Cruise

Tits And Bits: What Month Is It?

Well, this is awkward.  It’s been a while.  You look good, like you’ve lost some weight.  How have you been?  How’s your Mama?  Your significant other?  Your demon spawn kids?  Job going well?  Weather been nice there?  I’m sorry I haven’t written or called in a while.  I’ll do better.  Let’s do lunch soon.  Give my best to your Mama.

I’m glad we got through that weirdness.  I am sorry I haven’t written in a while.  Life has happened and shit has gotten weird the last few months but in a completely good way.

I start school on March 1st, tuition is paid, and I’ve been kind of freaking out over it.  My friend Lulu, in all her wisdom, says to take it a bite at a time, to not look at the whole sandwich.  I get overwhelmed easily and get a bit panicky so this is excellent advice.  It’s just not so easy to follow through with sometimes.

I haven’t wanted to write here on my personal blog because it’s hard to put everything going on into words.  It’s an exciting time.  It’s just exciting times in unfamiliar waters.  I’d like to wade in but I’ll be unceremoniously dumped into the educational pool on March 1st.  I imagine it’ll be much like when my Daddy peeled me off of him when I was 5, fingernails dug into his back, kicking and screaming, and threw me into the pool without a life jacket on because that would trigger my survival instincts and “teach” me to swim.  For the record, that didn’t work out too well for either of us and I’m still not a very good swimmer.

I thought I’d dive back into things with an abbreviated edition of Tits and Bits.  Remember, Tits And Bits is a semi-regular series where I clean out my list of funny and maybe not so funny tidbits (your mileage may vary) one liners and happenings which may or may not deserve a whole blog post or I’m just too damned lazy to write a whole blog post about.  So, let’s get to it.


 

It’s been tough going for music fans in the last several months with the deaths of so many greats.  E took the death of Glenn Frey the hardest.  One night a couple weeks ago, I was happily doing what I do most nights.  After everyone is in bed, I love my alone time.  I either sit on the couch in complete silence and read or I have headphones on, music blaring.  This particular night, I had opted for silence but E had decided to binge listen to the Eagles on his phone in bed.  At full volume.  Without headphones.  On fucking repeat.  What does a rational woman do when she’s a mere two walls away?  Text, of course.

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R.I.P. Glenn Frey.


 

We’re going on a cruise with our good friends Gary and Laurie at the end of March.  Time is quickly winding down, so we’re trying to take care of last minute details.  E and I smuggle copious amounts of liquor onto the cruises we go on because we’re cheap bastards.  Or we also may or may not need a 12 step program.  You decide.  Anyway, we buy these flasks that look like shampoo and conditioner bottles.  They’ve worked like a charm every single time.  Out of concern for my friends, that they have a good time (and also don’t mooch our smuggled liquor), I sent this text to Laurie earlier.

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Don’t worry, my friends.  If our liquor gets confiscated by the cruise line, we’ll blame it on Gracie.


 

My dear friend Lulu was ensnared in some college football this past season.  Her beloved Dad attended Iowa so she was really excited when the Hawkeyes played Michigan State in the Big Ten championship.  The winner would also get into the 4 team playoff.  Lulu is a very smart cookie but she doesn’t usually watch football.  Here’s what happened.

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I heart you all 3 quarters, Lulu!


 

Speaking of football, my Alabama Crimson Tide won the National Championship!  I won’t name names but you cocky bastards who’ve given me shit one way or another for the last year can shove that up your asses.  16 National Championships.  That’s more National Championships than your team has won total games in the last four seasons.

I do love making wagers with my friends who are fans of lesser teams.  My buddy Gregg is a Michigan State fan and a fellow beer appreciator so we made a friendly wager before our teams played each other in the playoff.  Whoever lost would have to send the other a local brew, something we can’t get in our area.  Gregg was a really good sport, wished me congratulations after the game, and I’m happy to share that I received this in the mail a few weeks later.

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I’m a bit suspicious that he chose to send a beer called “Raggedy Ass” to me but I’ll take it.  Roll Tide, Gregg. Roll Tide.


