Ice Cream, Ski Masks, and general TMI

At this very moment, in the middle of Small Town, OK, there happens to be a woman so desperate for pizza and ice cream that she’s considering hijacking an ice cream truck and driving it through the nearest Pizza Hut.  I’m pretty sure if she does this, she’ll make the evening news whether she wants to or not.

So, FYI, I’ll be the one with the big boobs and the ski mask. You can’t miss me, but I’ll be sure and wave if they haven’t cuffed me yet.

This new birth control pill they have me on is driving me NUTS. I’ve heard people talk about having some “issues” when their normal pill gets switched up all of a sudden. I’m not sure we’re talking about “issues” in my case, though. I think we’re clearly into volumes and verging on the whole damn subscription. I kid you not. It’s so bad, my husband has actually coined a commercial slogan for the new pill:  

ZARAH: For all those moments you would like to ruin but didn’t have the balls.

I’m pretty sure I have the balls to ruin some moments now! Well, figuratively speaking at least. I’m pretty sure all my lady parts are still intact. I’ll have to be sure and add an update if continued use of Zarah causes side effects like turning your vajayjay into the portal to Hell. I haven’t ruled this out yet.

On a less (or more, I’m not even sure now) personal note, I’m not sure I’d want to see myself through the eyes of my guys here lately, but I’m not going to lie. It probably involves fire breathing, evil red eyes, and some unintelligible growling and shrieking. I’ll know for sure when my 4  year old starts bringing pictures home from school that resemble some sort of Medusa-Godzilla Fiery-Banshee She-Beast and they’re all labeled, “Mommy.”

So… that’s all, ladies and gentlemen. If you hadn’t previously received your TMI of the day, you’re welcome.

Dear Facebook "Truth Game"

Dear Facebook Truth Game:

You have to be the crappiest social networking game known to man. You try to get me to re-add you under 20 different aliases just so that I can see how my friends answer stupid “yes or no” questions about me. If my friends want to know the answers to any of those questions, they can just ask me. The answers are normally pretty awesome.

For example: I have, in fact, let the yellow mellow a time or three. If you have ever had a newborn baby, there’s no doubt that you have silently celebrated and maybe even pantomimed an end zone dance when the little satan spawn angel finally dozed off.  If you’ve ever had a bathroom within ear shot of the baby’s nursery, you undoubtedly know that a flushing toilet might as well be a jackhammer. Your favorite phrase when you had to pee was probably, “FML.”

See? Wasn’t that awesome? Not only is the answer to the question out in the open for everyone to know, it was delivered with that personal “Keri” touch that no one else can give it. Your stupid “Yes” and “No” buttons can’t touch that. I know there are also several opinion questions that I can’t actually answer for my friends, but you know what they say: “If I wanted your opinion, I’d take a crap.” I generally subscribe to that theory. 

So, Facebook Truth Game, I’d like to cordially invite you to stop trashin’ up my social networking experience with all your different applications. You wouldn’t have to create new ones with different names if your original application didn’t suck so badly. Just take the hint and realize that people hide your posts no matter what name you’re using because you’re utterly annoying and trashy. If I want to have some trash-o-licious fun on Facebook (read: If I’m drinking heavily enough), I’ll unblock one of your other multitudes of sister applications and play. Until then, you can resist the urge to create new ones.

Sincerely,

Me

PSA: Whining vs. Complaining

If you’re reading this and actually halfway know me, you probably already know that I love your stupid face off (unless I’ve personally told you that I hate you, but that should come with some kind of award because I don’t do that very often). So don’t let what I’m about to say hurt your precious feelers. I’m not really that bitchy, I just complain a lot. There’s a difference, I swear.

With all that said and out of the way, I have a complaint.  It goes a little bit like this:

I hate it when you, the general public, whine about stupid things. So, stop it! Just stop it now! The types of people who whine about trivial things are also the people who are overly emotional about other things too. Every single day of their lives sounds like it’s been ripped straight out of one of those sappy Lifetime movies. If something bad happens, it’s tragic and they can’t stop bawling their eyes out. Ten seconds later, though, those same people are “so blessed” for some other reason. If you suspect that you may be one of those people, do the world a favor and make up your mind.

