Lately my darling son has been a real dick.  Yeah, that’s the story I’m leading with, do you have a problem with it?  IF SO I WILL GROUND YOU.  I am pretty much the best at grounding people lately.

I think the most frustrating part of his recent behavior at school, which has been mostly about him refusing to do the things he is supposed to do, is that I don’t get it.  It doesn’t seem smart, and I don’t handle Not Smart very well.  If Behavior B gets you in trouble, but Behavior A gets you rewards and fun, WHY WOULD YOU KEEP DOING BEHAVIOR B I MEAN COME ON YOU ARE A LEARNING ROBOT ARE YOU NOT?  I was only rebellious at school when I wouldn’t get caught, which wasn’t until I was a senior in high school.  It’s a little cocky for this seven-year-old to think he’s going to get away with it.

Today I picked him up and the first words out of his mouth were, “My necklace is bad luck.”  And I’m like, “(head-tilt, question-mark eyes)” and he’s all, “It’s bad luck because I had a bad day today.”

SO NOW HE THINKS I’M STUPID, TOO.

Anyway, parenting is fun.  Thanks for letting me get that out.

We survived our four-day trip to Phoenix.  Next time I want to stay long enough to be able to forget the horrors of the flight out there before we have to get on a plane home, though.

One of the main reasons for this trip was for Andrew to meet My Entire Redneck Family.  I have to improperly use caps there because it’s the only way to stress the Entirety and the Redneckedness of My Family.  And there are many of us gun-toting, truck-driving motherfuckers.  I have four brothers and two sisters and my parents and all my grandparents are, miraculously, still alive so what I’m getting at here is POOR ANDREW.  But he survived.  The children also survived a total of eleven hours on a plane, BUT IT WAS CLOSE.

After we had checked our luggage, Maya screamed “HE STOLE OUR BAAAAAGS” woefully in the middle of Tampa International Airport and that was sad.  One night Andrew and I were out without the kids and as we drove back, we seriously considered bailing to Mexico, but we didn’t, and that was sad too.

Now it is wedding-planning time, so excuse me while I go hyperventilate into a paper bag.

It’s like yelling at your neighbor about the couch he keeps in his house.

OH WAIT. YOU CAN’T YELL AT YOUR NEIGHBOR ABOUT THE COUCH HE KEEPS IN HIS HOUSE. BECAUSE IT’S NOT YOUR HOUSE, SEE?

No matter your opinion on abortion, it’s irrelevant, because her body is not your house.

Last week I was running some errands while Maya and I waited for her glasses to be made at the optometrist.

Sidenote: Maya got glasses, and HOW CUTE DOES SHE LOOK I MEAN SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS HOW CUTE.

All the cutes, that’s how cute.

So we are in the car driving back to the optometrist and I feel a tickle on my arm and you guys, I JUST KNEW.

I JUST KNEW IT WAS A SPIDER.  Like Kristin Bell just knew there was a sloth in her house, I JUST KNEW THERE WAS A SPIDER ON MY BODY.  In case you need a reminder, I don’t like spiders.

But I didn’t want to freak out the little girl in the backseat (although who am I kidding, she is about nine times tougher when it comes to bugs than I am) and also, I was driving in heavy traffic with no place to just pull over and handle this– so I convinced myself it was not a spider.  Just a hair, Brianna, I mean seriously, how could a spider get in the car and then on your body, haha, you’re such an L7 Weenie.

And that actually worked until a half-mile later when I felt a tickle on my ribcage and looked down to see this

running up my side towards my face, which it obviously wanted to eat right off.  It ran up my ribcage, across the boobs, over my shoulder, and down my back.

Oh my God, oh my fucking God there is a spider running all willy-nilly over my body while I am navigating a two-ton, flammable metal object, one that is also carrying my daughter, through a moving network of other large, flammable metal objects.  There is absolutely nothing I can do in this situation except shit my pants and call it a day, right?

I kind of wiggled the best I could and Maya wanted to know what I was doing.  “There is a spider on me,” I didn’t yell, an accomplishment for which you can send cookies to me directly.  And Maya, ever so helpful and informative, replies, “Oh. Okay. Maybe it’s a tarantula.”

