Tag Archives: Wisconsin

Summer is….Precious

16 Jun
It’s a beautiful day in Wisconsin.  I’m wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. 
At lunch, I went outside to get some fresh air and stretch.  As I bent over to stretch my back and touch my toes, I noticed that in the bright afternoon sunlight I could clearly see a stray hair on my big toe.  (If you don’t have this problem and can’t relate, you’re perfect and I don’t think we can be friends.)
Normally, I wouldn’t care, and would just take care of it when I got home.  However, after work I’m heading straight to a parent meeting at Son’s school where I will most likely be sitting next to Mrs. Manicured-Pedicured-Real Coach Purse-Escalade-McPriss. You know the type.
So, being the McGyver McGruber I am, I made a bee line for my tape dispenser and applied several strips of tape to the problem area. 
Nothing.  It didn’t even hurt.
Naturally, I moved on to the packing tape.   That stuff is heavy-duty and sticky.  
Nope.  Nada.
At this point I started to panic a little because I really didn’t want to go this parent meeting with hobbit feet. 


Just then, I remembered I had a band-aid in my purse. 
Everyone knows that a band-aid can rip the s*!t out of your hair/skin. 
It totally worked.  And it really hurt.
P.S.  Why didn’t I  just cover my toe with the band-aid?  Because I’m much to classy to walk around with a band-aid on my foot.  Sheesh. 

In Lieu of Gifts, Please Send Gifts

22 Apr

WHAT’S UP BEOTCHES!!???  WOOO-HOOOO!  Like, it’s me, Mother Earth! 

I’m wasted!  I’ve literally been up since the crack of dawn celebrating my day.  It started with beer bongs with my boys in New Zealand (call me!).  

I totally forgot that I promised by boo, DMTF, that I would guest post for her today (oops).   It’s a good thing I brought my phone with me.  I didn’t want to bring it because I have a tendency to drunk dial when I party, but I’m like sooo glad I brought it.  DMTF would have killed me if I didn’t post.  She totally loves you guys.  She’s like completely obsessed. 

So, Happy Earth Day, bitches!  It is all about me today.  If you plan on celebrating my Super Sweet Sixty Million Birthday Bash, you better do something really big for me….or with me (I’m such a slut.)

Oh yeah!  To all the hippy tree huggers out there, you get V.I.P. access at my party in Vegas tonight- even if the chicks don’t shave your armpits, and the dudes smell like beets.  I love you guys.  I totally have your back.

Finally, I want to apologize to my peeps in Wisconsin.  I know I’ve been behaving sort of shitty with you, lately.  The thing is, my boyfriend, who goes to UW-Madison, just broke up with me.  I found out that d-bag was cheating on me with that Slutty McSlutbag, Mother Nature.  I am so mad you guys.  

He said I was too “needy” and a little psycho because I went through his phone one night and deleted every contact with a girl name.  I was all like, “Whatever. Sensitive much?”

I don’t really care, though.  He’s a total coward.  You know how I found out he was breaking up with me?  He changed his Facebook status to “It’s complicated.”  Ummmm, whatever.  You want complicated?  How about October weather in April?  How about snow on Easter?  Is that “complicated” enough for you? 

Well, I gotta run. I have tons of appearances to make and I promised Snooki I’d go tanning with her before my Western hemisphere parties.  Plus, she said she’d do my hair in a poof.

Don’t forget to do something nice for me to today. 

Peace and Love,

Ma’ Earth


It Just Tastes So Good Once It Hits My Lips

21 Mar

I have a love/hate relationship with smoking.   Basically, I love to smoke.  And, I hate myself for it. 

I have the matching t-shirt and tote.

Please don’t judge.  I know it’s bad for my health.  I’m not debating that.  I’m just being honest. 

My nasty habit began long, long ago on a cold and rainy spring day in my friend’s garage.  She had been doing the laundry and found a soft pack of Marlboro Reds rolled up in her brother’s faded, hole-infested Metallica t-shirt.  There was one left.   The whole thing went down like a cheesy After School Special.  We were bored.  We dared each other that the other wouldn’t take a drag.  Five minutes later we’re in the garage coughing up a lung and getting sick to our stomachs.

 My trigger is the smell of a freshly lit cigarette.  The Wisconsin smoking ban has helped curbed this trigger because all bars, restaurants, and campuses are now smoke-free which means I don’t have to smell it.  It also means that  I can smell a cigarette a mile away.   