 

I’ve kept very busy lately getting all my school admissions crap completed but I’ve also been writing a lot for the music blog I contribute to.  You can find my latest entries here. Press passes to concerts have been booming and I’ve been inspired to write about music lately.

I will try to write here more often.  I’m not sure if that’s a promise or a warning.  You decide.  But I do miss y’all.  And I mean it – say hello to your Mama for me.

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Happy Endings Apparently ARE Extra

I gave E a couple’s massage package for Valentine’s Day.  We finally managed to make the appointment this past weekend, due to E’s travel schedule and limited weekend appointments at this particular salon.

Now, our self pampering experience is limited to a hot stone massage and facial (oh, shut up) combo we enjoyed during a Spring Break cruise a few months ago.  Although the experience was absolutely divine, it was hella expensive – around $360 with tip.  I’m a cheap bitch so I’ll just massage whatever I can reach on myself for free.  Sometimes it’s even enjoyable.  I also have about six different facial masks under my vanity.  I can slather that shit on my face every night if I so wish and it’s pretty inexpensive, depending on which mask I choose.  I may be popping my nerve pills like Tic Tacs due to stress and tension and my skin may be a bit oily but I have $360 more in the bank, baby.

The package I purchased at this local salon was for a deep tissue massage, which instantly had E second guessing my decision every time we’d talk about the appointment.  He was really hung up on the words “deep” and “tissue”.  I’d tell him to man up and quit being a pussy.  How rough could a massage be?  Geesh.  Then he’d tell me about an “unexpected business trip” once again that would derail our appointment.

Deep Tissue Massage Day finally arrived.  As we were getting ready, E asked me if a “happy ending” was included or if we had to pay extra.  I told him that at our age, just getting home safely after the massage so we could take a nap was a happy ending.

We arrived at the salon and met the owners, a lovely couple.  We were told to get undressed and get under the sheets on the table.  Mrs. Masseuse pointed out her table and I scrambled up onto it.  My deep tissue was not going to be massaged by foreign man hands.  E reluctantly and with many sighs climbed onto Mr. Masseuse’s table, yammering unhappily about not looking forward to his virgin deep tissue being handled by a man.  Mr. and Mrs. Masseuse apparently stood outside and limbered up their fingers, mainlined steroids and shotgunned Red Bull because when they entered the room, it was fucking ON.

The stereo was turned on and the room filled with music about being one with the Earth.  I shit you not.  Before I could acclimate my resistant brain to the hippie music, hands were laid on me and not in the Pentecostal way.  There was no warm-up, no foreplay, and certainly not any comforting, hot, smooth stones in sight, much less being laid gently on my back.  My deep tissue was being violated in ways it had never known until then.  It was intense but I did my best to relax and just enjoy it as much as possible, telling myself that my deep tissue probably deserved it and needed to be roughed up a bit.

The first clue I had that E was not himself was when he didn’t talk.  I had to answer all the questions about our kids, our vacations, our summer plans, etc.  Most of you probably know that I’m the mouth in this marriage but E can carry a conversation without me and he loves to talk to new people.  I pretty much replied to everything asked and talked about for the entire hour.

The next clue I had that E was resisting the deep tissue tough love was when he asked Mr. Masseuse with a pained wince, “What is that?”  Mr. Masseuse said, “That’s your Mouse Knot.”  We learned that a Mouse Knot is found in almost everyone who works at a desk and on a computer on a daily basis.  Apparently, E has the largest Mouse Knot in the world because Mr. Masseuse spent a lot of time working that little fucker out.  E replied that he’d never felt it before and didn’t even know it was there.  That was a mistake.  Mr. Masseuse pressed E’s Mouse Knot even harder to make his point and said “Feel it now”?  E whimpered replied that he indeed did feel it then.

The final clue that E and his deep tissue had reached critical mass was his uncontrollable, audible gasps and I don’t mean gasping in an “I’m really enjoying this shit” kind of way.  I kept my eyes tightly closed because I didn’t want to see the death ray glare I was sure E was aiming at me.  Later, I realized there would have been no death ray glare because E’s deep tissue had said “Fuck it, I quit this bitch” so he couldn’t move his neck anyway.

