Lice is a four letter word.

28 Sep

Mother effer. My daughter has lice. Let me rephrase that. My daughter came home with lice two weeks ago. For the first three days, I treated the shit out of her hair…sanitized, vacuumized, circumcised and alchemized my entire house and chalked it up as a Rite of Passage. I thought we were in the clear and turned my attention back to more important things like Halloween costumes and The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

And then a week later she was all, “Mumma, my head is itchy again…”

And I was all:

Oh fuck.

“Oh fizzuck.”

Then my head started to itch too. But, I laughed and said to myself “silly woman, lice don’t like Brazilian blow outs and majorly expensive hair coloring processes. They prey on children, exclusively. You’re fine. It’s prolly just dry scalp.”

But my friend came over and checked me and she was all:

"You're so screwed."

“Dude. Youse fizzucked.”

And so ensued my war on lice. We all know that lice has a stigma. You think it just happens to poor people with poor hygiene. Nope. Let me tell you something. It can happen to anyone. But people don’t talk about it. So rather than keep this information under my do rag (we’ll get to that) and at the risk of losing every single one of my friends, I’ve decided to tell the world so that I can help you bitches prevent, treat and put a stop to these tiny, indestructible little assholes.

"Hi. Me, my mom, dad, grandma and grandpa came to fuck up your life indefintely and ostracize you from society. Got any tea tree oil we can drink?"

“Hi, I’m a baby lice and I’m a total dick. Me, my mom, dad, grandma and grandpa came to fuck up your life indefinitely and ostracize you from society. Got any tea tree oil we can drink?”

WAR ON LICE INSTRUCTIONS:

Step 1: Burn your house down. Okay, so that sounds a bit rash but you’re going to think this is a viable and rationale solution on or before Day 17.

In all seriousness, if you can afford a professional lice expert, do it. Lice is a miserable, soul crushing experience and there is a steep learning curve. So if you’re a baller, skip to item #3 on the “Things You Will Need List,” call an expert, kick your feet up and keep counting your dollah dollah bills, y’all. If not, proceed to the information below:

Trust me when I tell you that I would open mouth kiss this lady if she came into my home right now. UV binoculars and all.

Trust me when I tell you that I would open mouth kiss this lady if she came into my home right now. UV binoculars and all. And I want that chandelier in the background.

Things You Will Need:

Get the following at Amazon and the liquor store or anywhere they sell War on Lice shit. Links attached. You’re welcome:

1.) Nix (or Rid). Don’t get the generic stuff, it doesn’t work. And when your mom tells you to mix bleach, ammonia and Listerine, kindly remind her that that is called a Molotov cocktail and tell her that you have to go because Dr. Oz is on.

text

“Ya know, when I had the lice as a kid, my mother sprayed me with a firehose, soaked my hair in cod liver oil, wrapped my head in cellophane and sent me to school.”

2.)  A good friend. Your husband will be about as useful during this shitshow as he was while planning your wedding. Go ahead and say that your husband helped plan your wedding and I’ll punch you in the mouth. You’ll need a friend (preferably one that can see) to help find the microscopic nits that are the exact color of your child’s hair while you’re crying in the bathtub, wearing a do rag, listening to Joni Mitchell with a bottle of Pinot Grigio in one hand and waving a gun around in the other. Because you too have ‘the lice.’

3.) A bottle of wine. (Natch.) See #2 for further detail.

4.) Mild shampoo. Baby shampoo is fine. Don’t get one with conditioner in it. Lice love conditioner and will just do the back stroke and read your cosmopolitan magazine while you essentially give them a massage with a happy ending in said conditioner. Dry those fuckers out. Make them bleed their own blood. And some of yours.

Seriously.

Seriously.

5.) Olive Oil.

6.) Tea Tree Oil. This stuff smells like pure gasoline. The lice hate it.

7.) A metal tooth lice comb. Get a few of these. Your husband can help you. BWAHAHAHAHA. The plastic ones that come with most kits are rubbish. Toss em.

8.) A magnifying glass.

9.) New hair elastics and clips.

10.) A parting comb.

11.) A hooker. Just kidding. Wanted to make sure you’re still paying attention.

12.) A do rag. Get one for each member of the family that has lice. And no, it won’t be your husband. Because God made it so that lice doesn’t like men’s hair…including their pubes…which I may have prayed for once or twice during this catastrophe.

You think I'm kidding. I have never been more serious in my life when I tell you that these have been a life saver. Shower caps are so uncomfortable and my daughter wouldn't keep her's on. She's straight up Outkast in one of these.

H to the izz-O, V to the izz-A                        Fo’ shizzle my nizzle used to dribble down in VA

You think I’m kidding. I have never been more serious in my life when I tell you that these have been a life saver. Shower caps are so uncomfortable and my daughter wouldn’t keep her’s on. She’s straight up Outkast in one of these. I have been wearing one to bed too. It helps suffocate the lice and keep the hair off your child’s face while she has the Molotov Cocktail rinse in her hair. See step 3.

13.) Isopropyl Alcohol. Not the kind that you drink. And don’t get confused in the heat of the moment.

14.) Disposable Tupperware and paper towels.

15.) Electronic Robi Comb Lice Killer from Outer space

16.) Lice preventative shampoo. For your entire household to use for the rest of your natural lives.