Here’s the most annoying part. Add Facebook or Google+ into the equation.  The good news is most of the people on my friends lists are pretty good at complaining rather than whining. A good complaint can be pretty damn entertaining. Not to mention I love the pictures of your kiddos, cute things they said, funny observations about random stuff... heck, I even don’t mind hearing what you had for lunch. I’ll probably tell you what I had for dinner because I’m awesome like that. The bad news is, social networking is the ultimate tool for whine-bags to alert you to their changing emotional state every 15 min-1 hour. Seriously--just stop it.

I know some people are confused right now and are thinking, “Um golly gee, Keri! I sure as syrup don’t know what the difference between whining and complainin’ really is. Couldja tell me?”

Observe.

Complaining:

Braum’s really sucks at customer service. I think their interview process involves throwing a $100 bill on the floor and telling you it’s yours. If you’re too dang lazy to pick it up and pocket it, you’re hired.

Whining:

Do you know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out and stomped on? That’s what I felt like today when McDonald’s messed up my sweet little boy’s Happy Meal. He doesn’t eat mustard or ketchup, OR pickles. Now he’s going to have to starve until he gets home and it’s ALL my fault. Why me, God? WHY ME?!

Complaining:

I paid good money to see this stupid movie, and if the person behind me doesn’t get his feet off the back of my bleepity-bleepin’ seat, I’m gonna rip his legs off and beat him to death with them. ...and all I can say is he better not get any blood in my popcorn.

Whining:

I seriously can’t stop crying. Why can’t certain people just grow up? I’m so over it.

(Note: This is extra annoying because you’re not just whining, but being pointlessly vague as well. Also, I’d like to clonk you over the head with a blunt object for always being “over it” even though you’re obviously not, but hey, it’s your lie. Tell it how you want.)

Clear? I certainly hope so. Now go have yourself a hell of a day. I believe in you… or some other crappy motivational sentiment.

Geriatric Go-Carts?

I don't know about you, but we generally mow our yard once a week--twice at the absolute most. My next door neighbors to the east tend to do things differently. It doesn't matter if we're in the middle of a drought and it hasn't rained in weeks. They are guaranteed to have the shortest grass in the neighborhood because the little old man mows it EVERY morning.

The only explanation I have come up with for this is that riding lawn mowers must be the geriatric equivalent of go-carts. I understand that when you get to a certain age, the speed of an actual go-cart may be a little intimidating. So, maybe cruising around your already-mowed lawn on a riding mower is a recreational activity? If that's the case, I think I understand why they have so many flowerbeds, statuettes, benches, and other things in their back yard. It must be a lawn mower speed course! Hell, if I was setting up a high speed lawn mower course, my back yard would look like I robbed Statuary World too. I wonder if he uses a stopwatch or has a point system.

Is this what retired people do in the event they can't afford to travel? Should I start leaving anonymous mail in their mailbox suggesting that he install a "Ring of Fire" (after the burn ban in our county is lifted, of course)? I bet if he did that, I wouldn't be so annoyed when the noise woke me up every morning. I might actually take my lawn chair outside to watch.

Gimme The Suckiest Vacuum You've Got.

I have tragic news. My vacuum cleaner of 6 years has passed away. It was 10 years old and came into this family with my husband when I married him back in 2004. I’ll give you some time to compose yourself and wipe away the tears before I continue.

…

The vacuum officially ceased its faithful service to our household three weeks ago, but we haven’t actually been able to replace it yet. Unfortunately, everything else has broken in the past few weeks as well, and we’ve been busy replacing things left and right. When it rains, it most definitely pours.

Given that I have two little boys, you must think that my carpet is atrociously littered with dirt and debris with my vacuum being out of commission for so long. However, I’m happy to report that this isn’t case. I have to hand it to the Rainbow and Kirby sales people. They are absolutely wonderful… even if they don’t know it! If there is one thing that I’ve learned during the past few weeks, it has to be this:

The more fictitious phone conversations you have with your spouse’s voicemail to “beg him/her for a vacuum,” the cleaner your house gets… also the more amused your spouse gets when he/she checks his/her voicemail later.

Chris didn’t know it until later, but he was really playing hardball when it came to getting a new vacuum cleaner.

This leads me to the next thing:

All good things must come to an end.