MAYBE IT IS, KID. THANKS.

Now I am in the middle of a left-hand turn.  I cannot see nor feel the spider moving on me, but I know it’s there, waiting for a clear shot at my jugular or perhaps down my throat where it can lay eggs that will eventually burst through my stomach.

I’m squealing noiseless squeals.

Spider decides to make a break for it and shoots from between my back and the driver’s seat, across my hip, and down into my crotch.  I saw my opportunity and took it, and people, I killed that spider with my ass.  Here is a horrible visual for you:  me, hands in a deathgrip on the steering wheel, maintaining a cool 50 miles-per-hour, bouncing and grinding my ass wildly on the driver’s seat, squealing and sweating and all this with an innocent child in the backseat.

I know.  I KNOW.  I don’t even have tinted windows.

I did this for the remaining two-mile drive to the optometrist and when I finally stopped the car in the parking lot, I took a deep breath and got out.  It was dead.  My ass ground that spider into dozens of pieces.  I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE PROUD OF YOU, ASS.  I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT HERE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.

I was shaking and sweating and cursing and yes, I know this was a gross over-reaction to what is just a bug, but you know what?  Forget waterboarding, or electric shocks, or phone books, or whatever other torture method those types of agencies are using nowadays– Spider On You In A Car While Driving In Heavy Traffic should be THE go-to interrogation tactic.  Your prisoner will absolutely be willing to share all the details within seven minutes of the spider being released onto their person while driving, or you can smack my spider-killing ass and call me Shirley.

This morning I went to the store for one thing and one thing only– a Christmas tree.  Since Maya has wicked allergies, I was looking for an artificial one.  I picked one out online and went to pick it up.  This will be quick!  I thought. In and out! Only one item!

Isn’t my naivete adorable?

So I was in the store, had spotted my intended purchase, and went back to the front to get a cart for the massive box.  Sometime between wheeling the cart out of the cart stable, and getting back to the artificial tree aisle, I must have… gotten lost, or SUCKED INTO A BLACK HOLE OF CONSUMERISM, because I don’t remember anything between grabbing my empty cart, and waking up in the rear lot of the store on a pile of 39-cent holiday candles, bruised, my wallet empty, with “HAHA SUCKER! LOVE, TARGET” carved into my stomach.

Okay, that part is not true, but close. By the time I had found my way back to the artificial tree aisle, my cart was full of shit, just absolute crap.  If a warehouse full of plastic washed down chorizo and eggs with Jäger bombs, got diarrhea and could only find my cart in which to relieve itself, it would look like this.  I WILL BUY ALL OF THE THINGS.  I snapped out of it, thankfully.  All of a sudden I looked down at some 97-cent plastic snowman-shaped cup for the kids that had appeared in my cart, realized it was just shit– shit that would pile up in my kitchen, living room, dining room and drive me crazy and and and WHY?  No.  I emptied everything straight into the middle of the aisle (save the tree), and ran away.

I’m not writing some bitter diatribe on advertising and consumerism; someone else can do that much better than I.  I am just amazed, more than anything, at how easy it is to get sucked in.  I love Christmas (there! I said it! it is my mom’s fault!) and want to make it fun for my kids and start traditions for our newly-meshed fambly, but something tells me that the 97-cent plastic snowman cup isn’t an integral part of that.

I can’t be the only one– Do you ever get sucked into the BUY ALL THE THINGS holiday spirit?

Today’s post was written by a very talented guest-blogger.  You know him as Peter DeWolf, or “that goofy adorable Canuck”.  I know him as the guy who kicked my ass in fantasy football last season and the guy who is doing much better at producing posts for my blog than I am!  Enjoy!
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“It’s never going to fit,” she says, well aware of how dramatically it came out.

“Sure it will,” he replies, his eyes never leaving the football game.

“You’re not even looking.”

He glances over quickly, with just his eyes, and then back to the giant flat screen tv.

“It’ll fit.  You’re just not doing it right,” he says.

“Come show me how,” she smiles.

He hops up.

“Fiiiiiiine.  That play is under review anyway.”