Step 2: The first night or Day Zero Dark You’re Fucked

You need to apply the treatment to dry or damp hair. Follow the instructions on the box. After you’ve combed through the hair thoroughly to get rid of the actual bugs, nits and their suitcases, do it again. You weren’t thorough enough. There are a few bugs that you’ve missed, and they’re high-fiving and mocking you right now. Dicks.

I feel itchy.

“I feel itchy.”

Note: Make sure you wipe the comb after each swipe through the hair on a paper towel soaked in rubbing alcohol. Periodically run the comb under hot water.

Also, on Day Zero Dark You’re Fucked, you also need to strip beds, sanitize linens and spray furniture, beds and cars with the Rid spray. Throw away hair ties, ribbons, bows and head bands. Wash hats and soak helmets in hot water and vinegar. Put those expensive throw pillows shaped like a peacock that you just had to have in the dryer on high for twenty minutes. And then punch yourself in the face for buying them. Purely decorative.

Step 3: Baby shampoo with tea tree oil

After the treatment and combing, put a few drops of tea tree oil in the baby shampoo. I know. Up until now, you haven’t so much as fed your child anything but grass-fed, organic, Monsanto free food. You wash her hair with green products and only clean your home with Shaklee. Well, shit’s about to get real, my friend. Now, you’re basically poisoning her. You may as well start serving Chef Boyardee and Cheez Whiz. I won’t tell anyone. Mix the concoction and apply liberally to head. Comb, braid tightly and put the do rag on that little G. Good night.

Step 4: Repeat

Rinse the hair first thing in the morning. Comb, comb, comb. Reapply shampoo with tea tree oil, braid and put the rinsed out do rag back on. Leave this on for about eight hours. Rinse, comb and let dry.

At this point, your husband has moved into the basement, your own hair is falling out in clumps and your child is permanently scarred.

Mommy's just a little overwhelmed at the moment, dear.

“Mommy’s just a little overwhelmed at the moment, dear.”

Step 5: Robi comb and olive oil with tea tree oil

Now you’re weeping and wondering which Pope you put through a woodchipper in a former life. Once the hair is dry, section off and carefully run the robi comb through the hair. You’ll hear a beeping sound when it hits a nit. Stop and remove the nit and finish combing hair thoroughly. Apply olive oil with tea tree oil liberally, braid and slap that do rag back on. Put your mini Tupac Shakur to bed and go watch Bravo. You deserve it.

Repeat the olive oil with tea tree oil for the following two nights. It creates a hostile environment and suffocates those little shits. Also wash pillowcases, shirts and sheets daily. Lice can’t live away from the hair for more than a few hours, but it’s important to be aggressive.

Things you need to understand about lice:

Lifecycle of lice.

Life-cycle of lice.

Translation. The females are whores and can lay several eggs a day. They can also move very quickly in hair and go up and down the shaft at lightening speed. <That’s what she said.>

The eggs, or nits, can withstand a nuclear holocaust. Don’t assume that the noxious chemicals that have easily eradicated all plant life, the family dog and almost every other living being in your home is going to get rid of head lice too. You need to follow all of the steps.

There are like eleven life cycles of lice. Be vigilant. Don’t assume lice is gone, even if there aren’t visible nits. You need to comb and check, rinse and repeat for six weeks.

Much like Teresa Giudice, ‘the lice’ were put on this earth to test our patience, steal our souls and remind us that we are more intelligent than they are.

Godspeed, bitches. Give em hell.

Tumbler? You Brought Her!

25 Sep

We are so all over this one!  $9.95 for traveling serenity = Yes, please!

Image

My Husband is MIA for DIY

22 Sep

I’m married to a carpenter. He does beautiful work. In other people’s homes.

We’ve lived in our home since 1997. Since then, I have asked him, bribed him, threatened him, cajoled him to fix a few things around the house and to help me maintain day-to-day functions. Like not leaving his huge man things everywhere and not allowing the garage to morph into an episode of Hoarders.

My vision:

I want.

I want.

My reality:

No, we don't need three nonfunctioning lawnmowers and a baker's dozen fly swatters.

No, we don’t need three nonfunctioning lawnmowers and a baker’s dozen fly swatters.

I went out and bought a docking station to tame those pesky wires and um, Sharpies.

Aaaand he turned it into a wire gang bang.

And he turned it into a wire gang bang.

One day, it started to rain. And then this happened. It was 2003.

No. I don't see Jesus's face. Fix the fucking ceiling.

No. I don’t see Jesus’s face. Fix the fucking ceiling. Love you.

It remains like that to this very day.

In an effort to streamline the bajilly pieces of paper that enter our home daily (seriously, it’s 2013, people…would it kill you to save a tree?) I went to Home Goods and picked-up like fourteen baskets to put shit in. I asked the hubs to start putting the mail in files.

My vision:

Serenity now.

Serenity now.

Nailed it:

Now that's what I call a filing system. Call Martha Stewart.

Now that’s what I call a filing system. Call Martha Stewart.

My vision:

A beautiful beachy chic mantle.

A beautiful beachy chic mantle.

I tell you what. Nothing says elegant coastal living like this big, yellow fuck off wire draped across your mantle.