Needless to say, I’m running out of local sales people to exploit. So, it’s time to take the dive and make a purchase for the sake of my carpet. If you’ve ever met my husband, though, you know he has to over-research everything he buys. It doesn’t matter what it is. If we’re buying new kitchen spoons, he’s going to research whether or not we should buy bamboo or nylon, and we’ll probably do everything short of touring the factory. This may or may not include asking potential manufacturers for resumes. Vacuums will be no different.  

The first tell-tale sign of the great vacuum hunt came today when he called me from a local vacuum repair shop and told me one of the floor models he saw today was “beautiful.” Yes, he called a vacuum cleaner beautiful.

It’s beginning. Be afraid.

On a completely different note, I’d like to share with you a mural that was drawn by my youngest son not too long ago. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I’m leaning toward “demon with a guitar.” That’s just sort of his speed, ya know? You can see that the artist has chosen faux wood grain for his canvas and has used only a white paint pen for this minimalistic piece. Enjoy.

Dear Fellow Wal-Mart Shoppers...

Dear Fellow Wal-Mart Shoppers:

I know that you have spent plenty of money in this store and plan to spend more today, and you think that you’ve somehow bought the inalienable right to park your shopping cart in the most strategically impassable location humanly possible while you debate with yourself about whether or not oatmeal cream pies are actually healthier than fudge rounds.

I know you must be both shocked and upset that anyone in the store would ever have the gumption to interrupt your conversation with Sally from PTA about which groomer you’ve been taking your hairy little rat to here lately. I mean seriously... they can wait another 15-20 minutes to get to the sharp cheddar, right? If you’re not on a time schedule right now, who the heck is? You should probably refuse to say “excuse me” and give them a dirty look for putting such a damper on your social hour.  

I know those checkout lines that say “10 Items or Less” are much closer to the entrance you came in through. Surely the 10 item limit doesn’t apply to you. Everyone behind you with 1-2 item purchases totally understands that your overflowing cart needed immediate attention because you lost track of time talking to Sally over in the dairy section. Hell, you probably would have finished talking sooner if that rude woman didn’t need to grab a block of cheese.

… and just who do cashiers think they are nowadays? You bought that cell phone so you wouldn’t miss a single conversation when you’re on the go. Why don’t they understand that you’ll finish your checkout process as soon as you understand the full details of tomorrow night's dinner engagement? This kind of thing absolutely cannot wait until you’re on the way out to the car. Still, they want to badger you with irrelevant information like the total cost of your purchase. People just don’t have any respect these days. It’s a shame.

In speaking of parking lots and cell phones, can you believe the nerve of those people who honked at you for camping out behind that parking space? How on earth were you to know that the lady had just pulled in the spot and wasn’t leaving? Do they actually expect you to read the grocery list your husband/wife texted to you and be able to know these things too?  It’s not like you have superhuman skills.

I bet you’re absolutely outraged that Wal-Mart doesn’t do something about this. I bet if it doesn’t change before long, you’re actually considering shopping somewhere else.

Well…

Oh please, oh please, oh please please please DO!

I know this is the “Age of Entitlement” and all, but the truth in the matter is, you’re not entitled to anything. That’s right. The world owes you nothing. As a matter of fact, you’re the problem. If you do decide to shop somewhere else, try and make sure it’s not Target. That’s where I go when there are too many of you at Wal-Mart.

Hugs/Kisses/Rude Sign Language/Etc,

Keri

Three Hundred Dollar Baby

It’s officially been an entire month since the last time I played “EXTREME PARKING LOT CRAAAAASH AND SMAAAAAASH!” and I have to tell you that I’ve learned some pretty valuable lessons from the experience.

Lesson 1: Liability only insurance is actually a bad idea even if you drive relatively inexpensive cars that are paid-for. Even if you generally don’t make a habit of wrecking stuff, there’s always someone out there who is willing to wreck your stuff for you (and it will totally be in a parking lot so that the other insurance company can find some reason not to pay even if it isn't your fault).

Lesson 2: You’ll actually have to commute to places like school and Taco Bell in a vehicle like this sexy beast:

Yep. There she is. We bought her last year from some crazy-eyed fella’ who I’m relatively confident can see both of his ears at the same time. We only gave $300 and a couple cheeseburgers for her (Seriously, I’m not kidding about the cheeseburgers) and have since named her “$300 Baby.” I’d like to tell you how many miles she has on her, but I have no clue because the odometer has rolled over more than once.  