The other day at school, I walked up on someone sneaking a smoke near a backdoor.  I stood there, frozen, staring at this kid as he took two long, crackling drags off his cigarette.  “What?”,  he said in his cocky 18-year-old voice.  “Nothing”, I silently mouthed.  I continued to stand there and watch him has he texted and smoked, texted and smoked, texted and smoked.  I focused on the sizzling red cherry of that cigarette until all that was left was a burnt little nub.  The entire time I was thinking, “I  love/hate you kid with the snotty attitude who won’t be told what to do, and sneaks out to have a smoke behind the garbage can on a non-smoking campus even at the threat of the rent a cop finding you and giving you a stern talking to”.  I love/hate you. 

I have given up my dirty little carcinogenic habit, for the most part (spoken like a true addict). But, I can do better.  I have to do better.  It’s just that every once in a while the urge to light one up is so intense that I feel like a full-blown junkie.  I get cold sweats, nervous twitches, and I start thinking of what I can trade for a cigarette. 

Excuse me, Sir.  Would you be willing to trade one of your cigs for…..my car?  No?  Oh, ok.  I understand.  Thanks anyway. 

Then, I break a bottle over the bar and shank him with it.

Why did you make me do that?!  I didn’t want to hurt you, man.  I just wanted a smoke.

 Just kidding.  It’s not that bad.  I mean, I don’t actually say that stuff out loud.  I just imagine it. 

Flash forward to this weekend.  It was nice out.  Hubby and I visited some friends, had some wine, and grilled some food.  I caved and a had smoke.  I loved/hated every second of it.

The next day, Son and I are driving in the car together.  He tells me about this cute girl he knows (I suspect he likes her even though he would never tell me). 

Me:    Do you think she’s cute?

Son:  I don’t want to talk about this.

Me.  I’m just asking if you think she’s cute.  It’s a yes or no question.

Son:  I used to think she was cute.

Me.  Used to?

Son:  Yeah.  But, I saw her smoking at a party and it was just……gross.  She smelled like cigarettes all night and I couldn’t talk to her.  I’m glad you quit.  I hated when you smoked.

*Shanked in the heart, punched in the gut guilt*

Readers, forget the E-cigs, the Nicorette, the patches, and the hypnosis.  For the unbelievably low price of $19.99 I will get my Son to come to your house and make you feel like a d-bag.  You’ll never want to smoke again.  

P.S.  Call within the next ten minutes and get a “I’m a d-bag” travel mug . Free!

Wild Thing! You Make My Heart Sing.

2 Mar

This Charlie Sheen video screams What? Wednesday. 

Just Say No

My favorites:

2:07-  Chuck doesn’t remember the last time he used drugs.  I’m no Sheen-ious, but my guess would be, about 5 minutes ago.

2:31- “How I roll”  If he doesn’t slow his roll, he’s going to end up like Charlene, here:


4:19-  “Droopy-eyed armless children”.  Sounds like a bad trip.

I truly hope that Wild Thing seeks help soon.  Let’s not forget what happened to this chick:

Bieber Fever, Explained.

17 Feb

*This post is dedicated to my good friend, R, who is giving birth to her daughter today.  I’m sure 12 years from now, R will be begging me to go with her to whatever teeny-bopper concert her daughter is dying to go to, and I will happily tag along.

I was at the movie theater with Hubby over the weekend, and there was a rather loud and chatty group of tweens lined up for the new Justin Bieber movie.   A group of young girls, all fired up about one thing, hormones raging, voices screeching, can be a bit intimidating.  For a second I thought about warning Hubby to take his glasses off for fear that one of the girls would shout an “OMG” so high-pitched, his glasses would crack.


The thing is, I totally get it.  You can say I was a bit of a New Kids On The Block fan back in the day.  I may have camped out for tickets, I may have stayed at the same hotel when they came into town, I may have even taken the service elevator to their floor and yelled “I LOVE YOU, JOEY!!!!” before the security guard came running down the hall, and I had to run down the stairs to escape.

It’s hard to explain to someone who has never been a teenage girl, but the craziness that washes over you when you’re completly obsessed with a Bieber-esque celebrity can be debilitating. These girls have no idea their love for The Beebs is completely irrational.  They can’t help themselves.  Yes, The Beebs looks a bit like a girl, but that’s part of the appeal.  He looks like a kid, someone these girls might go to school with.

The Beebs

Yes, his songs are written by someone else, and his entire image has been fabricated by a highly paid team of publicists, but it doesn’t matter.  He could stop signing tomorrow, and these girls would still write “Justin + Me= Fo-Eva” as their Facebook status. Justin makes them feel “funny”, and they love it.  “Bieber Fever” is real. These girls can’t help but go nuts. 

