingly perverted sense of humor, amazingly fascinating Tinder dating stories and she makes me laugh to the point of tears on a regular basis. I imagine, should one of us (It won’t be me because I am too lazy to look for another job) decide to move on, our separation would be somewhat similar to Jack’s and Rose’s of Titanic.

Rose: I love you, Jack.

Jack: Don’t you do that, don’t say your good-byes. Not yet, do you understand me?

Jack: Never let go.

Rose: I’ll never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go.

Okay, maybe this is a little dramatic, but whatever. I derailed… This isn’t about my love for my work BFF; it’s about her diet and how it is making me hate my job. For the last few months my job has sucked. Sucked hard. Too much stress, obnoxious co-workers, blah, blah, blah. So to cope with the shit show I call my job, Work BFF and I eat. A lot. We order in, we carry out, we eat out; if it involves food we are on it. But she has opted to bail on me and go on a diet.

Now on to why her diet is ruining my life. Not getting to eat out every day sucks. It sucks for so many reasons, but mostly because it makes me crabby. Food makes me happy…really good food makes me really happy. See where I’m going with this?

Here’s a scenario: Hey, coworker, you keep talking over me every chance you get and I’m going to punch you in the throat. Trust me, I’m a professional and I know what I’m doing.

Normally, I would take a deep breath and think; “It’ll be okay because in an hour I’ll be eating this:

ImageMmmm…Turkish food.

But instead, I’m eating this:

ImageYeah, fml. Poor coworker, you just may get punched in the throat because I wasn’t able to get my mood-balancing lunch.

Scenario part two: Hey, lady, who has called me nine times over two days. Your messages are ambiguous and meaningless. I will not call you back unless you call with something that actually pertains to my job. Every time I see that fucking red voicemail light on my phone, I know it’s you and I want to beat the shit out of the phone Office Space style.

But it’s okay, because this will be my lunch:

ImageSub sandwich I love you with all my heart.

Now after Work BFF’s diet, I’m eating this:

Image”Now tastes even better!” I can’t even imagine what it tasted like before. Disgusting. FYI…lady, you’ll be getting that call back you requested and it won’t be pleasant, because my day is missing my nitrate-loaded lunch meat sandwich.

Now I know I could just eat out on my own. Order a shit load of food and consume it, but by doing that I will be testing Work BFF’s willpower. So, I carry on, crabby and wearing my bitchface all day because I know she’s working hard at this. I’m proud of her, even if it means I’m miserable. Plus, I’ll go home and drink till my lips go numb to make up for it.