Our hour was up and Mr. and Mrs. Masseuse left the room so we could get dressed.  I stayed on the table, feeling like a wet noodle.  I turned my head (I, unlike E, still had that function) to see if E was basking in the relaxation as I was.  He had managed to turn over onto his side to give me a delayed death ray glare plus the middle finger.  All I got for the next couple minutes as he coerced his body into getting vertical all at the same time was the middle finger.

When E finally spoke to me and put down his middle finger, he asked “Can you pull up the navigation on your phone?”  When I asked why, he said, “To find a spleen store because I no longer fucking have one!”  I started laughing so hard, I had to sit down on the bench where our clothes were folded and waiting for our newly beaten-into-shape deep tissue.  As E shuffled slowly by me in his underwear to go into the bathroom he said “I’ll be in there pissing blood.”

As soon as we were safely in our SUV, I handed E some Motrin.  He shuddered and said “Do you know how it feels to have two hairy man arms running up and down your back?  I do now.”  I suggested that we console E’s deep tissue and homophobia with some gourmet cookies from a place I’d heard was awesome.  We then headed home and slept for two hours.  I only got the middle finger maybe another dozen times for the rest of the day.

I woke up late the next morning with sore upper shoulders but that was it.  E had to leave the house at around 4 a.m. to travel to Seattle on a business trip with extremely angry deep tissue that was no longer speaking to him.  Although I can’t see him giving me the middle finger over the phone, I know it’s there.  I can sense it.  I think the few days apart will do me and his middle finger good.

In the meantime, our anniversary is next month.  I think the suggested gift for 24th wedding anniversaries is a deep tissue massage.  I mean, surely he’ll be pissing normal urine again by August.  And besides, who needs a spleen anyway?

You May Call Me Overlord

2015 update:  I bought just about every string of Christmas lights I could find on clearance last year to add to our outdoor display.  Shit just got real for this year, y’all.  

We live in a quiet neighborhood of mostly elderly people.  The only two houses within eyesight on our block with outdoor Christmas lights are ours and our next door neighbors, who I’ll refer to as “Bad Neighbors” in this post.  Bad Neighbors like to decorate with tacky dollar store shit, which is fine if you mix it in with actual real decorations that cost more than a buck, but that’s just about all they use.  I should add that those neighbors are in their 60s, which doesn’t imply tackiness necessarily, but the Granny Christmas Decoration slice is pretty much all they have on the Semi-Tasteful Christmas Decoration pie chart now.

Relations were okay between us and Bad Neighbors until about 18 months ago.  At least, as okay as they can be when we call Bad Neighbor Man “Creeper” because he would feel the sudden urge to exit their house to smoke in their driveway, which is about 5 feet from ours, at exactly the same time I drove into our driveway.  Every single time.  Things were as fine as they could be when Creeper made me feel weird with a couple of really off putting comments.  We got by and spoke when necessary.  That changed when a pine tree sliced off about 1/4 of our house 18 months ago.

We were away on a cruise for Spring Break when straight line winds made a huge pine tree part of our interior decor.  When we returned and it became clear to the Bad Neighbors that we were pretty much going to get half a brand new house out of the deal, things went bad.

The very first thing we had to do, before we had even hired a contractor, was to replace our mailbox.  It was blown away.  And by that, I mean it was nowhere to be found.  Bad Neighbors installed a brand new mailbox the very next day even though theirs was fine.  E asked them if we could run an extension cord to their house to run our alarm system until our electricity was cleared to be turned on again and Bad Neighbor Woman refused.  We were staying in a hotel, all our worldly possessions were in the house, there was still a huge slice in our roof and an outer wall was partially missing and she denied us a plug in.

That’s when I stopped speaking to Bad Neighbors.

Bad Neighbors bitched at the contractor and made nuisances of themselves on several occasions.  Insurance moved us into a rental house after a few weeks, conveniently right across the street from our damaged house.  That was awesome because we could keep close watch on the repairs and Bad Neighbors, who seemed to grow increasingly irritated with our renovations each day.