A little to the left...

Nailed it.

I even told him that I saw on Dr. Oz that leaving your kids’ toothbrushes next to the sink can cause malaria.

It's like the man has no fear.

It’s like the man has no fear.

I admit. I like pretty things. So do you. Sure, it’s not always rationale or functionally necessary to have an antique decantur next to the baby food, but it makes me happy to create a beautiful home. Regardless of the amount of lead paint in an heirloom.

Yup. That goes there.

Yup. Those go right there.

He took down all of our closets to “add space.” Now, we have nowhere to keep the vacuum.

What if someone suddenly drops a cookie. What if?!

What if someone suddenly drops a cookie. What if?!

Or our clothes.

So when I said walk-in closet, I didn't mean for you to construct a huge fucking rack. In the middle of our bedroom.

So when I said walk-in closet, I didn’t mean for you to construct a huge fucking rack. In the middle of our bedroom.

My vision:

Too much to ask?

Too much to ask?

We like it Dr. Seuss style I guess.

We like it Dr. Seuss style I guess.

I’ve even tried reverse psychology. “Who needs mirrors? Mirrors are for vain people. Don’t hang those mirrors. Ever.”

If you don't mind, I'd really rather imagine how many more wrinkles I have this morning.

If you don’t mind, I’d really rather imagine how many more wrinkles I have this morning.

Oh look! There I am. Nope.

Oh look! There I am again. Nope.

I even promised extremely kinky sex to slap a fixture on this bad boy. We moved here sixteen years ago.

I even promised extremely kinky sex to slap a fixture on this bad boy. We moved here sixteen years ago.

So I played hardball and gutted the bathroom while he was at work. Last May.

Um, sorry?

He called my bluff.

It’s all fun and games until you see your house in the daylight. Sober.

No husbands were harmed in the making of this blog post.

Um. We have a virus, bitches.

13 Sep

There once were two sisters who lived in a small town near Boston (more like Cape Cod, but I’m not sure if our new readers in Zimbabwe know where “the Cape” is).

The Bitchin Sisters

The Bitchin Sisters

Our new readers. "We love the Bitchin Sisters."

One of our new readers. If you think you’re crafty, this bitch can thread a necklace faster than you can say “kindly put a bra on.”

One day, these sisters decided to write a facetious article about how badly they suck at Pinterest crafts, back-to-school preparedness, the art of getting your shit together and basically all things Motherhood. The post was meant to be totally inspiring self-deprecating, deadly serious not at all serious and poignant completely unmoving.

They published said post and were all <shrug,> “No big deal. We have published eleventy billion posts and we’ve only had like 1000 views total and 999 of them were mom.”

After a few short hours, the blog post approached 65,000 views and Sister 1 called Sister 2:

Sister 1: “Oh my effing God. I think we just went viral.”

Sister 1. Where's my damn thunder vest?

“Where’s my damn thunder vest?!”

Sister 2: “Awesome. No, wait. Gross. What the fuck does that mean? Talk to me like I’m in Kindergarten. Is that like HPV for computers?”

"Bitch, please. Settle down. Are you wearing your thunder vest?"

“Bitch, please. Settle down. Are you wearing your thunder vest?”

Sister 1: “We have like a bazilly hits and comments on our blog And I don’t think they’re all mom this time.”

Sister 2: <Screams and runs into a wall.>

Sister 1: “How do you tweet? I feel like we should be tweeting.”

Sister 2: “What’s twatting? You’re seriously asking me this question? I have no idea.”

Sister 1: “We suck at this.”

Sister 2: “We sure do. Let’s drink wine and Google it. How do you Google something?”

Sister 1: “Helpful. You realize that one of us needs to make a sex tape now, right?”

Sister 2: “I vote you.”

And for the next week, they learned how to twat and they watched the blog reach 1 million views and receive 600 plus comments, including ones like:

Sandy from De Moines, Iowa: “I love you! Be my best friends. Let’s make out. Hold me.”

Bitchin Sisters: “We love you too, Sandy!”

Us and our readers like Sandy. "Hell yeah! We got this whole motherhood thing."

Us and our readers like Sandy. “Hell yeah! We got this whole motherhood thing.”

And then Angryman from Nowhereville jumped out of his ivory tower, wearing a parachute made of his children’s hair and was all: “You suck. So does your blog. I hate your face. And now, I shall douse you with gasoline.”

Bitchin Sisters: “Neat. Excuse us while we back a car over ourselves, Dude who takes himself way too seriously.”

"I'm unreasonably angryman from Nowhereville! Rawr!"

“I’m unreasonably Angryman from Nowhereville! Rawr!”

And so on and so forth.

And then People I want to Punch in the Face posted our article and so did the Huffington Post Canada. And we were all:

Yup. That's us. Swear to God.

Yup. That’s us. Swear to God.

But really more like:

Ab-effing-Fab.

Ab-effing-Fab.

And then HuffPost New York got in touch and asked us to write something and Sister 1 swallowed her tongue, passed out and peed her pants while Sister 2 looked on concerned and confused.

So while we continue to come up with several other ways to make you laugh until you pee (or ruin the lives of mothers and children everywhere according to some (three) readers), please accept our thanks for being awesome.

