Warning: This post is laced with anger, curse words, and insults.  Read at your own risk.  

A while back, a decision was made about Allie’s upcoming third birthday party. (Stay tuned, I promise this post is way more important than balloons and cake.) You see, Allie has more toys than she could ever handle, way more. As the only only grandchild on both sides, this problem will not stop any time soon. So for Allie’s birthday, we decided that at her party we should request that if the guests felt they needed to bring a gift, in lieu of the gift they should donate whatever monetary amount they were going to spend on a gift to one of various causes/charities.

This idea seemed perfect to me. Allie isn’t in need of any gifts that she can’t be provided with, and it only made sense that if people want to give her something–perhaps they should give this something to somebody who needs it.

(bare with me. i’ll get there eventually.)

You see this idea came up because my little girl is very charismatic, and when she told people she wanted a baby doll for Christmas…we received 18 of them. 15 of which we donated to a toy drive and three she kept. This is just one example of her magnetism. While I understand the need to feed into her cuteness, I cannot condone this kind of thing. Particularly, when we have family out the wazzoo and they are gift giving fools. (I’ll admit this is nice. I’m not totally bagging on it.)

Honestly, we debated for a while over the decision. I even debated over posting about the decision. I never wanted to come across as snubbing people’s gifts or falling into the category of what my grandma would’ve called highfalutin’. But when push comes to shove, that kid needs another Barbie doll like I need another damn hole in my head. And to me, it is ridiculous to spend money on toys for a child who does not need them, when the money can be spent on people that do need it.

So I mailed out the invitations with a small insert. (Note: I would never have put the insert in, if it wasn’t for the fact that most people go to parties armed with gifts. I would never flat-out demand one.) The insert simply mentioned that gifts were not necessary, just the presence of the guest. Then, it went on to detail that if they felt compelled to bring a gift, they should instead donate the money to one of the causes listed below. I also added that if they did not want to mail it in themselves, they could write a check to their choice, and I would mail it.

Possible Causes:
Children’s Miracle Network
Shriner’s Hospital for Children
Make A Wish Foundation
Autism Research and Awareness
Ronald McDonald House Charities

Wouldn’t you know that within a few days of mailing the invitation, people were abuzz about it. I had a few phone calls from folks who thought that this was a fabulous idea. A few.

Of course, there were some who thought that this insert was a small act of birthday party terrorism. Because how dare I ask them to not give my child another pair of plastic high heels and instead request they donate their money with children with Cancer.

How fucking selfish of me.

Or the best was that it’s “a shame I’m not letting my child play with toys and receive gifts”. Well, she is getting gifts, and she will be playing with toys. And the only thing that is a fucking shame is the fact that I have to put up with this sort of bullshit from people. At this point, I sort of sick that I have to coexist with some so small of mind and heart.

Another wonderful quote was that I should, “let Allie make her own decision about her birthday party”. Well hell, she’s nearly three years old. She said she just wanted people to come and play. That’s what they’re going to do. It’s at a bounce house. She loves it. She’s (almost) three.

Heaven forbid, a three year old not get to make every single decision about her birthday party. I mean, if that happened, half of us parents would be on the damn moon lighting birthday candles while singing happy birthday while Hannah freakin’ Montana performed a concert in the background, and Mickey Mouse did cartwheels.

(Note to self: calm down.)

Honestly, I had the foresight to see that this could possibly cause a problem for someone. I was hoping it wouldn’t though, because if someone had asked me to do this…I would be thrilled.

But I didn’t really think anyone would get this worked up over being asked to donate money to Autism Research instead of giving my daughter a slutty Bratz doll donned in hooker clothes looking like she was ready to go for a ride.

Where were my priorities?

Sometimes, people just make me sick. Not you guys, you’re fabulous. But some of these other people walking around on this planet, they are tools of the worst design.

Recently, I was reading the latest issue of Glamour, when I stumbled upon an interesting little tid-bit. It was one of those itty-bitties that is hidden on the bottom corner of the page. You could possibly miss it if you flipped through too fast or if you got caught up smelling all of the new perfume samplings.
Not that I do either of those things…*cough*

Anyhow, back to business, the little tidbit was part of a question answer section with an OB/GYN. The question that got my attention was this one,

“Do ob-gyns expect women to be groomed and waxed down there?”