Bad Neighbors bitched about debris that wasn’t even on their property, they bitched about the yard, they bitched about the lawn guy accidentally running over a newspaper that didn’t even get into their yard and which he mostly picked up.  I took to leaving our doors open during the renovations as much as possible so they could see all the new, shiny, pretty things going in and blasted my stereo system while I was doing work on the house myself at every opportunity.  It’s safe to assume I didn’t play the Smooth Jazz shit we still hear from their house every Saturday night.  Slayer, Korn, Rage Against The Machine, and Marilyn Manson were played often that summer.  I think I even hate played some Limp Bizkit out of spite.

Bad Neighbors installed a privacy fence shortly before we moved back into our mostly new home complete with a much larger and nicer deck.  I took to sitting on the deck and talking badly about them very loudly every chance I got.  I still do.  They do not speak to me but have spoken to E a couple times over mail, etc.  I have a speech stored in my head and plan on delivering it if they ever do speak to me again.  I know this will shock you but the speech isn’t very Christian.

Now to the part where you may call me Overlord.  We have several huge pine trees in the front yard and we added lights to them this year, which we’ve never done before.  Bad Neighbors had already decorated their yard when we decorated ours.  Bad Neighbor Woman noticed our added decorations and was back in her yard at 10:00 on Saturday night, adding lights to their already tacky display.

Oh, it is fucking ON.

The kids are even in on this now.  We were finally finishing our Christmas tree last night (I’ve been sick, E has been out of town) and Landon said “Mom, close the blinds so she can’t copy our tree!”  I have taught them well.  So damned proud. Tearing up.

What is any rational woman left to do in this situation?  I’m not sure because I’ve never been called rational but I used every damned extension cord in the house, bought another one, and put up 1200 more lights in our yard this morning so Bad Neighbor Woman will be surprised when she returns home from work after dark tonight.  Is it safe?  Probably not.  Will it blow a circuit?  I’ll be disappointed if it doesn’t.

Bad Neighbor Woman:  I have nothing but time on my hands.  I can do this shit all day long for the next three weeks.  Bring it.

And the rest of you may call me Overlord.

Who Said Romance Was Dead?

This is usually the day of the cruise when I wake up with my tank top turned inside out and facing the wrong way on my body and I have no clue how it got that way.  This is also usually the day I wake up very hungover.

Today we are in Cozumel and we have places to go and shit to do so I’d better find a clean tank top and pull myself together.

We have been here twice before and have done Chankanaab each time but we’re switching it up this year.  I think my husband is rewarding me for zip lining.  All I know is that the excursion involves a Jeep convoy and tequila.  As they say here in the South, I am there with bells on.  Motherfucking bells. Give me all the tequila.

I hope you guys are having a great week!  If you’ve ever been on a cruise, comment below and tell me what your favorite excursion has been.

Nut Up Or Shut UP

We’re in Roatan, Honduras today, where the high temperature is supposed to be 95 degrees.  I’m actually expected to remove my ample ass from a very nice ship stocked with all the Guy’s Burgers and alcohol I want because there’s a zip line with my name written all over it somewhere in the Honduran jungle.  Probability is very high that this is going to end up as an episode of Naked and Afraid.

Did I already mention it’s going to be 95 degrees?  Have you read this, where I copped to being the biggest pussy of all time?  Is everyone up to speed now?  Good.

I am not thrilled about this.  I’m scared shitless but I can do it.  How can I tell my daughter to face her fears and not be afraid when I can’t do the same?  I will do this.  This is my mantra today.

Also, I totally plan on slipping myself some roofies beforehand.

I’m On A Boat

If all goes correctly, I will be on a boat when you read this.  I’ve never scheduled a post in advance so you very well may not even see this until next year.  I won’t know until next week because I’ll BE ON A BOAT, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Oh, shut up.  You know “I’m On A Boat” is still funny, even after watching it for the 467th time.  Also, the video reminds me that my husband absolutely hates it when I say “flippy floppies”.  I say it in a weird voice and usually very loud and fast.  Picture Adam Sandler saying “flippy floppies”, except with a Southern accent, and you pretty much have it.  I’m saying it out loud right now, sitting all alone in my living room.  Because I can.