Until then,

drink wine

The Bitchin Sisters

Back-to-School Pinterest Bitches

29 Aug

It’s that time of year again. The kids are going back to school, Target is abuzz with harried moms, the beaches are emptying, I’m still not tan and shit’s about to get real on Pinterest:

I went to Ocean State Job Lot and bought my daughter’s school supplies. After washing last year’s perfectly good bag, I packed it very neatly, wrote her a little ‘good luck’ note and felt like a mom rock star. Then this bitch went and did this:

Why God? Why?

How and more importantly why?

And then her asshole mom friend did this:

I started this project and then ate all of the rolos.

I started this project and then accidentally ate all of the Rolos.

Sweet baby Jesus in the sky, why do people have to be so crafty?

I had a glass of wine, felt inspired and worked on this little project. Evidently, you’re not supposed to use a blow torch to melt the Crayons:

Drink wine and fuck up crafts.

Drink wine and fuck up crafts.

Raise your hand if your kids’ last three years of school pictures are somewhere in the bottom of your “To Do” file. #mustmailtorelativesbeforecollege.

I’m just glad that my kids’ socks match and that I don’t look like Amanda Bynes at the bus stop. (<—–Lie. I always look like Amanda Bynes at the bus stop.)

Don't forget your lunch, kids! Mommy loves you.

Don’t forget your lunch, kids! Mommy loves you.

 

The moms who won’t let it go. Even into the college years:

My mom's weird and she makes me do tricks.

My mom’s weird and she makes me do tricks.

 

I’m not even sure what this is? A lemonade stand? For school shit?

I don't understand.

I don’t understand. What exactly are you selling? Explain yourself.

I’m still trying to figure out which summer camp to send my kids to. And then this mom is all:

So now we're supposed to have back-to-school parties for our children?

Don’t forget the personalized chalkboard.

And then there are the moms that rush things:

I call bullshit. Everyone knows that three year olds are too young for Kindy. Nice try, mom.

I call bullshit. Everyone knows that three-year olds are too young for Kindy. Nice try, kid.

Nothing says the most important meal of the day quite like a super crafty breakfast and a diorama of…the first day of school. This mom stayed up until four in the morning preparing this. I hate her:

I just feel like this sets high expectations. If I did this and then tried to give my kids an organic poptart the next morning, I'd be knifed.

How to give your child explosive diarrhea on their first day of school. Also, if I did this and then tried to give my kids an organic pop tart the next morning, I’d be knifed.

And here is a baby in glasses laying on a book. Just cuz.

Smartest baby ever.

Smartest baby ever.

Here’s to overdue library books, forgotten show-and-tell days, last-minute book reports and a whole lot of self forgiveness.

Have a great year! Don’t forget to wear pants to the bus stop.

Mother’s Day Wishlist

10 May

A Dyson. Because being a mom doesn’t suck. And because a vacuum is the perfect gift for pushing two babies out of your vagina and then having your nipples chewed off for the following ten months. Nope. But I figure if I am in charge of picking up after three animals, I may as well be efficient.

Animals. All of you.

Animals. All of you.

After I wake up from my bedsore worthy sleep-in, I immediately want liquor and desserts for breakfast in bed. Oh wait. That’s right. My husband’s over thirty soccer league has a game scheduled for eight o’clock in the morning. On Mother’s Day. Evidently the team will crumble without him. After all, this is the big league. And none of the players have mothers, wives or children seemingly.

Mommy's busy.

Mommy’s busy.

I want my bedroom back. If I roll over on top of a Lego one more time, I am burning them all. Do you have any idea how badly that hurts? Like rolling over on a landmine. I wake up screaming and furiously karate chopping the air. Unless Legos are shaped like Eddie Vedder or Johnny Depp, they just don’t belong in my bed.

What I dream of my bedroom looking like.

What I dream of my bedroom looking like.

What my bedroom actually looks like. Hey hun, can you pass me that chicken wing?

What my bedroom actually looks like. “Hey hun, can you pass me that chicken wing?”

Speaking of bed. I want a hotel room. I’d like to sleep alone one night. All alone. Without someone holding my nose like a handle, while kicking me in the spleen and headbutting me in the face. All alone. I don’t care if it’s a rent by the hour joint. I don’t even mind if there are cockroaches. As long as they tuck me in, are quiet and don’t smoke. Those little fuckers can totally chill with me.

Oh my god, they're multiplying.

Oh my god, they’re multiplying. And we’re never having sex again.

Wine. Magnums of it. I’m talking backstroke in a tub full of Chardonnay, while you pour Cabernet in my mouth. Because my three-year old is a caveman and tells me thrice daily that I am stupid. And my six-year old bullies me like Real Housewives of Orange County bullies me. Wine. All day.

Me on Sunday. In wine.

Me on Sunday. In wine.

Major reconstructive surgery on my stomach. Despite core strengthening and intense cardio, I fear that my stomach will always look like it was set on fire. Twice. That belly button ring I got when I was seventeen was a fan-fucking-tastic idea though. Really. Not too sexy when your stomach stretches seventeen thousand times bigger than the size of your seventeen year old midriff. Dumbass.

Aw, isn't that precious. Wait until the baby comes and you look like a fucking narwal that was caught in a barbed wire net and it ripped your flesh to pieces.

