Mostly Kind Of Offensive Pictures, So Not Quite Wordless Wednesday *UPDATED!*

The Buddy Christ totally cracks me up!
I know, I need help...
and possibly very strong medication.



"...but look at it. Doesn't it... POP?"



OH MAAAN! If they had this when I was there,
I'd own it... then I could pose it around the house for when I really need to chill the hell out cause I'm going to wind up in jail or a hospital clenching my chest and explaining why I took viagra hubby is being a butthead! Ohhh or, like if we go to bed angry, I could position it on my pillow so that it stares and points right at the hubs when he wakes up, which, let's face it, would freak out anyone that isn't already a freak. Like me, I'd laugh my ass off and have to jump up and run to the bathroom to keep from wetting the bed. I admit it. I'm such an idiot! LOL

Yes, I've seen this



in person. It totally pays to know your way around Jersey...

and since I'm an equal opportunity offender...



Schmuley.


*UPDATED* You too can own the Buddy Christ action figure as shown above... Goto Aria'z Store, it's listed under Miscellaneous!(or just go here)

or Schmoo-ley.



Schmoo-ley concept by my equally twisted sister, thanks Kar!

A Mousican Stand-off

Sunday morning started for me bright and early at 5:30, when I woke up with what I can only assume is a pinched nerve in my right hip. Hubby had just come to bed and when his minor settling-in movements made me wince, I came to the conclusion that I needed to get up and take some morphine.

I decided to settle for Advil and aspirin, since morphine would require me robbing a hospital dispensary at gunpoint, and who has that kind of energy at such an early hour? So, after taking just shy of overdose proportions ummm handfuls some pills, I settled into the couch hoping to A: move in such a way that I un-pinched the nerve B: not cry before the pain killers kicked in and C: fall back asleep very, very soon. I turned on the TV and set the sleep timer, waiting for my body to stop shriek-yelling at me and retreat once again into something resembling God, if you love me make it a coma that lasts till this nerve is un-pinched sleep.

Ninety minutes later, I was still awake and decided to give up the unattainable brass-ring of sleep. I got up to make coffee, took as many as I dare take without winding up in an ambulance one more of each pain killer and retreated back to the couch to bounce between watching news, morning programs and the innumerable preacher programs available on early morning Sunday television, when I heard a noise in the kitchen. I dismissed it as auditory delusions stemming from too much Advil and aspirin and too little sleep. Until a few minutes later, when I saw it running around on my kitchen counter...

A Mouse

I crept as quietly as... well, a mouse... into the kitchen, scaring the ObviouslyDiseaseRiddenCauseIt'sAMother BleepinRodentForShitSake mouse back around the entire length of the counter; weaving around the vase and the candlesticks, past the sponge I wash dishes with burn it!, behind the dishtowels burn them too! No wait, they're new, OK, wash them in bleach until they're nearly disintegrated, and the toaster and the cooking utensil holder and the blender into the corner behind the crock pot bleach counter until the fumes in the house are so strong we have to go to a hotel for a week!.

I wait in the middle of the kitchen floor trying to decide what to do. I've had two and a half hours of sleep and I'm pre-coffee and in pain, but I am adrenaline-wide-ass-awake. After a millenium a few minutes of waiting, I'm starting to wonder if there's some sort of under-wallpaper hole in the corner that I was unaware of, cause Mister Mousy hasn't emerged beyond said crock pot corner to run behind the stove, which is where I, were I a mouse, would go to escape.

So I move the crock pot.

And Mister Mousy takes this as his cue to run back up the counter, behind the blender, past the cooking utensil holder and possibly the toaster, but the trail has gone cold. What the hell do I do? My brain starts no-sleep-no-coffee-adrenaline-fueled thinking; I may have an inkling of where to find a mousetrap, but if I go get it and set it the little fucker will get away and the munchkin could find it when he wakes up and get hurt... I'll have to risk moving the utensil holder to extract the butcher's knife. I'll stab the offending intruder and once impaled on my butcher's knife, I'll fling the vanquished beast out to the what the hell are we keeping you for you didn't catch the effing mouse outdoor cats. Yeah. And that way I won't wake up the hubby or the munchkin. I've already gotta bleach the counter, what's a little Mister Mousy blood to clean up?

