About a month ago the Girl Child came to The Yankee and me with a simple request , she wanted a puppy.  Every little girl makes that request of her parents at some point, right?  Since we already have a dog , and the scars from his little razor puppy teeth are finally starting to fade , I had my answer all ready to go.  No.  Then The Yankee had an idea.  That idea?  Let’s get her a pet of her own , not a puppy, but something small, cute, and fluffy.  You know, something that will teach her some responsibility.  In theory that sounds great, right?  Except we tried the “teaching her some responsibility” thing by giving her a list of chores to do weekly so she could earn an allowance.  That lasted abut a month.

So The Yankee put on his Googling shoes and started searching for something small, cute, and fluffy.  He looked into , and rejected , hamsters, guinea pigs, bunnies, sugar gliders, and ferrets.  The winner?  Are you ready?  A rat.  Yuck.  Then he put on an amazing sales pitch , they’re affectionate, clean (in spite of their reputation as sewer dwellers), trainable, and cute (if you don’t look at that nasty tail).  In a Pinot Grigio induced haze, I agreed to getting The Girl Child a rat.  Except then The Yankee’s research revealed that rats are very social animals , didn’t you see Ratatouille? , so now The Boy Child was brought into the mix.  Let’s get him a rat, too.  What did I get myself into?  Curse you, Pinot Grigio!

Thankfully, our vacation was looming, so the purchase of the vermin, I mean, critters, was put off.  That gave me time to think about having those animals in my house , the mess (I don’t care how clean the book says they are), the smell, and the fact that The Girl Child tends to bore easily with new things.  As with everything good and exciting (our trip to Disney World, week-ends at Grandma’s, lunch at McDonald’s) I used the rats , and the potential loss of those rats , as leverage to make sure the kidlets behaved.  At this point, we stopped calling them rats because every time the kidlets told someone about their new pets they’d get a look in response that would make you think they were getting the bubonic plague , of course, we were talking about rats, so the plague idea wasn’t that far fetched.  Our new name for the critters?  Warm fuzzies.  It sounded better, but a rat is still a rat, and I wasn’t nearly as excited about bringing rats into my house as the kidlets were.

To my delight, after many warnings and second chances, The Girl Child just couldn’t be nice to her brother, drop the attitude, and stop the pout on a consistent basis.  She lost the rats, but she is one tenacious little girl , she’s still trying to convince us that she should still get her rat.  But guess what?  She comes by her tenacity honestly , she gets it from her Mom, and I’m not budging.  No rats in my house!

When it comes to Angelina Jolie I have always been a fan.  And Brad Pitt?  What do you think.

But they’ve pissed me off.

IVF?  They claim their “globetrotting” an ineffective way to get pregnant and they want to plan their pregnancies, so they went for IVF in order to get twins.  Self serving a little?  They want to get their family bigger and new and improved more quickly than nature would allow.  Since when did IVF become the “natural way to broaden your family”?

I think it’s total bullshit that a reputable fertility doctor would agree to do it in the first place.

And, you know they still got to bang each other , and there’s nothing in this world that’s hotter than the thought of the two of them throwing  down in the bedroom.  And their banging could’ve resulted in a pregnancy on it’s own.  But, no.  They had to go and muck it up in my brain by admitting to using IVF UNNESSECARILY.

Please discuss.

Ciao!/Sabrina

Ok, so, apparently according to Dr. 90210, one of the latest trends in plastic surgery is vaginal reconstruction.  I’m no doctor, but based on what I understood, the basic idea of this surgery is to make your vagina look and feel like it did when you were 16, 18, or whatever age you felt that your cooter looked and felt the best.  Before you became a dirty whore, sleeping with 20 men a year and/or shooting out babies right and left.  I don’t get it.  No matter what you do, that thing is NOT going to be pretty.  You can nip and tuck that cooter all you want.  It will never, ever be pretty.  There’s a reason they call it “bumping uglies.”  

At any rate, to all you dirty whores of the world:  Do not despair, there is hope!  You can have your vagina completely “renovated” so that it will look and feel just as it did before stretched it all out, if that tickles your fancy.  (No pun intended.) 

Here’s the bad news:  There’s no cure, as of yet, for the Tuna Cacciatore aroma that comes and goes as it pleases. 

Love,

Holly

When I say the word vacation, what comes to mind?  For me, I envision myself sleeping in past 8 a.m. and spending most of the day soaking up the sun by a pool — highly potent fruit-infused beverage in hand, steel drum band playing in the background.  Unfortunately, since the kidlets have come along, that version of my vacation doesn’t exist anymore.

Now vacations consist of me playing miniature golf, applying sunscreen and bug spray, charging DS’s, and breaking up fights in the backseat.  Maybe we should add this to Holly’s list of things that have changed as we’ve gotten older.

For now, we really need to find a new word to use to describe the annual family visit to out-of-town relatives because trips with the kidlets just don’t seem like a vacation to me.

