Check out my new friends...
www.MikitaBurton.com
www.notsosoccermom.com
www.kansascitymomsblog.com
And how we met (and watch as I say zero bad words on live TV!)...
http://fox4kc.com/2013/09/27/what-moms-should-stop-doing/
Friday, September 27, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Aftershock: Where the food trucks rule and deodorant is completely optional
Because I am married to the most patient man in the world who gave more than anyone ever should during the run of Mother F*ing Hood earlier this month and last and really never asks for much in return, I agreed to go with him to Sacramento for Aftershock Monster Energy Rock Fest of Really REALLY Loud Music and LOTS of People.
I've never been in a place that held more tattoos than teeth; and I've never seen my husband so happy to bang his head to his favorite bands... Avenged Sevenfold, Papa Roach, Shinedown, Halestorm... to name a few.
And I got to attend another Steel Panther concert, this one in a small bar venue, really cool and fun to be close enough to feel the wind off Lexi's enviable mane.
We watched Five Finger Death Punch's lead singer reprimand a woman for flashing him her boobs during their show, telling her to "set a fucking example, there's kids here."
Example, indeed.
And I got to see first hand the havoc humidity can wreak upon a Mohawk:
But I wasn't going to let that fan's tragedy (or the horrific scene at the port-a-potty) ruin my weekend. Nope. For I found that any time away with my husband - even if it is spent packed like sardines waiting for another really REALLY loud band to play - makes for a perfect weekend. No matter what.
I've never been in a place that held more tattoos than teeth; and I've never seen my husband so happy to bang his head to his favorite bands... Avenged Sevenfold, Papa Roach, Shinedown, Halestorm... to name a few.
And I got to attend another Steel Panther concert, this one in a small bar venue, really cool and fun to be close enough to feel the wind off Lexi's enviable mane.
We watched Five Finger Death Punch's lead singer reprimand a woman for flashing him her boobs during their show, telling her to "set a fucking example, there's kids here."
Example, indeed.
And I got to see first hand the havoc humidity can wreak upon a Mohawk:
But I wasn't going to let that fan's tragedy (or the horrific scene at the port-a-potty) ruin my weekend. Nope. For I found that any time away with my husband - even if it is spent packed like sardines waiting for another really REALLY loud band to play - makes for a perfect weekend. No matter what.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Oh, Erica
We were in Durango this summer. I was too busy actually enjoying my vacation to blog about it, but I was recently reminded of this story and wanted to write it down before I forget it like I have a million other things recently...
My older daughters and I were touring Durango with my uncle, Jim, and on our way home to meet the rest of my family and my aunt. Knowing happy hour was coming up soon, I asked Jim if we could stop at the liquor store on the way to their house for a little gluten-free beer for my husband.
(Car rides are MUCH more pleasant the less gluten he has... um... passing through his system)
Jim agreed and pulled into a gravel parking lot just off the main drag out of downtown to a small white shack. Paint peeling off the sides, heavy construction in the rest of the vacant lot and two signs - Beware of Dog & Crew Cut My Phone Line, No Credit Cards Today - told me all I needed to know before entering.
Erica stood at the register immediately to the right as I entered, talking on the phone and getting ready to ring up a ZZ Top impersonator. As I made my way to the back of the store to grab ice cold sorghum beer out of the fridge, I heard Erica explaining her case to customer service on the other end.
"It's fucking ridiculous," she eloquently replied. "I've been down all fucking day. My fucking customers don't all have cash, you know?"
Now I'm far from bothered by the f bomb. But she had no way of knowing that. And in my years of HR training, "Do not audibly or even in a visible lip-reading sort of way utter the F word" usually made the Top 10 of every How Not to Treat a Customer list I'd been given to study. But, with said dog of "Beware of" fame lurking nearby, I was not about to point that out to Erica.
So I grabbed my six-pack and dutifully made my way to the counter just as Erica hung up the phone.
"Sorry, crew cut my fucking phone line this morning," she said with the same enthusiasm one might tell a friend about an upcoming mammogram. "Fucking internet went down yesterday; couldn't even pay my fucking sales tax online."
She kind of smiled at the last part, so I did too as I asked, "Is this beer any good?"
Erica gave it a half glance before responding, "I don't know. I don't drink retard beer."
This was probably the opportunity for educating Erica that, while "fuck" will almost always fly in a liquor store, "retard" really won't.