So I've got my game plan, and I make my move for the knife. No Mister Mousy behind the utensil holder ~ knife acquired without incident... Now I'm ready! I move the toaster quickly, half-expecting the little fucker to charge me. Instead I see the tail poking out from underneath the toaster damn it now I need a new toaster too. So I quickly poke-stab at it's hind end with the tip of the knife in the same kind of motion one makes when they get the brilliant idea to pierce their own ears, IE: with no real conviction or success. It moves... barely. I try again with equal non-results. But now I'm emboldened! So I whip the toaster across the counter so fast that Mister Mousy is fully exposed.

And he just stares at me like he's working the Jedi Mind Trick and I, big 'ole bad-ass with my butcher's knife that I am, am totally having a Mexican stand-off with a fucking mouse at not-even-8-o'clock-on-Sunday-morning. And somehow... some incredible are-you-kidding-me way, I find myself just watching, stock still, as Mister Mousy turns tail and runs back down the counter past the sponge that needs to be burned and candle sticks and the vase and disappears from view altogether.

And it's three hours later, and I still haven't slept have absolutely no idea where he went, but I keep checking on the munchkin, and Mister Mousy is not in the munchkin's bed threatening to chew off his face if I don't acquiesce to a list of food and territory demands. But I swear, those lazy-ass outdoor cats are going on half-rations until Mister Jedi Mousy is apprehended and prosecuted to the highest extent of Texas law; and y'all know what that means... death penalty.

You're goin' down, Mister Jedi Mousy. I am Darth Aria.

Sunday Silliness

Sunday Silliness... OK, forgive me, I know it's a commercial *hiss* but I have loved commercials since I was little. Seriously. This one had me actually laughing out loud. In fact, I briefly woke the baby with an unexpected blurt-out laugh. True story.

Hope you enjoy it too. Happy Sunday.

And I know that I can not be the only one with this stuck in my head... I know that isn't nice...

Your Butt Called

This is your butt calling... Have y'all seen that comercial yet? Ok, well here it is...

I go through this with my sister at least once a week since she got her blackberry. I see her number and even though it's 6-something am, my time, I try to answer as cheerfully as I can manage when I'm pre-coffee, only to realize that I've been butt-dialed.

I shout (as loudly as I can without waking the munchkin and the hubby), I whistle, I press buttons, I hang up, wait 5 minutes to fully disconnect and call her back... FINALLY, I get to talk to her brain and not her butt. At which point, I inform her of the time, (since she's EST and I'm CST) and that I just listened to her backing up a forklift for three minutes, and I am NOT amused. I also begin to chant "flip phone" like it's a mantra that the Dalai-Lama would use. This is when she apologizes profusely, and then hangs up with me and changes my ring tone to "Ding dong the witch is dead" on her phone. But, see, when she tells me about my new ring tone, it's post-coffee and I find it hilarious ~ cause, well, I'm (we're) twisted like that.

Bottom Line :-) couldn't resist... as far as I'm concerned, if your butt is going to call me, make sure it can hold a quasi-intelligent conversation, and I'm not talking about farting the alphabet...

PS. I just Googled Dalai-Lama to check the spelling and he totally has his own website ~ swear! The Website of The Office of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama
PPS. I just managed to get my sister, butts, farts and the Dalai-Lama all in one post ~ this may well be my best blog post EVER!

Best Buy Why Can't I Quit You

I know I've already stated the obvious... Best Buy=EVIL.

Bin Laden sent his minions to attack us because he went into a Best Buy. I just know it.

There's a spell that comes over one upon entering the big glass doors of the bold blue and yellow. It's hallowed ground for electronics junkies, and I thought there were siren songs coming over the sound system ~ I was wrong. Siren songs only effect men...