I thought the answer would be something along the lines of, “Of course, we are not interested in gals unleashing their mega-bushes, spread eagle on our table. I hate having my eyeballs gouged out by stray hairs.”

But that wasn’t the answer.

I know.

But, really, how many times have you thought about this whole fiasco before you ventured off to the one that examines your nether regions? I don’t necessarily mean that you wondered what they expected, but you know, groomed yourself for the appointment . Or maybe you didn’t groom yourself in fear of what they might think.

(I never know with you ladies. For all I know, some of you probably have your hair trimmed into shapes resembling lightening bolts.)

Maybe this sounds silly to you?

Probably, it does. If it doesn’t, why are you so damned secure about someone inserting tools into your privates?

Really, for most of us, the privates doctor is the only person aside from the person we are doing the horizontal (and sometimes vertical) tango with that sees our lady bits. It only seems natural to be somewhat nervous, and even concerned, about the display of our privates.

Now, for those of you not indulging in Glamour, I will share with you her answers.

In reply to the initial question, the privates doctor, Dr. Hilda Hutcherson says that ob-gyns rarely pay attention to the appearance of your party barn, because they are too busy trying to stare down your vulva. (I promise I paraphrased that. She did not say stare down your vulva. That was all me. I. am. inappropriate.)

The person asking questions was apparently as in doubt as I, because I fail to believe if someone busts out a huge mega-bush they would definitely notice, and be as disgusted as someone who is eye to eye with vaginas all day could possibly be.

They then asked, ” You really don’t even noticed the way we look?”

Dr. Hutcherson then replied that, ” If your hair is so long that it gets in the way of the speculum, we may notice, but we won’t judge you.”

Whatever, they are so judging with you are when you super hair syndrome.

She went on to add that, “…if you’re bald as the day you were born, it’ll only get my attention because it’s different.”

Maybe it’s just me, but I found this whole little thing interesting. I have always wondered if ob-gyns judged their patients by their privates. True Story.

To close, because this post is apparently going no where appropriate, but I must post it due to the time spent writing it, I am leaving you with this hilarious story I’ve received via email about 3000 times, even from my grandma, about privates grooming.

I was due later that week for an appointment with the gynecologist when early one morning I received a call from his office: I had been rescheduled for early that morning at 9:30am. I had just packed everyone off to work and school and it was around 8:45 already.

The trip to his office usually took about 35 minutes so I didn’t have any time to spare. As most women do, I’m sure, I like to take a little extra effort over hygiene when making such visits, but this time I wasn’t going to be able to make the full effort. So I rushed upstairs, threw off my dressing gown, wet the washcloth and gave myself a wash in “that area” in front of the sink, taking extra care to make sure that I was presentable.

I threw the washcloth in the clothes basket, donned some clothes, hopped in the car and raced to my appointment. I was in the waiting room only a few minutes when he called me in. Knowing the procedure, as I am sure you all do, I hopped up on the table, looked over at the other side of the room and pretended I was in Hawaii or some other place a million miles away from here. I was a little surprised when he said:

“My…we have taken a little extra effort this morning, haven’t we?” but I didn’t respond. The appointment over, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home. The rest of the day went normal, some shopping, cleaning and the evening meal, etc.

At 8:30 that evening my 14 year old daughter was fixing to go to a school dance, when she called down from the bathroom, “Mom - where’s my washcloth?” I called back for her to get another from the cabinet.

She called back, “No - I need the one that was here by the sink. It had all my glitter and sparkles in it.”

My younger brother has always been a sleepwalking fool. However, his sleepwalking is not as involved as most. He doesn’t wander around or do various things. Basically, he sleeps walk to a spot (usually his closet) and pees.

That’s right. He is a sleep walking urinator.

Notice I said, “is” and not “was”.

The bad part about this…besides the whole peeing in his sleep all over his clean clothes sometimes…is that he rarely, if ever, makes it to the toilet to pee. He generally makes it as far as  his closet, maybe the corner of the room, or even a cabinet. You never know.

One of the funnier incidents is the time he pissed his Christmas gifts.   or the time he pissed his easter basket.  or the time he peed in every pair of shoes he had.