I bet you’re thinking to yourself, “Wow, that’s one sweet ride! I bet they put a killer sound system in that sexy speed machine.” Well, see for yourself:

Your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. That is, in fact, a gaping hole, not an invisible radio. So, for those of you who have been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of me cruising by you and thought:

“Wow, look at Keri driving around like she’s something in that hawt ride and singing with her awesome radio! I’m so jealous!”

... you’re actually mistaken. You should have been thinking:

“Wow, look at Keri driving around in that hawt ride, singing to herself like a complete idiot! I’m totally jealous of her boobs though.”

For those of you who haven’t been lucky enough to feast your eyes on $300 Baby live and in person, you’ll just have to wait until I crash something else or end up driving her to the store for the fun of it. I’m happy to announce that my darling hubby has been kind enough to purchase me one of those new fandangled vehicles that starts without having to fiddle with the manual choke thingy and has all sorts of fancy features like a radio and a warranty.

Why I Might Run Over Your Mailbox... and other sexy stories

The other evening, my husband and I were getting ready to turn in for the night. The house was dark and silent because the kids were fast asleep. He'd been working some pretty long hours over the past week, and we hadn't spent much quality time together. So naturally, while we were pulling the covers back and getting ready to dive in, our eyes met and we gave each other one of those looks--you know the kind. I'm sure you can all guess what happened next:

We grabbed the flashlight and made a tent out of the covers!  This, of course, resulted in laughing and snickering that didn't end until he trapped me under the covers, yelled "Dutch Oven!" and farted. Then, I repeatedly punched him in the leg until he finally let me out.

I bet you thought I was gonna tell you a sexy story, huh? Pfft! We've been married nearly seven years now. That is a sexy story, friends. If you newlyweds out there don't believe me, just wait. If you've been married longer, you're most likely nodding.

In speaking of romance, I've actually been tossing around the idea of writing a series of un-romance novels. I figure the world will eventually grow tired of deviant sex with sparkly dead things (vampire novels, for those of you who are slow on the uptake), and I figure someone needs to be there to catch them with something incredibly different when they fall. That someone probably won't be me, seeing as I can't make myself finish a 1,000 piece puzzle--much less a novel. Still, I'm tossing around the idea. It's the thought that counts, right?

 ...and if you steal my thought, I'll hunt you down and run over your mailbox or something. I mean it.

One last thing! It's Monday. Just incase you woke up in a good mood this morning, I thought I'd ruin it for you with that one little sentence. It's not because I hate you or anything. I just like knowing we're all on the same page. I get a sick satisfaction from knowing you're all in the same crappy boat as me.

That is all.

I Suck At Auto Accidents

It's true! I completely, most-definitely, without a doubt, incredibly suck when it comes to having a proper auto accident...

In my defense, though, my absolute suckness comes from not ever having an auto accident before this one. I guess I'm just not practiced enough. Some would say this is a good thing, but "some" obviously have never had to deal with insurance after playing what I now call, "EXTREME PARKING LOT CRASH-N-SMAAAAASH!" This is, of course, in all capital letters because there is absolutely no way that you can say "EXTREME PARKING LOT CRASH-N-SMAAAAASH!" quietly. If you disagree, I'd have to say I'm disappointed in you, but I digress...

The actual accident happened almost two weeks ago in the Wal-Mart parking lot of Small Town, America. There are serveral details surrounding the event, but the most important ones include a 4x4 Dodge crew cab truck the size of your house raping the front-end of my precious, virtuous Jeep without so much as foreplay. Of course, the resident monster truck driver decided she haaaaad to have a police report. So, Small Town, OK, put its best (wo)man on the case. We'll call her Supercop Sally.

Small Town, OK, fancies itself to be a bustling metropolis where crime could be lurking around any corner. So, naturally, Supercop Sally had places she'd rather be (like tackling jaywalkers and superman-punching litterbugs). I'm pretty sure she wanted to take the police report as much as she wanted a wedgie because the most enthusiastic thing she did was try to convince Monster Truck Lady that she didn't need to file one. To make a long story short, Supercop Sally just wrote down whatever Monster Truck Lady said and pretty much screwed up the whole police report to the point of mixing us up in such a way that I actually had an accident with myself by her account.

