Sunday, May 29, 2005

Just Because

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Friday, May 27, 2005

Comforted by the Knowledge That Each Little Annoyance Will Lead To My Canonization

Wondering if I should contact the editor of a certain magazine concerning the blank e-mail I received yesterday…Nah, probably just a “yeah, yeah, we got your submission, so please wait your ass for the next five months” auto-response. But I received one the day after I submitted my story, like, last week. Dear me.

Boy, that pisses me off, the not knowing.

My son keeps crapping in his SpongeBob underwear, too. That pisses me off. I mean, really pisses me off. I’ve been quite patient all week, what with the peeing and pooping in the underwear several times a day, but folks, I simply have no more patience to spare. I may resort to diapers once again. Hate to do it, but the SpongeBob resources are all but depleted as I throw out the crapped up ones. There are three pair left, and I am down to my last nerve.

I’m pissed off at many people this week as well. Her and him, and her and her. I can’t stomach insensitivity, nonreciprocal caring or outright asshole behavior for very long. They can all go perform fellatio on the anatomically correct Ronald McDonald statue that sits on the park bench inside Wal-Mart for all I care.

Actually, I would care, as that would be pretty damn funny.

I’m pissed off at Michael Jackson’s defense team -- why those buncha loons. Blaming the victim is so nineteen eighties. I’d like to see them kneeling alongside her and him, and her and her, mouths open in anticipation of receiving Ronald’s brightly painted plaster monster, really I would.

And the list continues, yet I shall refrain from elaborating further.

Aw, I appear to be in a mood today. I'm allowed a mood once in a while, though, aren’t I? I have a right to occasionally be as nasty as I want to be (within reason) considering I’m a freaking saint most days. Why, I’m so saint-like, I expect that I will be beatified upon my death, great monuments will be erected in my name, marble images of my likeness placed beside lounge chairs or atop kitchen counters, and wondrous miracles will shower those who pray to me -- thus my imminent canonization.

I even envision the prayer that David Draiman of Disturbed will write specifically for me, a tidy package of praise and glory titled “The Lor’s Prayer.” It will most likely go something like this:

Thy head, ego-swollen, thy heart full of love
Bless me, O Lor, with thine absolute grace
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness
***insert monkey sounds***
Mother, thou art Queen, how great thou art
***insert charging rhino sounds***

Hey, it could happen.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Well, Congratulations, Carrie!

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Clean For Me, Bo...Clean For Me Good

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(Click to enlarge fabulousness!)

I‘m not ashamed to admit that Bo Bice makes my old ticker skip a beat..

I am, however, ashamed to admit that I would leave my husband for him. Well, not really. Maybe. Depends on how tidy he is...

If Bo doesn’t win American Idol tonight, I shall cry a million tears, then console myself with decadent fantasies that involve me, Bo, a case of champagne, P.J.’s vacuum cleaner, and a brand new sponge mop.

Oh, the indignations of encroaching middle age. It's stealing my groove, y'all.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Sodomized by Captain Morgan!

Went to visit my mom and brothers on Saturday, as I haven’t spent time with them in ages, at least not alone, without kids running around and husband yawning in not too subtle boredom. I hadn’t been able to see Mom on Mother’s Day, either, or my Grandmother, whose birthday is right around Mother’s Day, so I felt the need to go over there. It was great. Until Captain Morgan decided to shove his perpetually raised leg down my throat.

I would recommend to anyone reading this, anyone who drinks alcohol, that is, to avoid drinking six beers on an empty stomach if Captain Morgan is at the party, for you will, with the help of your youngest brother’s enthusiastic urging, believe that it's a terrific idea to down five shots of CM while devouring pork chops and macaroni salad.

This is not a terrific idea.

Everything will seem fine -- at first. You will regale everyone with hilarious stories, will offer sisterly advice to your youngest brother's girlfriend, perhaps dance idiotically to Eminem's Tin Soldiers, much to the delight of those around you; it will seem like you're having the time of your life. But after your sixth shot, you will come to realize that all is not well, that objects about the room are beginning to spin, that your mother's dog, to whom you'd been offering lots of ear-scratching and face-kissing, has breath that smells like human excrement, and you will vomit up whole pork chops into your mother’s laundry room washbasin, and you will horrify your eighty-nine year old grandmother by shrieking “fuck you, Captain Morgan! Fuck you, bastard of the seas!

