I am a bad mom

Between my supervisor retiring and my sister’s upcoming wedding, I am frazzled. So frazzled, in fact, that I have for two consecutive days forgotten to buy dog food. I’ve had to feed the boys peanut butter sandwiches sprinkled liberally with last of their “Arfully Good” dog treats that I bought at the Farmers’ Market.

peanut butter

Also I realized today that I won’t be able to go to the Phish concert in Asheville with Steve because of stupid end-of-school-year work bullshit.

Today I am wearing my sad pants. They are giving my personality a wedgie.

On the upside: I have left-over panang curry for lunch. Score! No peanut butter sandwiches for me!  Also, my volleyball team signed up for the next season.  I need to think up a good idea for a shirt no one else but me will wear team t-shirt. This is what I’ve got so far:

volleyball winner

It’s Friday–let’s bust some balls

It’s Friday, and you know what that means — I play league volleyball! Oh, you didn’t know? That’s ok. I forgive you.

I don’t know if your town has one of these, but we have Capt’n Bill’s beach volleyball facility and it rocks my face off. There are several different leagues, seperated by skill level:

‘A’ level: You are damn good. Like, “Holy shit you just spiked a ball in my face” good.
‘B’ level: You are still pretty damn good. Tears after a loss are not uncommon.
‘C’ level: You like to have fun while you play; you may consume a beer or two before or during the game.
‘CC’ level: AKA the Drunk League. You enjoy a beer before, during, and after the game. Victory (or consolation) shots are a matter of course for you.

In case you are new to this blog, I belong in the CC league. Prior to the league, my teammates and I got excited about making team shirts. This is the one I made:


Despite my teammate’s initial excitement, no one else wears our team shirt. I kind of look like a freak.

vball II

TMI Thursday: Are you going to eat that?

TMI Thursday

My TMI’s have been pretty lame lately; maybe I need to go get waxed again or poop my pants. *Sigh* pooping my pants…I haven’t done that since I was in diapers. Not that I’m bragging, but I’ve got that shit under control. Literally. I hope God doesn’t bitch slap me now with the swine flu H1N1 virus, leaving me curled up in my bathtub in a puddle of my own vomit and feces. Now there’s a lovely image…


When I was younger, I had a real problem with food. Not that I had an eating disorder (I don’t possess the ability to deny myself anything for too long), but I had very definite likes and dislikes; actual food was kind of disgusting. I could notwash dishes because the thought of touching someone else’s crusty plate made me dry heave. My sister put ketchup on a bologna sandwich once and I threw up. Mayonnaise? Forget about it. I ate my sandwiches turkey sandwiches with mustard or nothing at all(well, after I got out of the peanut butter and butter sandwich phase), and my salads without dressing. And you can forget about cheese. The only foods that were allowed to touch were rice and corn (a delicious mixture–try it sometime!) and the meat/mashed potato/gravy trifecta of awesomeness. Outside of these exceptions–where the fuck do you think you’re going, broccoli? Don’t even think about touching the scalloped potatoes. You don’t want to make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry…

My mother is a saint.

College life changed all of that. I was never a fan of cafeteria food, but a poor college student cannot live on saltines and cranberry juice alone! Well, at least this one couldn’t. Gradually my food repertoire expanded to include all manner of food produced for the masses: I even ate cafeteria fish sticks, which is pretty much the lowest of the low. After watching my suite-mate shamelessly collecting and finishing off other people’s pizza “bones” (crusts), I overcame my aversion to other people’s food and was hard pressed to find anything I couldn’t imagine as edible, given the right condiment.

Fast forward a year; I was living in Wilmington, working as a waitress at a barbecue joint. My mom and her new boyfriend (now husband) were in town on a date, and stopped in my restaurant to have dinner see me. I hadn’t yet met my mom’s boyfriend, Brian, so I was excited to see him and size him up. They came in the door looking like two twin drowned rats, having purchased matching sweat shirts from Bald Head Island after getting rained on. Desperate to impress Brian, I tried to be as jovial and friendly as possible. I walked them through the menu, brought them their food, and made sure they were enjoying everything, all the while running my mouth (probably about stupid and inappropriate things, like how Hemo’s poop had really been stinky lately, or how my neighbors ripped off our balconey railing).

My mom and Brian were slowing down, and Brian still had half a rack of ribs in front of him. “I’d hate for these to go to waste,” he mourned, “but there isn’t any way I could take these with me.”

“Oh they won’t go to waste,” I assured him. “I’ll take them to the back and we’ll eat them. I’m starving!”

“‘We’?” he asked.

“Yeah, you know…myself and the other servers. Technically, they are mine, because you guys are my table, but I don’t mind sharing.” I then went into a long disertation about the complex rules of what food was considered “safe” to eat, and what food we just dumped.

“You know, like if you could imagine yourself making out with that person, you could totally eat their leftovers. Not that I would make out with you [insert nervous laughter], but you know, you look pretty disease-free, so maybe even if I didn’t know you I’d eat these ribs. If you had, like, sores all over your lips or chewed with your mouth open–no way. That’s gross. But especially if you know the person…we have a couple of regulars, and they always leave one or two wings on a plate. We fight over them!”

It wasn’t until I saw the look on his face–a mixture of shock and disgust–that I realized that I had said too much. I had managed to gross out a man who had 3 teenage sons at home.


click to see that shit in all of it’s geocities.com glory

Yes, I used to have a Backstreet Boys Fan page.  I’m not proud of it.  It was 1998 and I was KTBSPA* like whoa.  The view counter is now defunct, but I think it retired at about 500 page views, 475 of which were me checking to see if I’d uploaded the HTML right, 24 were views I directly solicited from friends, and 1 was my friend Cory who logged in to sign the guest book as Howie D. 