But I didn't.
Caught so off guard, and slightly afraid she thought I lacked some sort of mental capacity, I decided to set the record straight.
"It's not for me, it's for my husband," I replied as I gently placed my husband under her bus.
"Oh," she said, startled, I assume, by my marriage to a presumed retard. "I'm sorry. People buy it. Must be okay. Your total comes to $10.50."
(gluten-free beer is not cheap)
I pulled a ten and a five out of my purse and handed it over. She gave me my change: two $2 bills and a Kennedy half dollar. I had not seen either of those things since Easter '85 when my grandparents dished out what I had previously assumed were the last two-dollar bills ever to be in circulation.
Confused by the whole experience, I thanked her for my perfectly normal, functional change and left.
The beer was terrible, but my time with Erica was priceless.
My older daughters and I were touring Durango with my uncle, Jim, and on our way home to meet the rest of my family and my aunt. Knowing happy hour was coming up soon, I asked Jim if we could stop at the liquor store on the way to their house for a little gluten-free beer for my husband.
(Car rides are MUCH more pleasant the less gluten he has... um... passing through his system)
Jim agreed and pulled into a gravel parking lot just off the main drag out of downtown to a small white shack. Paint peeling off the sides, heavy construction in the rest of the vacant lot and two signs - Beware of Dog & Crew Cut My Phone Line, No Credit Cards Today - told me all I needed to know before entering.
Erica stood at the register immediately to the right as I entered, talking on the phone and getting ready to ring up a ZZ Top impersonator. As I made my way to the back of the store to grab ice cold sorghum beer out of the fridge, I heard Erica explaining her case to customer service on the other end.
"It's fucking ridiculous," she eloquently replied. "I've been down all fucking day. My fucking customers don't all have cash, you know?"
Now I'm far from bothered by the f bomb. But she had no way of knowing that. And in my years of HR training, "Do not audibly or even in a visible lip-reading sort of way utter the F word" usually made the Top 10 of every How Not to Treat a Customer list I'd been given to study. But, with said dog of "Beware of" fame lurking nearby, I was not about to point that out to Erica.
So I grabbed my six-pack and dutifully made my way to the counter just as Erica hung up the phone.
"Sorry, crew cut my fucking phone line this morning," she said with the same enthusiasm one might tell a friend about an upcoming mammogram. "Fucking internet went down yesterday; couldn't even pay my fucking sales tax online."
She kind of smiled at the last part, so I did too as I asked, "Is this beer any good?"
Erica gave it a half glance before responding, "I don't know. I don't drink retard beer."
This was probably the opportunity for educating Erica that, while "fuck" will almost always fly in a liquor store, "retard" really won't.
But I didn't.
Caught so off guard, and slightly afraid she thought I lacked some sort of mental capacity, I decided to set the record straight.
"It's not for me, it's for my husband," I replied as I gently placed my husband under her bus.
"Oh," she said, startled, I assume, by my marriage to a presumed retard. "I'm sorry. People buy it. Must be okay. Your total comes to $10.50."
(gluten-free beer is not cheap)
I pulled a ten and a five out of my purse and handed it over. She gave me my change: two $2 bills and a Kennedy half dollar. I had not seen either of those things since Easter '85 when my grandparents dished out what I had previously assumed were the last two-dollar bills ever to be in circulation.
Confused by the whole experience, I thanked her for my perfectly normal, functional change and left.
The beer was terrible, but my time with Erica was priceless.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Sold Out
Wanted tickets to see Mother F*ing Hood tonight? You're too f*ing late!
Fittingly, we are riding to the Arts Center in style... a 10-foot U-Haul ready to remove all set pieces and giant foam pill costumes from the building. Also? Alex (aka Mr Xanax) (aka Where Were You When We Were In College?) just called and needs a ride to the show. His cougar loves are picking him up soon from the Papa John's parking lot near his apartment. Perfect way to start the final night.
Cheers!
Fittingly, we are riding to the Arts Center in style... a 10-foot U-Haul ready to remove all set pieces and giant foam pill costumes from the building. Also? Alex (aka Mr Xanax) (aka Where Were You When We Were In College?) just called and needs a ride to the show. His cougar loves are picking him up soon from the Papa John's parking lot near his apartment. Perfect way to start the final night.
Cheers!
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