And your brothers will laugh and laugh and laugh, and your mother will wring her hands with worry between intermittent slaps to your youngest brother’s laughing head.

Eventually, with the assistance of some guy named Shaggy (presumably, a friend of your youngest brother, but one can’t be sure at this point) you will collapse onto your mother’s couch, something you probably haven’t done since you were nineteen, and you will lie there wishing that you could go gently into that good night, but you won’t. No, you will pass out for maybe ten minutes, then awake to the unholy pain of Captain Morgan’s sword piercing your skull. You will sit there in the darkness and watch old Saturday Night Live programs, too disoriented to truly understand just what an ass you made of yourself, yet happy to be alive despite the agony, and so, you go make a bad cup of coffee, drink it without milk or sugar -- perhaps you forget to pour boiling water over the Folger’s crystals and just eat your coffee -- and watch John Belushi and Jane Curtain until three or four in the morning, whereupon your brother will emerge from his basement bedroom, still drinking and needing company, so you will eat your third, fourth, fifth cup of bad coffee as your brother cackles till the break of dawn.

Of course, the hell continues well into that morning as you must do the polite thing and dislodge pork chop from your mother’s washbasin with the brand new plunger she purchased just for this occasion, and you will almost die, not only from the humiliation, but from the bleach fumes as you furiously scrub away every last bit of evidence of your infantile behavior.

I didn’t return home until Sunday afternoon. To a house full of kids, many of them not my own, mud all over my floors, poop in my son’s new SpongeBob underpants (he‘s resisting potty training, which is just fabulous), and cat puke on the family room rug (she ate the lovely bouquet of forget-me-nots and lilacs I'd picked and arranged myself). Husband went off to do a job for some wealthy woman with no kids and 60,000 square foot of glorious tile, brickwork and professionally tended gardens, the bitch, leaving my PMSing fourteen-year-old in charge. So I broke out in a John Denver song, of course:

Hey it’s good to be back home again - yes it is
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend
Yes ’n’ hey, it’s good to be back home again

Oh the time that I can lay this tired old body down
Feel your fingers feather soft upon me
The kisses that I live for, the love that lights my way
The happiness that that livin’ with you brings me

It’s the sweetest thing I know of, just spending time with you
It’s the little things that make a house a home
Like a fire softly burnin’ supper on the stove
The light in your eyes that makes me warm

Hey it’s good to be back home again
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend
Yes ’n’ hey, it’s good to be back home again

And how was your weekend?

Friday, May 20, 2005

Behold the Lights!

Sometimes, when it seems I can’t feel any lower, as if the world is mocking me, me in my platform clown shoes and big fat pants, as if the universe has pulled out its starry phallus and taken a galactic piss upon my head, as if the squirrels that titter amongst themselves in my backyard trees are tittering at me, laughing at me as they crunch their nuts and shake their tails in my direction, dismissing my very existence, and the leaves of those trees are whispering insults as I sit on my patio -- me with my platform clown shoes and big fat pants -- something humorous, something warm will pop from the shadows and startle me out of my self-loathing, a fluffy ball of hope, maybe, that floats like a dandelion seed and settles gently on my soul, one that takes root and spreads, eventually covering me in weedy wishes, or a sweaty fist of ham come crashing down, knocking some sense into my stoney skull, and I will smile; yay, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy dandelion seed and thy sweaty fist of ham, they comfort me, and I shall smile.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the longest sentence ever written. Please, hold your applause for just a while longer, for there is a purpose in that tiresome bit of prose: It is my way of expressing gratitude to the small things, of acknowledging the little lights that creep up out of the darkness and illuminate my path, because lord knows, I’ve been stumbling blind lately. I continually search for those lights, as I’m sure you do as well, but many times, the lights don’t come when I want them. They come when I need them, when I’m not expecting them or demanding them; they come to me just as I’m about to step on a big pile of dog poop. They light my path, make it easier to navigate. And so, I want to thank those little lights that helped me through this week.

In order of appearance:

1) Thank you to Aisha, who took the time to write me a note regarding this story. Seems that I’d forgotten why I write, what my motivation is, why I bother at all. You made me remember.

2) To the person from the U.S. Department of State who is fascinated by my cat’s ass.: Thank you for making me giggle with surprised confusion and delight. But I still hate your boss.