Last night, we're in Best Buy looking at TVs cause hubby has been on this kick since last year, when he upgraded the sound system to concert-hall proportions. He 'needed' a big new, 40 inch True HD TV (trumpets blowing, angels descending from heaven singing hallelujah chorus) to complete the home theater. Can you see the year-long eye roll going on over here (as he would research and read and bring home printouts and talk about features and functions and plasma vs. LCD and model numbers that I couldn't remember or differentiate under threat of torture) ?

People, we live in an itty-bitty trailer. So to say that it seems an unlikely place for one of the most well built and fully researched home theater systems available is an understatement of Biblical proportions. Since 'we're not in the middle of nowhere, but we can see it from here' (thank you Louise Sawyer for that line) in little said trailer, with all it's shabbier-than-chicness, and in it's tiny well worn living room sits a shining year-old home theater system to end all systems...

And now, thanks to EVILEVILEVIL Best Buy (I like that running 'evil' together like that also spells out vile. It's that too.) and it's hypnotic effect on ALL that cross it's threshold, the system is now complete with a big ole 40 inch true HD LCD TV (trumpets blowing, angels descending from heaven singing hallelujah chorus) focal point. Never mind that in our small living room, it looks as large as an IMAX screen.

Here's the rub; we were looking at one TV, hubby ran off to get a salesperson and by the time he came back, I had found one with a better picture, that was "on sale" to the tune of $200 more than the first one. It had better features too. And I pointed it out.

Happy. To. Help. Sucked in. Another mindless puppet of the Best Buy machine. fuck

And now, I'm going to have to re-watch every movie we own to bask in it's big ole 40 inch true HD LCD TV (trumpets blowing, angels descending from heaven singing hallelujah chorus) amazingness. double fuck

And since I'm the one that found the one we got, I can't even complain about how much it cost. triple fuck

Hubby is thrilled down to his socks.

Game. Over. Checkmate Best Buy.

Where Is My Sign

I've got to tell y'all... I was Sooo riding the short bus this weekend. OMG.

How does a grown woman nearly drown in the shower?!? Well, first you start by taking a huge swig of mouthwash... get into the shower while swishing, and have some sort of communications meltdown between your brain and your throat. Somehow, get mouthwash into your lungs and start choking... Yeap, true story from this weekend. By the end of the shower I was still coughing up mouthwash-tasting-blue-tinged-froth out of my lungs.

I know I'm not the only one that has done something this stupid. I also know that I'm not the only one to get frustrated and ticked-off at myself for doing some of this stupid shit. Seriously, though, I may be the only one who gets SO ticked that they start talking to (yelling at) themselves with such ferocity that their spouse will look up, suddenly startled, and say, "I just caught that, and I KNOW that I didn't do THAT, so who are you talking to (yelling at) since I know (now) it isn't me?"

What other lunatic do you know that can be indecisive about going to the bathroom. Yeah, I said it, you didn't misread that. You start to head down the hall, but like three steps down the hall you remember something quick that you need to do in the kitchen, so you turn around, and then your realize that you really do have to pee, and it becomes an internal debate about which you're going to do first. Stupid.

Or like forgetting to eat... My sister, by the way, totally thinks this is hilarious ~ in a I-thought-there-was-survival-of-the-fittest-in-nature-so-how-the-hell-have-you-managed-to-survive-almost-38-years kind of way. It's true, I do. I totally forget to eat. I drink my coffee, I feed and change the munchkin, I do housework and laundry, and the like, and sometime around 4 pm I'll be sitting in front of the computer when my stomach will start growley-hurting and it usually takes me several minutes of pondering my day before I'll realize that I haven't eaten so much as a goldfish cracker all day. That growley-hurting is called HUNGER ya dumbass! Pop something in your piehole... DUH!