Ever since our doctor told me that men are more closely related to monkeys than they are to women as an explanation for husband and wife communication problems, The Husband has found a new excuse. If he acts like a moron, well, that’s because he’s more closely related to monkeys. Most people would’ve been offended at the idea that they are closely related to monkeys – at least, women would’ve been offended. Tell me I’m more closely related to Cleopatra or if you have to go with a creature from the animal world then make it a classy animal. Not one that sniffs it’s finger after it’s been in it’s own ass. The idea that this monkey relation is the missing link and possibly even a compliment seems to be an idea I can’t wrap my non-monkey brain around.

Yesterday, we were at the arena for one of the kid’s usual Premier Performances of a Life Time! Husband asks me if I want anything from the concession stand. Hell yes I want something, I’ve been up since 6:30am to watch my 5 year old do a 2 minute performance and at some point in the next 4 hours retrieve her participation trophy, I’m starved. But, I don’t want a muffin. Muffins are messy and all the concession stand had were those big ass Otis Spunkmeyer kind of muffins and I don’t eat food with the word “Spunk” in it. No, I don’t want a muffin. So, I told The Foreigner in plain words, good monkey talk – “Just bring me something flat. Not. A. Muffin. Maybe a pretzel or a pastry. Not. A. Muffin.” He comes back with a muffin. A muffin. It was not flat or a pretzel or a pastry. It was a muffin. And, he says to me when I start complaining, “All I heard was blah, blah, blah, blah, muffin.” Well, fanfuckingtastic, now I either had to prove my point and teach him a lesson by refusing to eat the muffin, or since I was starving – eat the fucking muffin I didn’t want in the first place – teaching The Monkey Husband that it’s OK to bring me a muffin when I specifically say I don’t want a muffin.

Remember when husbands would wash their cars and get themselves ready for date night – hell, now we’re lucky if they wash their ass before date night. Remember when they would pick you up and have made the reservations all by themselves. They even got themselves dressed – all by themselves before a date. The Husband and I had a date Friday. I picked the restaurant, we washed my car, I arranged for the sitter, I got myself dressed (and washed my ass thank you very much). The Foreigner came home and immediately asked for help on what to wear. I told him he was a big boy and could handle it himself. Twenty minutes later I go back to the closet to find him standing in his underwear. Now, I know what you’re thinking – “be thankful he was able to pick out something, right?”

Now, I know I’m not perfect. There are times when I smell like a pizza delivery box and I might get drunk enough to fart uncontrollably. Things I would never allow when we were dating. BUT – I can dress myself. I did not become a mental patient the day I said, “I do.” And, I’ve decided that I also did not become “Your Friend In The Yellow Hat”, Curious Fucking George. Monkeys can learn sign language and if after 10 years they haven’t caught on then The Discovery Channel comes in and does a documentary on the release of the monkey back to the wilds of the jungles of somewhere away from civilization where they can pick fleas off each other and fling shit around as forms of communication.

So, here we are, The Husband and I, 10 years into our relationship. When I requested my “something flat. Not. A. Muffin.” I used sign language to accompany my words. I laid my hand out flat and took my other hand and rubbed the top of my flat hand to signify FLAT. Apparently that signal meant LARGEST OATMEAL BASED MUFFIN, so off he went dragging his knuckles and scratching his armpits. He returned, handed me the LARGEST OATMEAL BASED MUFFIN, banged his chest as if to say, “Me! Husband! Bring you biggest muffin in all land. Me! Good husband!”

If he were something I had bought, I would probably try and return it for a full refund and claim on the return paperwork that there was most certainly a defect. But, that would just mean I’d have to get up off my ass and go get my own “something flat. Not. A. Muffin.” when I was hungry. So, .I ate the muffin – and, later that day I bought myself a yellow hat.

I’m afraid I’m getting old.  I mean, obviously, I know I’m getting older – we all are – but I’m talking about feeling old.  Here are a few of the things lately that have me concerned. 

1.  My hangovers no longer last just a day.  The exhaustion lasts for at least 3 days and the beer shits are lasting at least a day and a half.   The bags under my eyes never leave.

2.  I can’t have diet Coke after 2:00 in the afternoon anymore because “it will keep me up at night.”

3.  I have a pill box.  You know, the one with 7 compartments for each day of the week?  I take so many vitamins now, I have to do this so I won’t forget one.  Lord knows what will happen if I forget my magnesium one day!

4.  I have begun to crave naps.  And bedtime.  I used to hate going to bed.  And I never napped.  “You can sleep when you’re dead,” I used to say.  And now, even death looks inviting sometimes if only for the rest.

5.  I get more excited about home decorating than say, a concert or a big party.  Sometimes I lay awake at night, wondering if my arrangement on the mantle is as appealing as I want it to be.

6.  I buy clothes and shoes more for comfort than style.  I still gag when I see a pair of Easy Spirits or SAS shoes, but I’m worried that they will become more attractive to me in the next decade. 

7.  I got rid of all my short shorts and mini-skirts because, even though my legs still look good in them, I think “at my age, it’s inappropriate to show too much skin.”

8.  I wear sunscreen every day.  Instead of worrying about tan lines, I worry about skin cancer and wrinkles.

9.  I no longer care if other people think I’m cool, hot, or anything in between. 

10.  I am turning into my mother.  I have used the following phrases more than I can count:  “Because I said so”; “Because I’m the mom”; and “You’ll thank me for that someday.” 