He looks at the clothes.  He looks at the suitcase.  He strokes his chin.

“You need to roll your clothes,” he declares.

“Is that so?”

“It is so.”

She stares at him.  She bats her eyes.

“Need some Visine?” he asks.

“Maybe if you roll one piece to show me how?”

“But… But the game…”

“You’re so fast and talented that you’ll have it all finished before the game comes back on.”

He rolls his eyes, as he picks up the suitcase and dumps everything out.

“You’re taking my FoxyBingo.com t-shirt?”

“Yeah.  I like sleeping in it.  It makes me feel like you’re there.”

“Oh crap.  That’s annoyingly sweet.  I’ll roll two things,” he says.

“My hero.”

He takes a pair of skinny jeans and rolls them tightly, as he hates himself a little for knowing that they’re skinny jeans.  He places them gently in the suitcase.

He grabs a cardigan and begins rolling.

“You have to roll it like… those Mexican things that you make fun of me for having never tried before even though I’m Canadian,” he explains.

“You’re doing sooo well,” she says, taking a handful of the fries he left on the bedside table.

He shakes his head.

“It’s good that you got me to do this.  I’m going to show you have packing is done.”

He rolls.  He places.  He rolls.  He places.  And so on, until everything is rolled.

He stares down at the suitcase.

She walks over and stands next to him.

She stares down at the suitcase too.

“They don’t fit, do they?” she asks.

“No.  They don’t.”

“Hmm,” she says.

“I’ll buy you a bigger suitcase and give you a backrub if we never discuss this again.”

“Deal.”

“You ate all of my fries, didn’t you?”

“*Buuuuurp*  Maybe.”

So a couple of days ago Andrew told me about this creepy dream he had where he woke up in the morning, went into the bathroom, and looked into the mirror to find he had Moose eyes.  Moose is our basset hound and in case you don’t know anything, basset hounds have very droopy eyes.

I shuddered, then was all, “Dude, we have to Photoshop that.”  Because OF COURSE WE HAVE TO.  And he agreed and we high-fived, then we forgot about it.

But today! We were slacking at our respective jobs, met at my desk to do this instead, and, well… I’m sorry for the way this photo may make you feel, but I also regret nothing.

On Monday night Andrew and I went to a Duran Duran show.  I would love to tell you that this was a lifelong dream of mine coming true or that I have been swooning over Duran Duran since before I even knew what a tingly feeling down below meant, but that would be a lie.  I am 28 years old.  I was not even born when Duran Duran first had a single hit the US charts.

BUT!

I grew up with Duran Duran as my dad really did (sorry Dad but it’s true, so don’t get your Members Only jacket in a wad) embrace the 80′s.  I remember that on Sundays, which were cleaning days in our house, there were always some DD jams being mimicked by me on my broom-turned-air-guitar. And– I am about to up the gross factor on this here blog by about 173%, are you ready?– my mom once told me that I was conceived to a Duran Duran song.  So there’s that.  I guess I felt like if there is a band who could inspire my parents to fuck (UGH DIE MENTAL IMAGE, DIIIE), and that band is still around and jamming, I probably owe it to them to go see them play.

I’m going to tell you about the show.  I really am.  But first I’d like to talk to you about their jackets.

THEIR JACKETS, YOU GUYS.  Ugh, I had so much horrible-fashion jealousy.  The keyboardist, Nick Rhodes,  had this leopard print velvety blazer that I basically wanted to have sex with.  And Simon was rocking this like… futuristic-looking black and red irridescent MASTERPIECE.  I was only about eight rows from the stage and did many mathematical equations to the tune of “Distance from stage/Running speed(Does Simon carry a knife) = THAT JACKET IS MINE, BITCH”.  Alas, Simon is a spry fellow and I didn’t want to risk it.  This is what eBay is for, after all.

Back to the show.  So yeah, Simon is a babe.  There, I said it; I was sexually attracted to a man older than my dad.  Cows would slay themselves if he used his golden voice to ask them for a steak.  And he’s got moves, man! All the moves.  If you recently had some moves but now can’t find them, it’s because Simon took them all.  Don’t tell my boyfriend I told you this, but he’s been walking around the house for the past two days trying to perfect some fancy shoulder work he learned from Simon.