3) Kristin, my next door neighbor, gets a thank you for laughing at my lame quips -- hard. You make me feel as if my “wit” matters. Sometimes, it’s all I have.

4) To my friend, K, who sent me the most wonderful letter yesterday. We’ve not met face to face, but through our years corresponding via blogs and e-mail, I have come to love you like a half-brother whose father divorced our mother and took you with him to another state. Thank you.

5) While folding laundry yesterday, I was tired, perturbed, felt like ripping my husband’s Fruit of the Looms to shreds and putting them in his drawer as if nothing had happened, and my boy, as usual, was “helping” with the laundry, thus making me even more perturbed, when he suddenly dropped my bra, pointed to something on one of the laundry room shelves, and said, “What’s that, Mommy?”

I gave a perfunctory glance and said, “Nothing. Just some crap,” as my fingernails dug deep into the crotch of my husband’s underwear.

“Oh, Mommy!” my boy said excitedly, “Don’t you know I love crap?”

Thank you, Brandon, for saving Daddy's underwear. You’re the brightest light of all.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Dan, Dan the Garbage Man

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Congratulations to my brother, Dan, on receiving his law degree from UCLA (also, from the looks of this photo, congrats are in order for escaping the infamous L.A. Strangler -- way to go, bro'!).

I'm so proud.

But he'll always be Dan, Dan the Garbage Man to me.

Friday, May 13, 2005


Because after last night's blog entry, I'm sure we all could use some sweetness. And so, with my heartfelt apologies, I present the following images in the hopes that these darling creatures will not only scrub your brain clean, but will aleviate my tremendous guilt. Enjoy!
Image Hosted by Awwww!
Image Hosted by Man! Too cute!
Image Hosted by Adorable as all get out!
Image Hosted by Screech! I'm in love!
Image Hosted by Whoops -- don't know how that got in here.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

I Think it Was Shakespeare

So I was checking out my stats today, hoping for, perhaps, more Middle Eastern pudendum lovers (there were), and lookie, lookie what I found: I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard.

Now, I'm no prude, to be sure, and I'm not above indulging in the F word, or even the F word combined with other atrocities, but let it be known that I feel kind of gross writing "I fucked Ann Coulter in the ass -- hard." There might be giants reading this, you know? It just feels wrong.

Anyway, the reason I'm discussing I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard, is that a couple of weeks ago, I came across mention of that site (I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard) on John Shirley's message board, but the poster's link-making abilities were sorely lacking, and the link did not work. I murmured a "damn" and an "oh, well," then promptly forgot about I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard. Didn't seem like something I just had to go searching for, although it did seem like fun. But today, oh, today, she came to me, that little I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard link, and I was so happy, couldn't wait to hit that baby. I mean, with a name like "I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard," it's got to be some funny stuff, right? So I did, I hit that thing, and I landed on I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard, my lips turned up with anticipated glee, my stomach all aflutter with the knowledge I would soon be laughing like the Coulter-hating loon I am, and, and then...


Who was it that wrote “What’s in a name?”

It was like meeting some hottie over a chatline who claims to be a 38-24-36, half Asian, half Spanish Ginger or a hunky six foot Adonis named, uh, Adonis, and discovering upon meeting them in person, they actually could work for the circus as the Bearded Lady and the Elephant Man respectively.

The moral of the story, kids, is this: Don’t be fooled by a pretty name, as I was fooled by I Fucked Ann Coulter in the Ass -- Hard. ‘Kay? All right, then.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

I'm a Middle Eastern Hit!

Rather, my pudendum is...

Normally I couldn't give a camel's hump how people come to my blog -- many are unwittingly snared through deceptive search engine blurbs, e.g., those looking for information on Cybill Shepherd, Patti LaBelle, or prehistoric animals are instead treated to silly much ado about nothings -- but I just can't wrap my mind around the fine Iranian and Saudi Arabian folks who come a knockin' on my pudendum. They come in droves, too. They hit my pudendum several times a day, seven days a week, all from Iran or Saudi Arabia, with the exception of Mr. Ohio. Many are repeat visitors, but they only stay on the one page.