Aw, isn’t that precious. Wait until the baby comes and you look like a fucking narwhal that was caught in a barbed wire net and it ripped your flesh to pieces.

For one…just one blessed family photo that doesn’t involve me screaming during the taking of said photo. “Look at the camera, kids…daddy, look at the camera (seriously?!) Look at the camera, please. I’ll give you a million dollars to look at the camera…Look at the damn camera!” <Sobbing.>

Oh fuck off. That's not even possible. I call photoshop bullshit.

Oh fuck off. That’s not even possible. I call Photoshop bullshit.

Did I mention liquor?

For my children and husband to learn how to see. “Hun, have you seen my soccer shirt? Mom, where are my shoes? Mumma, where’s my favorite rocket ship?”

“They’re in the backyard with the Legos. I lit them all on fire. Glug. Glug. Glug.”

Happy Mother’s Day, bitches. Booze and snarkism aside, this crazy, exhausting, amazing privilege is worth every single minute. I love you F & R.

P!nk can fly. I’ve seen it.

2 Apr

My friend and I went to the P!nk show last week at TD Banknorth Garden. She got hit by a bike messenger, (my friend, not P!nk) we haggled with a few extras from the Departed to buy tickets and scored floor seats. All in the same night. And we didn’t even end up in formaldehyde jars in the basement of a multi-family in Chelsea. Hustlers.

Hey, you guys selling tickets?

Hey, are you guys selling tickets? Why don’t you come follow me to the ATM…

The first time I heard a P!nk song (Get the Party Started) was 2001. I thought it was the Spice Girls making a comeback. I was disinterested to say the least. After all, I was twenty-two years old, a product of the nineties and way too cool for pop.

Sometime around 2003ish, I saw a documentary on P!nk. I learned that Linda Perry wrote a lot of her music so she couldn’t suck that bad. I fell in love with her story. Since then I have been a fan. After all, What’s Up by the 4 Non Blondes is my go-to karaoke song.

Fast forward twelve years and I feel like I grew up with her. Except she’s wicked fucking rich and I am not a rockstar.

Setlist Redux:

P!nk opened with Raise Your Glass as the tiny gay boy next to me grabbed my arm, screamed in my face and fell on the floor. I helped him up, slapped him and assured him it would be okay.

Me: “Hey look, there’s three jacked guys throwing P!nk around like a rag doll.” He wiped away his tears, adjusted his coconut bra and all was right with the world.

Weird. I had a dream like this once.

Weird. I had a dream like this once.

Up next: Walk of Shame, Just Like a Pill and U + Ur Hand. And the insanity ensued. Angry women started throwing shit and punching the poor few men that were brave enough to attend the show. I loved it.

Try: I watched a grown woman weep and bite a guy in the neck simultaneously. P!nk twirled, hanging from some contraption and rolled around on a male dancer. <—Running theme.

She covered Wicked Game. Vom. I know I’m in the minority here, but I have an irrational disdain for Chris Isaak. I blame my college boyfriend. So I went to the loo and grabbed a beer. And tried not to picture him writhing around on a palm tree. Ouch.

I had my haircut like this once. Except I looked like Billy Idol. And not like hot White Wedding Billy Idol. Like modern day Billy Idol. I guess what I am trying to say is...Rock the Cradle of Love.

I had my haircut like this once. Except I looked like Billy Idol. And not like hot White Wedding Billy Idol. Like modern-day Billy Idol. I guess what I am trying to say is…Rock the Cradle of Love.

My senior picture.

My senior picture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just Give Me a Reason: I died. I was curious how she was going to work in the male vocals. Especially since I hadn’t been asked to fill-in for Nate Ruess. It was beautiful. The aforementioned little gay guy next to me and I did a duet and then he fell on the floor. Again.

I almost clotheslined the person in front of me because she stood up on her chair. Then I realized that she was an eight-year old and couldn’t see anything. Not my problem, kid.

Trouble: My kids and I belt this out while we dance around in leotards. Oh wait. That’s just me.

We met four people from Ireland who were sitting behind us. One of them dumped an entire beer down my back and one of them punched me in the head while he was doing jumping jacks during Perfect. I didn’t hate it.

Are We All Here and How Come You’re Not Here: We’re here, P!nk. Covered in beer.

Sober: My favorite performance of the night. She and a half-dozen dancers climbed in a black thing and dangled precariously from the black thing while it spun around. That’s what she said.

And then I ran around under her and her spinning orb in case she fell.

And then I ran around under her and her gigantic spinning orb in case she fell.

And then, Big Perm showed up and he and P!nk sang like eight acoustic songs to each other while the other fifteen thousand of us felt awkward. Who Knew.

Seriously. These two back-up singers are all "Fa-la-la what the fuck is happening?♫ "

Seriously. These two back-up singers are all “Fa-la-la what the fuck is happening?♫ “

I’m pretty sure she licked Collective Soul’s face at one point. You heard it here first. They are definitely hitting it.

Perfect, Most Girls/There You Go/You Make Me Sick remix. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting mixed messages.

Slut Like You: Um, Glutes Like You?

I have never seen an ass on a human being like that before. It's otherwordly.

I have never seen an ass on a human being like that before. It’s otherworldly.