For example, the typical Bieber fan knows, even if it’s deep, deep down, that  The Beebs is not singing directly to her.  She knows it’s highly unlikely that Joey McIntyre Justin is going to walk into her school, find her class, grab her hand and say, “DMTF Baby, I love you, and I want you to go on tour with me.”  He’s not then going to tell your mom that she shouldn’t worry, because he really loves you, and he’s going to take good care of you.  There’s a tutor on the bus, and she and your sisters can come visit you whenever they want.  And, Joey Justin isn’t  going to hold a press conference announcing to the world that he’s finally found love in Near Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and he would appreciate if people would just accept that, and give him his privacy, because this is the real deal.  He definitely would not then turn to you, get down on one knee, slip a promise ring on your finger, and say he would do anything for you, and once you’re old enough he’s going to marry you, and the two of you will have a boy and a girl, two dogs, and a cat (Joey loves cats). 

When I was a youg and crazy NKOTB fan, I knew that scenarios like that were unlikely.  However, that didn’t stop me from fantasizing about giving my flower to Joey McIntire in a an expensive and dimly lit hotel room on a bed strewn with rose petals and “Please Don’t Go, Girl” playing in the background. 


The Perfect Parking Spot?

10 Feb


This post in no way condones or promotes drug use.  It is a parable about how having too much fun as a teenager can cause you to experience flashbacks, pimp slaps, and paranoia as an adult.

I was driving around the Target parking lot for about thirty minutes last night looking for the closest parking spot available because the arctic Wisconsin weather has chilled me to the bone.  I’m cold from the minute I wake up until I go to bed dressed in flannel pajamas, a hooded sweatshirt and wool socks.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting older or what, but lately I feel like this cold is literally kicking my a&&.   Every time I step outside it’s like Mother Nature pimp slaps me across the face, puts me in a headlock, punches me in the gut and then kicks me when I’m down while calmly asking “Why do you make me hurt you? ”  Then, I spit out my teeth as blood spatters all over the white snow.  It’s very dramatic.

Anyway, I was driving around the parking lot when I had a major flashback.  Does this happen to you?  It happens to me… a lot.  I can be sitting at work, driving in my car, or just watching T.V., and all of a sudden I’m thinking about an incident from my past, and I relive it all in my head in a matter of seconds.  I usually end up hysterically cracking up, for what appears to be no reason.  I’m sure I  look nuts. 

Yesterday, I flashed back to a warm Spring day in 1993.  I was with my good friend, B, in her tiny a&& Nissan, and I was wearing the standard jeans, t-shirt, flannel, Birkenstocks, black velvet choker necklace combo I was so fond of back then:

B and I had just smoked, and of course, we decided to make ourselves a spaghetti dinner.  We made a shopping list that I’m pretty sure was two pages long, and headed to the store.  The store parking lot was packed that day, and we couldn’t find a spot.  No problem!  We just drove around singing along at the top of our lungs to The Indigo Girls, and laughed….a lot.  After what felt like an hour, but I’m sure was only a couple of minutes, I looked over at B and with a stone (sorry) cold face said to her, “We’ve been driving around for like an hour.  People are starting to notice”.   Also, I was positive there was an undercover cop in the red minivan in front of us. (Paranoia Level Orange.)

It was time to get serious about finding a parking spot.  With the car still running, we sat at the end of  a row facing the store entrance,  turned down the music and scanned the lot for an open spot.  Our paranoia level continued to rise.  Could the lot be completely full?  In the middle of the day? We were sure people were screeching into the lot and purposely cutting in front of us to take every parking spot we saw, and then giving us the finger when they got out.   THEY WERE OUT TO GET US!!! (Paranoia Level Red).

We were just about to give up and walk home  (We couldn’t drive ourselves, because of the undercover cop in the red minivan watching us, remember?) when we both saw the “perfect parking spot”!  It was glorious!  We were saved and we’d be able to make our spaghetti dinner.  I whispered words of encouragement as B inched her tiny car ever so slowly toward the spot near the front of the store, “There you go, B.  Nice and easy.  Don’t go too fast.  You’re doing great.  We’re almost there.”  She pulled into the spot like a pro, and I allowed myself to get excited about the spaghetti dinner, again.  B turned off the car, and we took a minute to laugh about what had just happened. 

Before I opened my door I said a quick prayer,  “Jesus, please let us get the spaghetti and get out of here as soon as possible.  I promise to never smoke again.  Amen.”  Then, I tried to open my door, but it was as though Jesus himself was standing outside of it because I couldn’t open it.  I tried three times before I looked over at B.  She looked like she had just seen a ghost.  “We gotta get the hell out of here.  NOW!”, she yelled.  And then, with a shock to the heart, and my stomach on the car floor, I realized what she was freaking out about. 

The “perfect parking spot” was actually the cart return, and B had just parked her tiny a&& Nissan in it!

I took this particular flashback to be a sign, and left my shopping for another day.  (Paranoia Level Yellow). 