Now, I could certainly understand the fascination if there were a sweet little picture of my freshly done landing strip, or if there were photos of my mother's Brazilian, my neighbor's pink poodle, Ellen DeGeneres's wild and wooly, but there are no such pictures. There are no descriptions waxing erotic about labia majora (or labia minora, for that matter), nor are there spicy stories involving pierced clitorides, marital aides, or monstrous cucumbers named Antonio. Yet they keep on hitting my thang. Over and over again.

I feel so violated, but in a good way.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Symbolism: Martyr = Mother? Or Perhaps I Just Really, Really Hate Bush

Last night I dreamed that I was on death row for a crime I most certainly did commit. The details as to which crime are hazy, but suffice it to say, it was something death row-worthy. I believe I may have said the “F” word in a library (punishable by death in my dream state), or I may have thrown a bag of cat poop at the president (punishable not only by death, but also public name-calling by the secretary of state, administered while undergoing lethal injection). Whichever one, I was screwed.

Now, in this dream I also was a fairly well-known writer with some standing in the literary community, specifically the horror community, and I became something of a symbol in these circles. A symbol of the covert persecution and outright censorship many Americans must endure in their present day lives? A “fight The Man” symbol? A sex symbol? I’m not altogether clear on what I actually symbolized to these folks, but I definitely symbolized something, for there were posters hung all over the place with my picture on them, and a big black X over the word “oppression,” which was superimposed over a skull face. Hmmm.

Peculiar that although I was on death row, I was allowed to roam freely about the country. I made many an impassioned speech about the virtues of true democracy and free speech, traveled widely with my entourage, which included names like Jennifer Lopez, Joyce Carol Oates, and Stephen King. Apparently, the government trusted me not to flee my death sentence, and it never occurred to me that I could, that I should. However, the dread that followed me throughout the dream was horrific.

But bless my soul, the dream ended with an unexpected fizzle instead of the anticipated strap-down and bye-bye cocktail I’d feared…The record store where I’d made my last appearance was packed with adoring fans, many of them writers, some celebrities (I waved, all cool and shit, to John Travolta, and his lovely blue eyes twinkled merrily), some low-level politicians (mayors, congresswomen and men) most of them carrying “Free Lori!” placards, the familiar black X and skull face bouncing above my sea of admirers. So overcome with self-importance and bowel-loosening fear, so happy to be an icon, a suffragette of sorts, a proud symbol of…something, I openly wept while Dean Koontz patted my back and dried my tears with a white Kleenex, and the crowed roared with love, sang songs of treason and coup d’états. Then an army of suits rushed in wielding big shiny guns, my terrified face reflecting off their big shiny seventies-style aviators (?). With dignity and grace, I stepped from the podium and surrendered to my fate…

I woke to the screaming of my boy; unfortunately, he’d been having a nightmare of his own, one that involved abandonment and hopelessness and monsters lurking about, not unlike my own dream. I held him close, rocked away his nightmare as best I could, hummed quietly in his ear, grateful for his presence, for “saving” me, and I thought to myself, what a wonderful world.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Okay, One More For the Road

Yesterday my son spontaneously grabbed me around my head, pulled me tight to his little chest, then clenched his teeth (which happens only when he's so full of love he feels like biting something...Hmmm, can't imagine where he gets that from) and said this:

"I love you so much, Mommy. You're my favorite ass!"


Tuesday, May 03, 2005

A Kid-Bit, Whether You Like it or Not

I’ve always made it a point not to muddy up my blog with all of the adorably horrible things my kids do and say, as I not only find “kid-bits” mostly boring when I read them on other blogs (no offense to those whose blogs feature said bits on a daily basis -- unless I know and love the kids doing the bits, I couldn’t care less what Boopie Lips said about his latest bowel movement), but as some of you know, I do occasionally slip in a kid-bit or two. I simply can’t help myself if the kid-bit is unusually adorable or especially horrible. So, without further ado, I present today’s kid-bit. I apologize in advance if the following anecdote bores you to heavy tears, but it is my firm belief that my kids do the best bits ever, so if you hate other people’s kid-bits as much as I do, well then, feel free to ignore this entry.