Note the title: “Sarah and Lauren’s awesomely cool Backstreet Boys Page!” (the exclamation mark really sells it).  While other teens were chronicling their angst on LiveJournal, I was up all night on ICQ, stealing pictures from other BSB websites, reposting interviews, and thumbing through my copy of ‘HTML for Dummies’.

Some high low lights:

  • My sister Lauren and I’s crowning achievement was “The K Files.”  Combining our two great loves, the X Files and the BSB, we set up a mock investigation into the oppression of Kevin Richardson (Lauren’s favorite BSB).
  • Fan fiction.  OMFG I just threw up in my mouth reading my disgusting attempt at fan fiction.
  • Distracting background images For The Win!

The fact that I was 16 is no excuse.  That time in my life is a blur of TRL and sleep overs.  Also that one time I made a video of me fake marrying my AP History teacher, Mr. Tucker (who, unfortunately, was unable to attend the ceremony but my stuffed Little Foot was kind enough to stand in for him).

Thank goodness for my friend S, who took the BSB pins off of my purse and threw them in a puddle of Mt. Dew in the trash can during senior portraits, and then later took me to my first “barn party” where I consumed my first beer and attempted to impress him by smoking my first cigarette.  I’m not sure if he was impressed**, but the BSB curse was lifted and I moved on to the next phase in my life: a Ben Harper loving, Natty Light swilling, college freshman who hates her women’s college and escapes to Wake Forest to binge drink.

Thankfully I out grew that phase, too.

*Keeping The BackStreet Pride Alive.
**He left the party early, leaving me making out with my asshat of an ex boyfriend on the hood of ex-bf’s Camaro (barf), after which I passed out in the backseat of another friend’s car and woke up the next morning with my very first Hangover From Hell

Mexico tells the French to suck it en Español.


Is this not the best picture you have ever seen?!? Holy shit the random girl cracks me up every time I look at it.

Apparently Cinco de Mayo is not Mexico’s Independence Day, but the anniversary of the Mexican army’s defeat of French forces in the city of Puebla in 1862. Go figure. It is not even a federal holiday in Mexico, rather a “holiday that can be observed voluntarily,” according to wikipedia. I guess my local El Cerro Grande didn’t get that message because they have a history of leading me to believe that taking 2 or 9 shots of tequila and smashing Corona bottles on my head is mandatory. But who’d complaining? Last year I saw Harry Potter on Cinco de Mayo.


Seriously, the dude looked just like Harry Potter. Glasses and all.

ANYWAY, have a great Tuesday! The air conditioning is still broken and I’m too busy hiding my glee at that fact to come up with anything else.

A man in a linen suit and flip flops, calling people turds. Yup…these are my kind of people.*

Today the air conditioning is broken on my floor at work.  When confronted with this news, I pretended to be sad and commiserated with my co-workers, but on the inside I am celebrating.  Working with menopausal ladies can be hard on us young folks who are still capable of maintaining regular body temperatures.  It is  ridiculous that I sit shivering in my office wrapped like a monk in my Slanket** while the matriarchs of the office waddle around in their sleeveless tunics and {shudder} open-toed sandals, fanning themselves with their TPS reports as they adjust the thermostat and complain about the humidity.  WTF, ladies, this is North Carolina in the summer.  Get a clue.  If I have to hear one more time about some one’s “personal summer” or “power surge,” I’m going to start slapping some bitches right across their sweaty, jowly faces.

Wow, can you tell it’s Monday?

I am full of hate.

Moving on…this Saturday I attended a Kentucky Derby party.  I know, I know, madras and seersucker and debutantes, on my!  While not typically a Bad Mutha Fudrucker-friendly event, my girlfriend Julie was catering the event and scored a pair of VIP tickets, which she waved in front of my face and said the magic words, ‘bottomless mint juleps.’  A $17 sundress and a borrowed straw hat later, I was eating fondue and throwing back Makers’ and water with the best of ’em.

I realized several hours in to the event that my dress was not, in fact, the black that I thought it was in the dressing room, but in the sun proved to be rather a dull brown color, which did not exactly match with the black hat and heels I had chosen to complete my look.  Another julep and I was care-free, too busy people judging watching to pay much attention to myself.  I asked a couple of older gentlemen in matching suits and straw hats if they took requests, but alas, they were not, in fact, one half of a barber shop quartet, but two elderly southern gentlemen sporting their Huckleberry Finn attire in earnest.  The twisted, sarcastic part of me was at a loss when faced with this much sincerity.  Grabbing a glass of wine and kicking off my shoes, I joined some stogey-smoking good ol’ boys in a friendly game of cornhole, which was more fun and not as gross as you would think.
*Credit: Kristin Hains, 5/2/2009, re:Mint Julep Jubilee
**“It’s not product placement, I just like it!”

It’s got what plants crave!

OMFG it is Friday and I couldn’t be more happy. Well, that is a lie. If it were Friday and I were lounging on the beach with a breakfast Bloody Mary in my hand and a 120-layer croissant in the other, I would be happier. Instead I’m sitting at my desk with a thermal mug full of Squirt (stop it) and a cinnamon raisin bagel from Harris Teeter, but I’ll take it.

I added a couple of plants to my ghetto garden yesterday–a replacement tomato, an experimental eggplant, and a discounted tomatillo. We’ll see how they do. The real story is that with the additional plants, I have to carry 3 Sailor Jerry’s bottles full of water out to the front porch to water everything.

Yeah, you heard right. My watering cans are empty Sailor Jerry’s bottles.

Don’t judge me! It’s Friday, and those vegetables deserve a little nip now and again if they are going to survive on the Bad Mutha Fudruckers Farm. Drink up, tomatillo…mama wants some salsa.