And the band as a whole was amazing.  They sounded great and were full of energy and happiness.  A+++ would watch again.  I didn’t even spend one minute of their show wondering which song had my parents bumping ugl– OH GOD THERE’S THE MENTAL IMAGE AGAIN.

–

Disclaimer:  I was given two tickets to see Duran Duran with the understanding that I tell you all about it afterwards.  That does not mean my thoughts on the show was paid for; all opinions are 1.) unbiased, B.) my own.  You can follow Duran Duran-related posts/tweets on Twitter using the #duransocial hashtag.

I was in line at the grocery store the other day and there was a couple behind me– some cutesy teens, you know the type, always handsy and affectionate in public, it’s like GET A FUCKING ROOM OR AT LEAST UPGRADE IT TO FULL-ON FUCKING IN THE GROCERY STORE SO I CAN SWITCH FROM JEALOUSY TO AROUSAL but anyway my point is they were having a conversation and I was eavesdropping.

The girl was teasing the guy about his hatred of pita bread and hummus.  She’s all, “Why do you hate this chickpea goodness so, my dear?”  And he was like, shrug, “I’m a flavorist.”

“Excuse me, what?  A flavorist?”, she asks, seeking explanation for this obviously made up thing.

Him:  “Like, you know, I prefer food with flavors.”

HE WAS SERIOUS YOU GUYS.  HE SERIOUSLY MADE A THING OUT OF PREFERRING FOOD WITH FLAVORS.

Jesus Riverdancing Christ, what next?  People who “prefer air that has oxygen in it”?

Therapy.  Lots and lots of therapy.  No but really, I don’t mean to milk the shit out of The Corndog Incident and minimize the problems of people with actual problems, but it is still a struggle for me to walk down the frozen aisle in the grocery store.

Anyway, I should warn you now that I am not capable of writing a decent blog post at the moment.  I am writing this post solely for my father because HI DAD, I CAN SEE YOU READING MY BLOG.  Also because my dad told me he found my blog.  Also because my brother called me tonight to get this URL because my dad won’t shut up about my blog.  We shall return to this in a moment.

My kids were up in Pennsylvania getting thoroughly spoiled by my mom all summer, and I spent that time in Florida doing a bunch of touristy shit, like working.

I have not spent more than four days away from my children in seven years.  Let that sink in for a moment.

SEVEN.

YEARS.

So you think a bitch is just going to get drunk on freedom and go wild, right?  No.  A bitch cries because she misses her rugrats, which is total bullshit.  Like I am on fucking kind-of vacation, brain, so maybe you can pull your shit together and enjoy it?  Just so you know, non-parent readers, the thing about parenting no one tells you before you have kids is that once you have kids, doing things without them is no fun.  Also, doing things with them is no fun.  WEAR CONDOMS PEOPLE.

The kids are here with me now; we fucking pwned a 1,000-mile drive in a U-Haul earlier this month and in case you are wondering, WE DID NOT STOP ONCE IN GEORGIA.  Norcross and I now have a chaotic household of five + asshole dog.  It’s so choice.

Anyway, back to my dad.  I was never hiding this blog from my family, or anyone for that matter.  I am fully aware that when you put things out on the internet, they are there for anyone and everyone to see.  That said, it was a little terrifying to find out my dad was reading this, mostly because I do so much cursing.  Also it’s kind of awkward to think about your dad reading about the time you and another human being mutually used each other for sex while on vacation and having candy showing up in [CENSORED] afterward and now my boyfriend is reading about the time my dad read about the time I walk-of-shamed into his house OH GOD THE AWKWARD HAS COME FULL CIRCLE NO ONE LOOK AT ME.

But apparently my dad is my biggest fan, you guys.  So you should say hi.  He’s pretty cool (duh, I am awesome and he is the father of awesome).  Hey internet, say hi to my dad!  His name is Larry and he enjoys Monty Python flicks, iced tea with a hint of POM juice, going to Hawaii for vacation without me, and he is totally refreshing the shit out of this page right this very moment.