Happy Monday!

Holly

Oh.My.God.  I saw an ad this weekend that made me, for the first time, wish I lived somewhere else.  The ad was for Every Dog’s Day Canine Resort and Day Spa.  Here are the amenities offered:  Luxury Hotel, Salon and Spa, PlayCare, Swimming, Bakery, Parties. 

Holy Mother of God, are you shitting me?  Has “keeping up with the Joneses’” really come to this?   Is it not enough that we compare homes, cars, husbands, where our children go to school, and how many days a week our housekeepers come?  I was just beginning to accept the fact that I would always be behind in the “my-kid-is-in-more-activities-than-your-kid” race and now my neighbor’s dog is having spa treatments that I can’t even justify for myself?   

And parties?  Are they really having parties for dogs?  Is this the future for all of these rhinestone-wearing, thirty-something housewives when their kids leave home?  Instead of playdates and elaborate, princess-themed birthday parties for their children, will dogs be the new substitute for judging social standing?  I gotta tell you, I’d rather have a job.   At  Denny’s.  On the graveyard shift.

For the record, I’m not blaming the owners of this absurd “spa.”  If they want to make money off of dumb rich bitches, more power to them.  I’m sure they are laughing their asses off (all the way to the bank) every time some snot-bag calls and schedules a microdermabrasion for their shih-tzu.  What I am saying is that this is where I personally will absolutely, positively draw the line.  If and when I ever get a dog, I here and now vow that he/she will NEVER be given any kind of birthday party, NEVER attend another dog’s birthday party and will never, ever EVER be the recipient of a pore-reducing facial.  Get real, people.

Much love,

Holly

When Hugs & Stitches first approached us to review them my initial reaction was, “another burp cloth”.  However, my opinion changed when Hugs & Stitches sent us samples.  The monogramming was perfect.  It wasn’t stiff, and it didn’t stick through the backside.  It was equally as soft on the front as it was on the back.  That truly impressed me!  Not everyone monograms that well.  And, the colors are endless when ordering from Hugs & Stitches!

 Sabrina gives a rare 5 out of 5 Countini’s!

I haven’t had a chance to order from Hugs & Stitches yet, but that’s only because there are too many cute things to choose from.  I can’t make a decision!  There are a ton of different fabric and font choices, and that’s after you’ve decided if you’d rather have bibs, burp cloths, blankets, or a matching set!   The prices are amazingly reasonable and I trust my fellow Housewives when they say the quality is impeccable.  I can assure you that I will be ordering from Hugs & Stitches in the near future.

 Holly gives Hugs & Stitches 5 out of 5 Collin Countinis

I had the pleasure of receiving the cutest little burp clothes from www.HugsAndStitches.biz. They are just adorable, and super thick. They monogrammed the clothes for me, and it looks very professionally done. I’m positive it will last through the many washings it will receive.

 Lulu gives a rare 5 out of 5 Countini’s!

Kitty gives a rare 5 out of 5 Countini’s!  

Newsflash Collin County , it’s not all about you.  I am so sick of people in this area thinking the world revolves around them.  The kidlets and I just got back from taking the luckiest dog on the planet to the vet’s for his annual shots (okay, today he wasn’t the luckiest dog on the planet, but for the rest of the 364 days of the year he is).  So we go to the vet, the dog gets his shots, and we get in our cute little SUV to leave , only our path out is blocked by some guys working on the phone lines.  No problem.  I’d just take the back way out.

I turned the car around so we could do just that, but when we got there, this huge Armada was parked dead center , right in the middle of a driveway that SHOULD easily accommodate two-way traffic.  So, I had to go back, park my vehicle, get the kids and the dog out of the car (are you getting a visual of the beating I’m going through?), and go back into the vet’s office to ask the girl at the front desk to have the person blocking the driveway to move their car.  I wondered why she had the look of a deer trapped in the headlights of an 18-wheeler when I mentioned the brown Armada, and then got my explanation.  “That belongs to the vet’s wife.  I’ll see if I can get her to move it.”  If?  If?  No , she will move it because I’m not going to sit here held hostage in your parking lot until she decides it’s time for a grande mocha frappacino and a botanical skin resurfacing facial.

So I thanked the girl, and we moved our entourage back into the car.  We’re at the edge of the driveway waiting for Mrs. I’m-So-Important-Vet’s-Wife to move her SUV when out she walks in her too tight hip hugger shorts and bedazzled tank top (and with her figure, she shouldn’t have been wearing either one).  So she looks at me waiting for her to get her size-14-squeezed-into-a-size-8-pair-of-shorts hiney into her SUV to move it, then looks at her SUV, then looks at the guys working on the phone lines. 

Know what she did next?  Guess.  Instead of getting in her car and taking all of two minutes to move it so traffic could move freely through the driveway, she goes over to the guys working on the phone lines and has them move their truck!!  I was absolutely shocked.  Listen, woman, it’s not all about you.  I don’t care what you drive or who you’re married to , it’s not all about you.  Sheesh.