Overall, P!nk was a brilliant performer. She nailed every song and managed to play most of her hits. One critical absence for me was Funhouse. But I was blown away by her athleticism, sense of humor and down-to-earthedness. Motherhood suits her. And she has evolved but maintained her individuality. Bad ass.

Encore:

And then this happened…

So What:

Aside from seeing those little prick monkeys on the Wizard of Oz when I was a wee child, I have never wanted to fly so badly in my whole life. I asked my husband to set this contraption up in our backyard so that I could try it and he said I would decapitate myself. So unsupportive. He’s just jealous.

Glitter in the Air: How about glitter in your face because I love you.

I tried this with my husband and kids. It didn't go as planned.

I tried this with my kids. It didn’t go as planned. It was like being waterboarded.

I still have no idea what the Truth About Love is, but I do love me some P!nk. She’s coming back to Boston in December. You should go see her. Just watch out for the bike messengers. They’re unforgiving.

Until then, I’ll be doing squats and walking lunges until I drop.

Blow Me (One Last Kiss)…

Live Life Believe

1 Mar

We belong to a ridiculously awesome gym called Live Life Believe. We want you to belong too. Unless you don’t want to be in our club, which would be weird because our club is kind of amazing.

Here’s a list of things that we love about LLB. And your mom.

No Creep Factor

There aren’t any large men carrying around gallons of some unknown substance (seriously, what is in those jugs?) No one leering at your ass. Well, except for the Bitchin Sisters. We are totally staring at your ass.  This gym is perfect for the modest as well as the über athlete. You will feel comfortable and cared for no matter what you want to do. No meatheads like other gyms, which will remain nameless because we’re nice. Side-eye, other gyms.

I bet this guy drank out of huge gallon jugs. Right before he lost to Rocky. BAM! Sly wins EVERY TIME.

I bet this guy drank out of huge gallon jugs and walked around the gym thrusting his nipple in everyone’s eye. Right before he lost to Rocky. BAM! Sly wins EVERY TIME. Fact.

The People

When you walk into this place, the energy is contagious. You’re greeted by warm people who earnestly care about you and genuinely want to help you be a stronger, healthier person. I am a reformed serial gym member. I have belonged to several gyms in my lifetime. The people at LLB are by far the most helpful, non-judgmental and just plain good. There is no hard sell. There is no script about what type of gym they are, and they definitely don’t just want your ten dollars a month and never see you again. They really like to see you. You will also like to see them. I promise.

The owner’s vision was to create a healthy, friendly atmosphere that inspires and empowers people to see their own true beauty and strength and enables them to achieve goals that they didn’t believe possible. He also recycles. And dances his little heart out as seen below.

Staff

LiveLifeBelieve has the best staff. Period. The instructors are incredible. They motivate. They care and they are truly invested in the members. I have yet to see such dedication and commitment. I’ve never taught a class before, but it really has to suck having people staring at you, wondering what your next move is, making horrible faces and sweating and struggling. It is probably like being a dentist. Or a gynecologist. That WOULD SUCK. But yet, they still motivate and inspire and get you moving. Or in my case, they make sure I am still breathing and tell me to floss more. Or do more planks. You see the parallel. I was going to say something about stirrups but my mom reads this blog and she will disown me.

Magical

Magical people sent here to make you better at life. And to show you how to have fun doing it.

The members are friends. Like I said, it’s a club. Not a night club with drama and scandal. Simply good people, great equipment and incredible classes. No dicks. No cliques. No HICKS…. we just made up the last one cuz it rhymed with dicks and cliques. We kind of like hicks. Hicks are hot and totally welcome.

The Equipment

State. Of. The. Art. For reals. The equipment is the same machinery Olympians train on. All TechnoGym, FlexaBility and Kinesis Stations. You feel like an Olympian. Only you’re wearing underwear. Or not. We don’t judge.

The cycling room has Cyclops bikes, the best cycling bikes on the market.  I had never taken a spinning or cycling class before. The first time I took one was at LLB. I was like a hammered baby giraffe learning how to walk. On ice. Blind folded. And I needed epi foam afterwards. But I was hooked. Natalie, who is basically the nicest person ever puts together creative rides like Animal Ride. It is incredible. I cried. I got chills. I may have lost my virginity. Again. You get to pretend you are a different animal for each track and you believe you are. I was a cheetah and I ate a gazelle. I was a wolf and I was in a pack. It was more fun than I have ever had on a stationary bike in my life. Except for my sophomore year in college but we will NOT go into that because again…my mom. (I WILL JUST SAY JELLO WAS INVOLVED.)

Assistnat General Manager and the Nicest Person Ever

Assistant General Manager and maybe the Nicest Person Ever. Except when she is a tiger during her Animal Ride. She will devour you. Rawr.

The Bitchin Sisters attempting their first cycling class.

The Bitchin Sisters attempting their first cycling class.

It Smells Good

No seriously. This place smells amazing. It’s right smack in Plymouth’s historical old rope factory, Cordage Park. So I don’t know if it smells like rope or what, but it’s amazeballs. The space is mad cool too. The liquidy shiny hardwood floors with exposed brick and an industrial, rustic feel, is an amazing contrast to the sleek, sexy, high-tech equipment. It all makes you feel like you’re getting a great workout in a place where shit happened. Like majorly important shit. (Ropes hold boats to docks and were used to hang bad people. We like ropes. Rope is dope). It is a beautiful sprawling space of fitnessy coolness. And it doesn’t smell like a jock strap. Bonus.