What kind of scares me about this stupidity... first of all, it's happening more often. Not like put-her-in-a-home often, but like once a week-ish at minimum. Secondly, I'm getting older, even though I haven't hit forty yet. In this particular situation, this is not a bonus. Think about it, if I'm not even forty and I'm getting this bad, I won't be fit to live on my own past, say, 45...? I'll be frying my shoes and drinking confetti. I'll drown in the shower for real because I'll be snorting body wash ~ because it smells good. By then I'll be defrosting water for dinner. I mean, if I'm acting this dain-brammaged now... OMG!

How screwed will I be in a few years? I'll be calling my own son by the (wrong) name Skippy. Eventually everyone will be Skippy ~ oh, wait, that has actually already happened... but by then, I'll do it cause I really can not remember people's correct names, instead of just being a wise ass. I already get lost in strip-malls, will I not be able to get to the gas station that is 4.6 miles away and one left turn out the driveway? I could get so bad that I forget how to make coffee! Naaah.

OK, so I've got that going for me... But really, c'mon... I'm becoming the person that Bill Engvall referred to when he said that stupid people should wear signs ~ so you know they're stupid and don't ask them anything or rely on them for anything. I can tell at this point, that it's a progressive stupidity disease, so I'm putting in my request now. Mr. Engvall, where's my sign?

The Hazards of Cereal

Oh, those Special K commercials make it look so good and healthy for you. Their little brown flakes with mini chocolate bars mixed in with them, "... so you don't ruin your day" they say... what about your night?

This is why you shouldn't eat cereal at night. I didn't have Special K. I had what was left in the bag of maple-and-brown-sugar-fake-shredded-wheat. As my mild sweet-tooth clouded my judgement and beckoned me to pour all the little wheatlings into the bowl...along with all of the maple and sugar bits that had flaked off the big mini-wheats and collected into a funky brown and white dust in the corner of the bag. No where in my brain did anything register that I was about to ingest enough sugar to launch the next three space shuttle missions. No, totally blanked that part out.

So here I am, at 11:45 pm --wound tighter than an eight-day clock, you ask?--Oh honey, I am so far beyond eight days... I am wound like someone who snorted their body-weight in meth and then washed it down with a quadruple espresso. I am Amped to The Moon and Wired For Sound! I would ride roller-coasters if I could. I want to bungee jump off of Mount Rushmore. I want to run to Walmart~literally~~ Run the thirty miles to the nearest Walmart and do donuts in the parking lot without the car. Did I mention that normally, I don't run for anything. A fast-ish walk is the best you can hope for.

There is only one saving grace in this as-close-to-a-coma-as-is-possible-without-completely-having-a-stroke sugar high; I know when I crash, I'll sleep through the night, no problem. I'll probably even dream of chasing Oompa-Loompas through Willie Wonka's factory only to wind up taking a breather by doing the backstroke in the chocolate river.

This type of wound-up should be reserved for mornings when you're facing a house that has just been vacated by hundreds of way-drunk frat boys and have to get it ready in 7 hours for a dinner party when your in-laws, your priest, Martha Stewart, and Oprah are on the guest list. This kind of fake-energy is only useful when you are bamboozled into solo-supervising an entire class of pre-schoolers on a playground about 90 minutes before nap time. By the way, I'm typing like 700 words a minute right now.

I was watching TV, but it was too Too TOO slow-moving to handle this kind of zing. I manually cleaned out the coffee maker and have high hopes that tomorrow when I turn it on that I haven't ruined it, nor will I have to wait the FULL HOUR I did this morning for the damned-worn-out-clogged-up-cheap-ass maker to brew the entire pot. Luckily, I was cleaning house and didn't mind so much. The roads were fogged in badly this morning, and hubby requested that I keep the phone lines free in case he needed to call me, so I couldn't get on the computer. In that one hour I'd done everything but vacuum floors and fold laundry. You can tell now what a mistake that was, what the hell am I supposed to do while I'm all sugared-up and zippidy-do-dah over here now? I already made hubby's lunch. I figured that if I crash as hard as I'm flying high, I may not wake up until Thanksgiving dinner.