I could go on for hours.

true story.

I have been a gal of few words this week. And trust me, it isn’t because I don’t have much say. heh. But certain family businesses are about to undergo the world’s largest audit and I’ve spent most nights going back through all of the books to make sure everything is in order and easily accessible. Anyway, since I haven’t time to do a lengthy post about the latest drama in my life.  Hopefully, I will be able to bring you the latest ridiculous happenings tomorrow, but until then, here are more hyphenated last names gone wrong:

Do you know anyone with a ridiculous name? Because I once had a friend who had a step dad named ‘Harry Johnson‘.

A couple of weeks ago my beloved blackberry decided to stop working. Following it’s spontaneous hiatus, I also misplaced the phone. I hate to admit when I adore material items. I’m serious. Materialism is so not what I am selling here. (Not that I’m selling anything, but you get my drift. or do you?)

It makes me feel all base and nasty inside. But really, I loved that phone. I tried not to like it.

I really did.

In the end, it won me over–which I suppose doesn’t matter because it is missing in action.

When I lost the phone, my SIM card was also gone. This means that every phone number I had in my address book was also gone. I wasn’t upset over the loss of the phone numbers  that I  actually call, because there are very few.  However, I was  mad over losing the numbers of all of the numbers for which I need to NOT answer the phone.

I know this sounds crazy. But losing all of the do not answer phone numbers in your phone is a BIG DEAL. Am I the only person that stores the numbers of annoying people as ‘DO NOT ANSWER!!!@#$”? Tell me I’m not the only person who thinks this is a big deal.

Because to me, when I have to now answer calls from the likes of 80’s Lady and other idiots of the like due to having to recensor my calls, I get so pissed.

Either way, I have a new phone again. I will be all dirty again and admit that it is a new version of the blackberry. I will also pretend I hate it.

***PS. I’m sorry for this entry. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to blog about this subject. I realize it’s sort of stupid. But it’d been one of those days. And seriously, you have got to try out storing numbers as ‘DO NOT ANSWER’. **

That, my friends, is my husband dressed in drag as a youngster for a halloween party.
( Dearest, Husband, In the future, if you would not like various embarassing pictures like this to be shown to the world wide web..give me more than a two hour notice that people are coming to look at our house. Seriously. It is difficult to scrub nooks and crannys in that amount of time. This little picture is what I call retribution. Love, Your wife.)

PS. I just can’t to do the completely wordless thing. This is as close as I can get.

Allie’s rampant creativity has peaked monumentally. The latest of her creative endeavors is her most recent imaginary best friend, Cleek. That’s right, not Mary, Sally Jo, Kate, or any other name.

It’s Cleek.

The issue with Cleek is that, judging from Allie’s tales about her, she is a tad bit rough around the edges. To put it mildly, Cleek is a street thug.

Example:

Allie: “My friend Cleek was running down the road the other day. Then, she tripped. Then,she got a bleed. And then, she went to…JAIL!”

Me: “Jail?”

Allie: “Yes, JAIL!” (hard emphasis on jail..again.)

Me: “What do you think jail is?”

Allie:”Jail’s where all the polices are and you go there if you’re bad.”

Me: “And your friend–this Cleek gal, she frequents the jailhouse?”

Allie: “Yep. She steals.”

Me: “How old is Cleek? And what does she steal?”

Allie: “Cleek is firteen. She steals blue crayons and people’s dogs.”

Me: *baffled*

You see, Cleek is a thug. I’d like to talk to her, because I have a few questions lined up for her. Like–what the hell is she doing with all of these blue crayons and dogs?

Next week, I imagine that our house will be rather busy since Allie and Cleek will probably be debating whether they should join the Crips or the Bloods. I just hope they don’t bring poor along for the ride.

After getting off of the phone that morning with 80’s Lady, I was both mortified and naive. While 80’s Lady had dropped a watermelon sized bomb on me, I basically thought she was lying.I mean, it’s what she does.
She is a professional liar.

Wait–do not be mistaken;

By professional, I mean she lies regularly, likely profiting from it, and not the other professional, like that if there was a sports ranking for liars she would be batting in the World Series.

She is at the t-ball level as far as that goes– except she isn’t 3 feet tall and doesn’t have a miniature glove.