I have a real treat for you creepers.  Here’s the link to our ship camera:

http://www.cruisin.me/cruisecams/ships/carnival_cruise_lines/carnival_sunshine2.php

Peek in periodically to see if you can catch my drunken ass taking an unplanned spill into the pool.  Watch for the flash of magenta hair and the tragic loss of alcohol as I go under.  Thank God there isn’t an audio option.

I will be scheduling a few posts to go up while I’m gone so check in to see what I’m up to.  Think of it as blog sitting for me.  Come in every couple days, read my mail, piss in my plants, rifle through my bedside table and medicine cabinet, drink my beer and order some Pay Per View.  I’m counting on you.

Is This Thing On?

Y’all suck big hairy balls.  The only reader who contributed to my Cruise Playlist (from here) was my friend, Peter Butternuts.  That isn’t his real name.  I know this news is disappointing.

In the spirit of full disclosure, however, these were the first three songs he contributed before I accidentally deleted them from the playlist:

Maybe it’s me but I don’t think I’ll be listening to these songs while enjoying a beautiful sunset.  I could be wrong.  Also, I think Peter is trying to tell me something but I just can’t put my finger on it.  He’s so subtle.

If you’re a music freak, you can slip into his blog here to read about all his concert adventures.  Tell him I sent you and then give him the middle finger for me.  Then give the finger to yourself because you didn’t even make one Cruise Playlist suggestion.

I will be on vacation this week but I have scheduled a few posts to go up while I’m gone.  Check in, make a comment or two and make me feel missed.  That is your penance.

Update: Peter would like for me to point out that these were not the first three songs he added. I am sorry for that oversight. He first added “Thunder Island” by Jay Ferguson. After I song shamed him, he added the above three.

Now ALL my readers are taking 70’s Cheesy Song Showers, Peter. I hope you’re happy.

Oh, You Want A Playlist?

All my friends call my husband “E”, even if they’ve never met him. We’re not in Witness Protection or anything, I promise. My girlfriends in Texas started calling him that years ago and it stuck around.

E and I were running around this weekend like aimless baboons who had just happened to find my “Shit We Still Need For The Cruise” checklist and decided to be helpful. We checked some shit off, for sure. My bank thinks I’m about to make a permanent run for Mexico or they suspect someone else is making a permanent run for Mexico with our money so they apparently don’t give a flying fuck because those bitches haven’t called to say “Hey” or anything.

I was feeling pretty accomplished with all that productivity.  You know, for me. And then this little tête–à–tête went down:

E: You got a playlist put together for the trip?

Me: (I actually don’t say shit because I got nothin’)

E: You DON’T have a playlist, do you?

Me (stuttering like Mel Tillis with Tourette Syndrome): I…I…d-d-d-d-damn it!…I…shit!…always h-h-h-have…I always have…m-m-m-my Sum…Summer Play…motherfucker!…Playlist…on my Spot…Taint!…Spotify…acc…account…p-p-p-p-penis!

Okay, I didn’t actually say it like that. I think I missed a really ugly slang word in there somewhere and probably have forever offended some clan in Ireland. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, btw. Proud member of the Murphy clan here. I now return you to this cluster of a blog post.

E (very snarkily): So you DON’T have a playlist? Aren’t you always the one with a playlist for everything? And now you don’t have one?

At this point, I have beaten the shit out of Mel Tillis in my head and am now thinking of doing the same to E.

Musically, compared to E, I am Jack Nicholson’s character Colonel Jessup in the movie “A Few Good Men”. I won’t speculate on what rank E is in this fictional Music Army but let’s just say he’s probably holding a vegetable peeler while listening to Nickelback.

I’m probably sleeping on the couch tonight for that little joke.