Pump class in an old rope factory? Yes please.

Pump class in an old rope factory? Yes please.

The Classes

I have a new boyfriend named Les Mills. He likes to kick my ass, bring me to the brink of death and make me sweat my face off. He loves me. And he loves you. Hold me, Les Mills.

There is literally a class for everyone. If you have exercise ADHD like me and want to keep your workouts fresh and diverse…let’s go do yoga, ride bikes, jump rope and OH LOOK THERE’S A SMOOTHIE BAR…at LLB. Together.

Body Combat, Body Pump, CXWorx and Body Flow will make you fit. Fast. Seriously. After your first Pump, CXWorx, Combat or other Les Mills class, you’ll notice a difference in your body. Fo Sho.

Fierce Les Mills instructors: Kristine, Kelly and Jean

Some of our fierce Les Mills instructors: Kristine, Kelly and Jean

Get in for a 5:10am ass whooping by the Iron Woman, Maggie Phaneuf. Take a Rock Ur Body class with the magical little fairy that is Karen Rich or her husband, Stephen’s SPARK class. Karen and Stephen have like eleven babies and still manage to have more energy than most humans. LLB has the best instructors in the area. Seriously. I can’t even believe they aren’t famous. They will be. And I will get to say I knew them when. I totally say that about Billy Blanks and Susan Powter but they don’t return my calls. Whatevs.

Life coach, wellness manager and the tiniest human being with the biggest heart that you've ever seen, Karen Rich.

Life coach, wellness manager and the tiniest human being with the biggest heart that you’ve ever seen, Karen Rich.

 

They encourage you to push yourself…

LLB's Fitness Director and resident badass, Maggie Phaneuf.

LLB’s Fitness Director and resident badass, Maggie Phaneuf. ~Tough Mudder 2012

Without gimmicks…

Wonder where she is these days.

Can you say restraining order? At LLB, they don’t holler in your face.

They love their members….

The members want to live there. Or maybe that’s just me. Sometimes I hide in the bathroom so I don’t have to leave. Awkward.

The schedule is accommodating and there is FREE DAYCARE. Maybe you didn’t hear me. THE DAYCARE IS FREE. My kids love it there! My son may or may not steal a toy almost every time he goes but please don’t tell anyone. He also talks about Kids Cove in his sleep. Your kids will too.

Kids Cove. Come play with us!

Kids Cove. Come play with us!

The Bod Pod

I would post a picture of myself in the Bod Pod, but then I’d have to kill all of you. This Lean Body Mass assessment tool is the most accurate on the market. Want to know how much Fat/Lean Mass you currently store in that fabulous hot body of yours? (I know it’s scary. But it helps you set goals and have the real number in front of your face.) And besides, you know those calipers are SO inaccurate. If you can pinch an inch then you are alive. And you have skin. Try the Bod Pod for the real dealz. And then talk to a trainer for some goal setting goodness.

Seriously accurate results. Serious goals. Seriously felt like Mork from Mork and Mindy. And it was glorious. Nanu nanu.

Seriously accurate results. Serious goals. Seriously felt like Mork from Mork and Mindy. And it was glorious. Nanu nanu.

Smoothie Bar

A wonderful cuisine of fresh fruit smoothies and lots of options for protein supplements including whey protein, peanut butter and Chia Seeds. You will think you have died and gone to Starbucks. Without the calories, sugar and stupid names for small, medium and large. “I would like a Small Venti Grande chemical bath with lots of preservatives and let me pay nine bucks please.”

NOPE. $4.50 and all natural and healthy goodness. SO YUMMY!!! Let’s just say that one of the Bitchin Sisters makes the best smoothie in town.

Bitchin Sister = Best Smoothie maker.

Bitchin Sister = Best Smoothie maker.

Like LiveLifeBelieve on Facebook. And come in and see for yourself why you should join. Don’t simply exist. Live.

Mumford and Sons – Babel concert review

6 Feb

Much of my appreciation for music came from my dad. (Okay and 88.9.) My father exposed me to all types of music at an early age. We would cruise around in his Chevy Nova listening to Oldies 103.3 and he would give me background on the band, genre and random (but poignant for my little brain) facts. Like that it is not Paul McCartney whispering “quite rightly” in Donovan’s Mellow Yellow. And that The Beatles’ Norwegian Wood was originally going to be called Knowing She Would. That Mozart was five years old when he wrote his first piece. This was one of my favorite things to do.

He immersed me in bands like The Kinks, Buddy Holly, Warren Zevon, The Stones and of course the Beatles. He knew an unusual amount about music for someone who wasn’t necessarily a musician.

He once told me that John Phillips of Mamas and Papas fame called their harmony Harvey. That sometimes, there is a harmony so perfect that it could make you laugh and cry and possibly get pregnant. Wait, that was a different talk.

I would cut off your left nipple to be able to see them perform Twelve Thirty live. Just once.

I would cut off your left nipple to be able to see them perform Twelve Thirty live. Just once.