Anyway, after the phone call, I had sort of forgotten the fact that 80’s Lady ensured me I would be stalked that day. Retaining any information that early in the a.m. is a miracle, let alone remembering that she had donated me as a friend to her allegedly long,lost daughter.

So I went about my morning normally forgetting the  intricate lacings of insanity in my life.

Well, I forgot until I was walking to one of my classes, and I felt like someone was following me. Once again, my brain had blocked out all of the looney. So I just assumed it was someone else walking too closely behind.

After a while, I noticed that the person hadn’t turned off or went a different direction.

Then, it dawned on me.

80’s Lady Jr. was following me around in the most conspicuous of ways. She was doing the walking equivalent of riding someone’s ass on the interstate– at full speed.

Honestly, nice girl or not, I was not enjoying the fact that I had somehow ended up a pawn in one of 80’s Lady’s games. (I guess it would be difficult to be the pawn of someone who at their best could only master Connect 4. But you know what I mean.)

Being the semi-asshole that I am, I walked around way longer than necessary leading this poor girl in circles. But I couldn’t help it? Who just aimlessly follows someone around with a mere 12 inches of space between them?

I was curious about how long this girl would trail me. After ten minutes, (Yes, TEN MINUTES) I abruptly turned around.

Facing her, I said, “Hi. I’m Amanda. Do you need something? Because not to be rude or anything, but I can feel you breathing on my neck. That would not be a bad thing if you were Scott Patterson, but you aren’t. ”

She looked rather startled. It was not my intention to be rude to her. I’m not a rude gal. In fact, I have an uncanny ability to tolerate the odd. However, a girl can only pursued by a human shadow for so long.

“Oh, sorry. I just wasn’t sure what to say. 80’s Lady said you wanted to meet me,”80’s Lady Jr. sputtered out.

And that’s where it began. The whole reason I really wanted to avoid this poor girl. I knew I would have a difficult time deciding what I should and shouldn’t say regarding the woman who had carted her around for nine months.

Since I was schooled on a scholarly level concerning the ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ rule by both my mother and Thumper, I followed it. While I might not be the best at being a proxy for two people reuniting, I am good at following rules.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied.

We had a short conversation after that about stupid things like the school wasting money on elaborate water fountains but cutting the budget for paper, and other things like that.

I even saw her again the other day, and thankfully, she just waved. I didn’t want to have to break out my pepper spray if she got hot on my trail again.

Really, she seems like a nice young lady. She appeared to be normal, and thankfully, an affinity for acid washed jeans isn’t genetic.

Also, I realize that it isn’t really my job to educate her about what a whack-job 80’s Lady is. Unfortunately, she’ll probably figure it out in a short amount of time anyhow. 80’s Lady does not conceal her crazy. As far as my forced friendship with her goes, I guess we’ll be friends, because it isn’t her fault that at one point 80’s Lady made up a random lie and told the whole family I left a WHOLE Q-TIP lodged in Allie’s ear canal. (They obviously knew it wasn’t true. But still.)

80’s Lady is trouble. Jr can figure that out, and do with it what she wants.

(And don’t worry, that story about the Q-tip is coming eventually too.)

Sometimes my husband randomly springs things on me, like that he wants to go compete in Bowling Green at the World’s Auctioneer Championship–tomorrow. So, we are rushing last minute to pack and head that way. Because apparently, it is customary to make last minute decisions.

Anyhow, I’ll be gone for the weekend. All I know is that our hotel better have wireless internet, because there is no possible way I am sitting for 14 hours straight and listening to auctioneers. Particularly, after I have finally come down 100% with the plague, and have an earth shattering headache.

Either way, I’m off to try out this whole supportive wife thing. Have a good weekend!

If you need some entertainment, here are some good reasons to not hyphenate your last name sent to me in an email:

So, so much to do,

in a short amount of time.

desperately need sleep.

I often wonder

how mothers of more than one

manage to function.

Particularly,

if the children are under

the weather. How? HOW?

A single ill child

absolutely wears me out.

You are wonder women.

————————————-

Shamelessly Sassy

is getting a make-over,

must learn how to code!

Trying to edit

is taking up posting time.

Need to finish soon!