Here's where I suck at this kind of thing.

I am not agressive. I'm more the "Oh my gosh, I'm so, so sorry!" type. This applies even when things aren't exactly my fault. You could purposely dump hot coffee in my lap for no apparent reason, and I'd probably still be the one apologizing to you. Now, don't get me wrong. I'll still secretly wish that you'll get eaten alive by something evil and scary with sharp teeth (like my mother-in-law), but rest assured I will apologize.

I also can't get by without making some sort of nervous, painfully awkward joke. In this case, Monster Truck Lady had just moved to Small Town, OK, from out-of-state. I kid you not, the first thing to come out of my mouth was, "Well.. um.. Welcome to Oklahoma! As you can see, the welcoming committee still needs work."  I followed that up with, "This is kind of disappointing for my first auto accident. There wasn't a single explosion," a little bit later.

The last thing that absolutely sucks about my "EXTREME PARKING LOT CRASH-N-SMAAAAASH!" technique is not knowing that I had to be the one to contact Monster Truck Lady's insurance. You would think, with as much money as we pay in insurance premiums, that Pretty Pricey Insurance would at least do that for me. Heck, I had to give them all that info. That is why, after I was found not-at-fault by my own insurance company, I had to call Equally Pricey Insurance to start the process all over again.

The End.
(You'll have to pretend I wrote that in a big pretty fairy-tale ending type font.)

Oh! I almost forgot. I'd also like to send one of those shout-out things to Small Town Police Department in Small Town, OK. Thanks for giving me a pile of dung and calling it a police report and then acting like getting it to the insurance company within a two week time period after they requested it is really hard. Way to go! You're the best!

The first post on a brand new blog...

...is always an eager experience. It's sort of like buying a brand new notebook or getting out a clean piece of copy paper. You imagine yourself writing and drawing all sorts of amazing things, but when you finally put the pen to the paper you just end up with doodles of lopsided smiley faces, crappy flowers, and a few stick figures here and there.

Note: If you're one of those people who actually do manage to fill your paper with lifelike depictions of things like waterfalls, frolicking puppies or your grandma... you are cordially invited to lick a light socket. I don't wanna hear about your artsy fartsy pictures, your over-priced coffee, or your stupid cat that you probably named Mittens or Bob.

I should probably do the whole "introduction" thing and tell you (whoever you are) a little bit about myself, but I don't feel like it. Since this is my fifty-gajillionth blog (true story, I counted), I don't really feel the need to introduce myself to the internet. Plus, it's inevitable that I will reveal just about everything no one ever needed to know in the first three posts anyway (also a true story, I can prove it with irrefutable statistics that you can be sure I made up).

I'm going to say something painfully obvious in 3... 2... 1...

This time around, I decided to name my blog "Domestica Etcetera."

Another Note: If you, even for a split second, thought something stupid such as, "Omg! That totally rhymed," please slap yourself really hard for me since I can't reach you. If you don't know why you slapped yourself, do it again.

I named the blog after my day-to-day life. "Domestica" and "Etcetera" provide a good cross-section of the things I write about pretty often. In the "Domestica" entries, you'll find me doing really exciting things like battling evil robot overlords in a faraway galaxy making sandwiches for my husband in my kitchen (barefoot, of course). In the "Etcetera" entries (which are usually the exact same thing as the "Domestica" ones), I tend to write about stuff concerning my sons, dirt, marriage, and how fruit snacks can turn your poop bright green. If you're uncomfortable with any of these things, I hear Playhouse Disney has some new episodes of Handy Manny for your viewing pleasure.

Whew! That was actually a pretty painless first entry (unless of course you actually slapped yourself when I told you to, but that's more your fault than mine). If you're still reading, have never named your cat Bob or Mittens, and haven't slapped yourself once during the course of this entry, I think we'll be great friends.

If you're still reading but feel like I've stolen a few minutes from your life that you'll never get back, I would feel really guilty if you walked away from this completely empty-handed. So, I'll leave you with a random fact:

The first toilet ever seen on tv was shown on "Leave It To Beaver."

I hope that helped. Happy Monday!