And, since my mind is going several-hundred-miles-per-minute, I've had plenty of time to think about the sugar content in today's cereals. This is the REAL root cause of all those kids with ADD. They eat fruit-loops and the like, finish off the little dust in the bottom of the boxes, and they can't sit straight and concentrate to save their lives. I finally understand and can now say that I know the feeling. What I don't understand is how this much sugar in one product is legal. I became diabetic in one bowl, I'm sure of it.

Oh, they talk about Big Tobacco and their lobbyists on Capitol Hill... Bullshit, it's that satanic General Mills over there with their evil little Leprechaun and that plotting rabbit who has grown malevolent from years of "Trix are for kids" tauntings, and then there is their CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs--thing...what the hell type of creature is that Cocoa Puffs thing anyway? I'll tell you what it is, it's something they came up with in their uber-sugared-synthetic-chocolate-flavored frenzy. Sonny-Cocoa-Puffs was a sugar fueled hallucination put on paper. These are the people who are the real threat to this country--Sugar and Cereal manufacturers.

So rant if you will about cigarettes and drunk drivers, pollution and pipelines, pharmaceutical companies and the economy... but I know the truth, the real hazard in America is cereal.

Caffeine IV's

I am starvin' like Marvin! This could very possibly be a result of it being 4:30 pm, being up since 6:30 am, and only having coffee today...

But I love coffee! Hubby gets his one small mug and I get two and a half coffee bowls, which incidentally, is the rest of the 12 cup pot. I believe with every fiber in my being that caffeine adds IQ points, and at this stage of the game, I need as many booster IQ points as I can accumulate.

I am currently awaiting the advent of the caffeine IV, at which time I will mow down people to get to the front of the permanent IV line. I'd be Wonder Woman, I'm sure of it. I'm also sure that a patch wouldn't cut it. I need the direct, in-line-to-the-vein caffeine... like I currently get from my jumbo-mug (ok, mugSSSSS) of coffee.

I also know that soda doesn't do it for me. I don't zing like a speed-freak on skates without my java. Mountain Dew, Jolt Cola, you just can't put me at full Def con-5-alert like I need to be. And those so-called energy drinks? What the hell is up with that aftertaste? If I wanted to eat sweet-tobacco and dirt, I'd move to the Carolinas. I'm a smoker and those things taste nasty, I can't imagine if I actually had fully-functioning taste buds. Pitewey!

But I do realize that for all it's heaven-sent properties, that coffee doesn't possess a single atom of protein. I get this, I do actually eat (trust me on this, my pant size doesn't lie--I EAT!), but I prefer to drink my manna from Colombia--although, it must be processed. Regular coffee is swill. Espresso, cappuccino, French Roast, even Community Coffee's Between Roast, as long as it's not fully 'regular Colombian coffee'... That will be what I start drinking if I ever decide that I have a coffee addiction problem and need to go to self-imposed coffee rehab--I'd be clean in a matter of days.

One of the things that I love about coffee is how personalized it can be and no one looks at you like you're mental. Every coffee drinker is, in this one way, a snob. We want our coffee a certain way. We may-MAY- make do with what is served us, but then again, maybe not. We want our creamer or half and half or milk or sugar or sweet-n-low or splenda or our half-caf, non-fat, double mocha with shot of raspberry with whip (that's why the non-fat milk; leaves the calories for the whip--Duh!) exactly how we want it.

This is how Starbucks came to be the monstrosity that it is. The founders of that place respected and tapped into the God-given right to be as ridiculously precise as we are mentally able about one thing, the lifeline that is our coffee. We may not know how to match up a single pair of shoes for wearing in public, but we can tell you with surgeon-like precision, how exactly we want our coffee. Oh sure, Starbucks expanded to green teas and frappucinos, but deep down at it's core it is the on-every-corner-in-every-grocery-store-at-every-friggin'-tollbooth-for-crissakes-you-can-be-picky-as-fuck-for-only-five-dollars-per-inspirational-message-inscribed-cup Mecca.

Which makes me feel a little better because I'm not the only one. And also inspires me to work out, because how else am I going to batter down like a freight train all the other completely amped, strung out coffee junkies in the permanent IV line?