Note: My three-year-old, formerly known as Mr. Butler, a.k.a. Phlumpy, a.k.a., Chicken Pee, etc., will from this day forward be known as Brandon, because that is his legal name, and he’s no longer Mr. Butlerish, nor is he Phlumpyish or Chickenish; rather, he’s a miniature man-like creature with large doughy man-thighs and broad man-shoulders who demands in his ever-deepening voice that I stop calling him pet names. I will comply with his manly wishes, especially since his little girlfriends giggle like bouncy-curled, gooey-faced Tinkerbells whenever I call him anything other than his legal name now. He tells me that I’m driving him to drink too many juice boxes, and lord knows I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any future addictions (though Freud assures me that no matter what I do, I will be to blame regardless).

They grow up so fast. Excuse me while I cry a raging river. It’ll only be a moment.

********HYSTERICAL WEEPING********

Fine. All better. Now on to the show…

Yesterday afternoon was a terrific experiment in motherly patience, and I was at a loss as to how I would get through the entire day without beating my son with a Styrofoam dinosaur, so, as many moms will do when they get to that dangerous point of possibly assaulting their kids with Styrofoam objects, I went out on the back porch with a stiff drink and a big-ass Peruvian cigar. I figured, hey, let the boy do his damage, let him continue emptying the contents of all the kitchen cabinets; let him make a bologna and banana sandwich topped with Hershey’s chocolate syrup. In the whole scheme of things, is that really so awful? My tall glass of vodka and orange told me “no,” quite emphatically I might add, so I sat in the sun and smoked and drank and watched the pregnant robins hunt for worms, wishing I were a robin what with their easy lot in life -- drop ‘em, sit on ‘em, feed ‘em for a couple of weeks, then kick the brood right the hell out of the nest -- when suddenly, I got that feeling. You parents know what I’m talking about. That shiver, that spiritual nudge from on high that tells you something is very, very wrong and that you should immediately run to your children because they are most certainly doing something heinous.

As ever, that nudge proved correct.

During the ten minutes or so that I sat dreaming on my porch, my son had:

1) Climbed the hall-closet shelves and retrieved two rolls of toilet paper.

2) Ripped the duct tape from the kitchen island’s bottom drawer (tape was to prevent Brandon from stealing the candles, plastic forks, streamers, party bags and assorted other goodies within).

3) Removed party things as well as the mishmash of electrical cords and nuts and bolts that have no known use, my Pier One sunburst napkin holders, my freshly laundered matching napkins and my fancy dinner candles (only used when entertaining folks I don’t know very well and wish to impress with my Grande Dame of Hostessing ways).

4) Procured jar of peanut butter, package of saltines.

5) Pilfered a butter knife.

6) Used all of the above ill-gotten gains to reinvent my bedroom from serene getaway to party house from Hell.

Before I could open my frozen mouth or unclench my fists, while waves of nausea and disbelief rolled over my entire body, Brandon said this to me: “Happy Mother’s Day! I hope you like your precious party!”

I hope you like your precious party.

Let me remind you of his age. Three. He’s three years old. Thirty-nine months, to be exact..

I hope you like your precious party.

What could I do? I’ll tell you what I did. I sat down on my freshly laundered napkins (chairs), and I ate peanut butter and saltines, ignoring the chunky-style Jiff smeared on my bedspread, my hardwood floor, ignoring the toilet paper strewn about my beautiful four-poster bed, hung from the highboy, the streamers looped over the dresser and night table, and I happily accepted the “presents” that filled smiley-face party bags, gifts that included an assortment of nuts and bolts, electrical cords and candles, some of which had been snapped in two and/or obviously chewed. And I did indeed like my precious party.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

Most Overused Phrase in Ms. Lori's Everyday Conversation

I find myself saying "gimme a break" at least six or fifty times a day. Frankly, I'm sick of hearing myself whine this phrase over and over again, and have decided that it's personal growth time. So, beginning today, instead of only saying "gimme a break," I will employ the rest of the lyrics whenever I feel that life is being stingy with me.

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Gimme a break, I sure deserve it
It's time I made it to the top.
Gimme a break, I’m looking forward
Get behind me, pull out every stop
I want a happy ending
I'm tried of pretending
Won't let 'em get the best of me
Wo wo wo wo
Gimme a break, the game is survival
Gimme a break and plan my arrival
Gimme a break for heaven's sake
What happened to my piece of the cake?
Gimme a break
Gimme a break
Gimme a break!

I also say "this sucks shit" a lot, but there's no way to improve on perfection, so I'll leave that as is.