P.S.  This post is very picture-heavy, isn’t it?

Show Me, Show Me, Show Me How You Do That Trick

8 Feb

I had a different post all set to go today, but after watching the following skit from Saturday’s SNL, I’ve decided to stick with the Super Bowl theme just a little longer.  

The skit is hilarious for many reasons.  First, imagine this happening at your neighborhood bar on Super Bowl Sunday (it wasn’t a coincidence they chose Packer fans).  Secondly, everything about this band screams The Cure and even though the song is supposed to be about the Super Bowl, the lyrics sound like they were written by Robert Smith using black eyeliner and blood red lipstick.   Finally, it’s Dana Carvey, and I forgot how funny he is:

The Super Bowl- In Jesus’s Hands

7 Feb

I watched the Super Bowl at my brother-in-law’s house last night, and with the same group of die-hard Packer fans who have gotten together every Sunday this season to watch this amazing, incredible, unbelievable season unfold. People slowly trickled in, and I could hear the nervousness in their voices as they exchanged pleasantries.  We all knew that in a few minutes the game was going to start, but no one was talking about it.   We were all just trying to enjoy the last few minutes of peace before we would take a collective deep breath, and hold it until we heard the last whistle of the game. 

I put my cold six-pack of beer under my chair, gathered my snacks from the food spread, made sure I had enough napkins to get me through an accidental spill, and laughed a little too loudly as Chrrrrrristeeeeeena Ageeeeelerrrrrrra butchered the national anthem.  Then, kick off.

When it looked as though Driver, Woodson and Shields were out for the count, the anxiety was too much for my frail little body *wink, wink* to handle.  I’m pretty sure my natural defense mechanisms kicked in because I don’t remember much about the actual game after that, and today I’m watching highlights on ESPN as if I’m seeing it all unfold for the first time. 

It wasn’t until the last excruciatingly looooong seconds of the game  that my body allowed my mind to think “Holy shit.  I’m pretty sure we’re going to win the Super Bowl.”   At that very moment I took a look around the room and everything moved in slow motion.  I saw my son on the couch in the corner of the room crossing himself and looking up to the heavens as he said a quick Hail Mary, Hubby, his face two shades lighter than usual, sat with his elbows on his knees and face in his hands, and my cousin, who had taken a break from her constant pacing to step outside for some air, walked in with all of her fingers crossed and stood like a statue watching the clock count down the seconds.  At that moment, I had a vision.  Internet, Jesus is a Packer fan, and last night he took the wheel:

Troy PolamaWHO?

4 Feb

The following represents the indifference I wish I felt about this weekend:

Hi!  How are you?  TGIF, right buddy?  Ha ha ha ha ha.  Oh man.  We sure did get a lot of snow this week.  That blizzard was cray-zy.  So, what are you up to this weekend?  Oh, yeah!.  That’s right.  The Super Bowl is this weekend.  Boy, I really do love those commercials.

The truth is, I’m sooooooooo nervous!!!!!!!!!

I have complete confidence in the Packers, but this is the Super Bowl!  There would be something wrong with me if I wasn’t nervous, right?  RIGHT?!

Ok, I’m starting to get……. AAAAAhhhhhh!  I can’t even talk about it anymore.  I just peed my pants a little.

What do you guys thinks is going to happen this weekend?


Grandmother, What Big Eyes You….Is This A New Place?

2 Feb

I called my grandma Wuelita yesterday.  Here’s how it went:

Me:  Hi Wuelita.  How are you?

W:    I’m fiiine my sweedy  How are jo0?

Me:  I’m good.  There’s a blizzard coming and I was wondering if you needed anything.

W:     Noooo.  Gracias, my sweee har.  I no need no-ting.

Me:   Are you sure?  Do you have coffee?  Milk?  I’m going to the store anyway.

W:     No!  I no need no-ting.  Joo go home.  Don drrrrive.

Me:   Ok, if you’re sure you don’t need anything.  I tried calling you a couple of times this weekend, but you didn’t answer.  Did you go somewhere?

W:     Jes. I go to shursh, da store, and den I mooove.

Me:   What?!  You moved?

W:      Well, jes.  I mooove.  I get bedder aparmen don dee ‘all.

Me:  Wuelita, how did you get all of your stuff down the hall to your new apartment?  Why didn’t you call?!

W:    Well, I know joo bizzy with da schoool and dee wor, and I don wanna bodder jooo.  My frrrrend an hair sones ‘elp me.

Me:  I wish you would have called!  Well, at least you’re happy.  I can’t wait to see your new place.

W:    Oh, jes.  I like eet.   Joo comb see eet when joo brrrrring my co-fee an meelk.

I love her.