I think I know my music pretty well. I stay on top of the trends even though I usually don’t like the vast majority of them. That’s why they’re called “trends”. I love to ferret out acts I’ve never heard of. Every Tuesday night, I check the New Releases on Spotify. I’m constantly adding to and editing my Spotify Playlists.

E can’t question me on my Music Readiness. In the words of the great Colonel Jessup (no, I’m not going with the blow job quote although that could probably work here also): “I run my unit how I run my unit. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 300 yards from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me, so don’t think for one second that you can come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous.”

Shit! I’m so sleeping on the couch tonight.

This is where I need your help, dear readers. I know some of you are real music freaky freaks. I’m busier than a one armed monkey with three dicks this week. Your freaky musical knowledge can greatly assist me. Help me make an “I’m So Drunk I Pissed On My Lounge Chair And Passed Out In The Salsa In Multiple Caribbean Locations” Playlist.  I’ve already added the second song that my brain spewed out when I fed it the word “vacation”.  “Whole Wide World” by The Proclaimers.  I tried to add “Margaritville” by Jimmy Buffet but apparently he doesn’t like to share his music with others on Spotify.  Not cool, Jimmy.

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If, for some reason, you can’t add to the Playlist because I’m a dimwit and can’t link correctly or you don’t have a Spotify account (although you totally should, it’s free and awesome), just tell me your favorite vacation songs in the comments below and I’ll update the playlist for you.  Yes, I realize I’m basically making you my Musical Minions.  Thank you.  I will sleep well tonight on the couch knowing you care.  Mel Tillis will also.

Raging Case Of Classy

I looked at old cruise photos tonight instead of packing for the one we board in 10 days. Don’t judge me. I do my best packing with ridiculously tiny, self-imposed time constraints. If my stress level doesn’t result in a trail of vodka scented tears all through the house, I’m doing something wrong and straying from decades of personal packing procedure.

Looking at the photos, it is amazing to see how much the kids have grown in the last few years. I’d like to think that I’ve matured the last few years also, found some deep insight from seeing more of the world now that I’m in my mid-30’s. *Cough cough*

And then I stumbled across this picture.

Do I have something in my teeth?  No, seriously?

Do I have something in my teeth? No, seriously?

Have I learned and grown from that experience? Hell, yeah. I’ve learned that when I crack the old “Do I have something in my teeth?” joke again in less than two weeks from now on Formal Night, I’ll make sure my husband doesn’t have the camera.

If You Give An ADHD Chick Two Free Hours

*Based on a Facebook post from about this same time last year.  Also, if you’ve never read “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie” to your kid, just get out.  Now.  Go.  I don’t even know you anymore.*

Why am I home alone, sitting on my 11 year old daughter’s bed wearing nothing but cotton candy pink Crocs?  I feel now is a good time to remind you that this is a judgement free zone, people.  Don’t give me crap about the Crocs!

I was about to get in the shower but then started cleaning my bathroom because it looks like a Louisiana rest stop.  Then I saw my makeup bag from this past weekend’s overnighter which I still haven’t unpacked so I unpacked it. Then I realized, with a bit of panic, that our cruise is in two weeks and I should really start rounding up some shit to pack.  Then I realized my oil free moisturizer bottle takes up a lot of room in my suitcase so I decanted some into a little travel jar but then I remembered that I suck at remembering things and figured that I’ll forget what the jar contents are by the time we cruise and probably just end up in the ship’s emergency clinic because I spread the mysterious white substance in places it was never meant to be spread.  Then I went to my junk drawer to get a Sharpie so I could label the jar accordingly.  There were no Sharpies to be found because, and I’m just spit balling here, my thieving little 11 year old Martha Stewart wannabe took them, probably for the intention of labeling her horse collectibles.  She can make anything into a stable and she actually has me recycling crap for her crafts now.  Recycling really pisses me off.  I go to her room and find no Sharpies.

THAT is why I’m sitting in my daughter’s bedroom completely pissed off, naked and dirty because I still haven’t taken my shower, which I undressed for about 2 hours ago.

Welcome to my world of Adult ADHD.