Better invest in some cleats and brass knuckles too... just like if I were going to a white sale.

SAH Mom-Only Vacation Package

I have been fortunate to be a stay-at-home mom twice. I recognize this is amazing good fortune despite wanting upon occasion to pull my hair out by the un-dyed roots in great fist-sized clumps.

And while I love my children with every drop of blood in my veins and every cell of my plus-sized body, there are times that I want to get away. Far, far away. Not just in location, but in total daily routine.

I want to implore travel agents everywhere to come up with a S.A.H. Mom-Only Vacation package. It would include...

5 star hotel accommodations, with the comfiest queen sized bed imaginable-extra pillows obviously and no alarm clocks on the entire floor. Mom can sleep in to the hour of her choice without fighting for mattress or pillow space with anyone or anything under or over 3 feet tall. In her cozy comforter bliss, mom will not have to shift repeatedly to remove child-limbs from painful places on her anatomy, nor will she need to whip the covers off to reduce the temperature from her portable adorable heater.

The enormous bathroom comes with a whirlpool tub that could easily double as a swimming pool, can handle a liter of bubble bath and has enough shelves to use enough candles to light lower Manhattan. Also included--peace and quiet and privacy. No questions about why we cannot have snakes and frogs and every stray cat and dog in the neighborhood as our most cherished pets posed to mom while she is on the potty. There is a separate shower with three customizable shower heads, a seat and salon quality shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. The towels and washcloths come in a dozen per size, are oversize no matter the type, and could easily belong to the Trumps for all their lavishness.

Next, there is the living room of this luxury suite. If mom ever makes it out of the bed, there is a sumptuous couch with no stains or questionable cushions. There is a desk with Gucci stationery, a custom writing set, stamps, postcards, and a huge-screen laptop with high-speed Internet. She will have time to do whatever for how-long-ever she wishes on the computer. The TV is a work of art that would make any electronics-type man drool himself to drowning, and the remote belongs solely to mom. She gets every channel known to the free world except; Noggin, Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network, and PBS Kids.

Room Service is a stunning affair with candles and good china and crystal for every meal and snack. Mom's waiter, Pierre, serves her the finest of whatever fare she has ordered. And sticks around so she can talk to someone while eating. He happily refills her beverage, serves her more potatoes without a condescending look, and listens intently to whatever she has to say. When the meal is over, he blows out the candles, cleans up the dishes and vanishes without so much as a trace that he was ever there.

Mom has full service access to all hotel services, such as the day spa with high end salon for all of the personal maintenance needs that she has ignored in order to hop out of the shower as quickly as possible because she imagines thuds even when there are none. There is a sensory deprivation tank available 24 hours a day with no time limits. While mom is enjoying any or all of these services, the maid service has descended upon mom's room to clean it spotless, as well as wash, dry and put away all of her laundry so she can come back to her room with it as refreshed and cleaned up as she is.

Mom's Vacation package includes the rental vehicle of her choice, with nary a car seat or McDonald's wrapper in sight. She can listen to any radio station and sing along if she chooses without commentary or interruption. She can go to any store, gallery, museum, park, movie, place or event without having to take into consideration parking, strollers, noise level, time restraints or mess factors.

This wonderful dream Mom-Only vacation would of course be very inexpensive, for two reasons... One; otherwise mom would feel guilty about how much money she was spending while away from her home and family. Two; once she gets over that crap, she'll have some money to spend as she pleases instead of blowing it all on the accommodations.

The whipped cream and maraschino cherry topping on this Mom-Only vacation package is this; for the entire length of the vacation, S.A.H. Mom's significant other has to stay at home themselves, and care for the children and the house in the same manner that mom would without any outside assistance. Including, but not limited to, all errands, chores, homework help, playtime, and scheduled events.

Forgive me if I leave it at that... I'm going to loose myself in this daydream for a while... well, at least until my son wakes up, my hubby calls, it's time for lunch, I have to fold laundry, it's time to wash the second round of dishes, vacuum floors, cook dinner...