Anyway…John Phillips was a genius. And aside from spawning Chynna and Bijou, the train wrecks that are what’s left of the Phillips legacy, he was kinda brilliant.

That Harvey talk stuck with me and last night, he was at TD Banknorth Garden in the shape of four gorgeous musicians. Mumford and Sons.

gotr

Setlist:

1.) Babel ~ The Gentlemen of the Road opened with Babel. And that’s when I knew it was going to be a good fucking awesome show. And it only got better from there.

2.) I Will Wait~ Please do.

3.) Winter Winds ~ This is my favorite M’ford song. And it was perfect. Better live than not live (dead?). This is about the time I decided to hide in Marcus Mumford’s  suitcase. He would never find me under his several hundred vests.

I will wait...under your vests.

I will wait…under your vests.

4.) Below My Feet ~ …Are several hundy people and a sheer drop to my death. We had terrible seats. But I didn’t care. Cuz magic happened.

5.) White Blank Page ~ “Oh tell me now, where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart?” Said no man ever. Except for M2.

6.) Hopeless Wanderer ~ And then the DICKHEAD COUPLE in front of us started making out. I refer you all to this guide for concert etiquette. It’s entitled “Don’t make out at a fucking concert. You AssKnuckle.”

7.) Timshel ~ I think I would have cried if the obnoxious drunk girl of said dickhead couple wasn’t yelling at her boyfriend through this entire song. Yes, they made out and then started fighting. I wanted to punch her in the temple.

Anyway, It was like chocolate butter. The song. Not her temple. Like if songs had a taste, this song would taste like chocolate butter.
Hi, I'm Mumford and Sons' harmony. Nom. Nom. Nom.

Hi, I’m Mumford and Sons’ harmony. Nom. Nom. Nom.

8.) Little Lion Man ~ This was the real money shot the real crowd pleaser. Marcus whipped off his headphones and let the sold out Garden holler our little heads off. Cause he’s a gentleman. Of the road.
 Marcus+Mumford+Mumford++Sons+20

9.) Lover of the Light ~ Marcus casually walked back to the drum set that had remained untouched for the show until this song. And then he was all “Oh I play the drums too. No big deal.” And then my husband looked at me deadly serious and told me that “No, we are not waiting outside of his tour bus after the show.” And I cried. So he went and bought me a t-shirt.

Almost the same as meeting the band.

Almost the same as meeting the band.

10.) Thistle & Weeds ~ Thistle and I love you.

And then the Sad Song Trilogy began:

11.) Ghosts That We Knew ~ weep

12.) Holland Road ~ sob

13.) Roll Away Your Stone ~ enough!

14.) Whispers in the Dark ~ Um, yes please?

15.) Dust Bowl Dance ~ This was fan-effing-tastic. Such a fun song. Marc (we’re pretty tight now) got back on the drums. One of my new faves.

Then, they came to the back of the stadium where us morons who paid 300% mark-up for our tickets were, and sang two songs a capella for us. All four of them.

This is when I realized that God was really just fucking with me because I couldn’t have a beer and Drunky McCries-A-Lot was still yelling at her boyfriend. Face Palm.

yup

The worst couple that ever was finally sat down and this was our view for the first encore.

Encore 1:

16.) Reminder ~ Yes

17.) Sister ~ Gorgeous!

Me: “They haven’t played The Cave.” Sadface.

Mumford and Sons: “Now we’re going to play The Cave.”

Me: “It’s like they can read my mind…”

Encore 2:

18.) The Cave ~ I am learning this song on the banjo. And by learning I mean the following:

Me: “Hey, Paul (banjo instructor)…when are you going to teach me The Cave?”

Paul: “When you can learn how to tune your own banjo…”

Me: “Harumph.”

I was a little surprised that Winston didn’t bust out his banjitar for this song, but it was still amazeballs.

The banjitar

The banjitar. Not to be confused with a Ganjo. Or a banjo that is shaped like a guitar.

Overall, the show was brilliant. I was impressed by these guys. They didn’t talk a lot, but when they did they were witty and sweet. Totally humble. Yet, they put on a gritty…sweaty…heartfelt performance with tireless transitions and a good cadence. Totally sounds like I know what I am talking about. Doesn’t it? Side-eye, Rolling Stone Magazine.

Seriously. This was one of the best shows I have been to since Donovan in 1998 and The Dead in…I never saw the Dead. That was a lie. Now, I’m sad. Thanks a lot.

Up next? The Wolfetones. And Pink. Shits about to get real.

Oh man is a giddy thing….

Doubtin’ Abbey – Season 3 Opener Recap

8 Jan

It’s Spring 1920 at Downton Abbey…right after Laura Linney punches us all in the face with her penis.

We’re preparing for the wedding of the century and the house is abuzz. Carson is about to lose his mind due to all of the intense preparation of polishing silver and hollering his head off at everyone. His gigantic caterpillar eyebrows didn’t stop moving the entire two hours. It was exhausting.

Everyone downstairs is either dumb or inadequate. Or Daisy. What’s a butler…whose only responsibility in the world is to serve three square meals a day…to do?

Do you have any idea how important I am?

Do you have any idea how important I am?

It’s going to be a great season. I can feel it.

And then BAM. Cut to the kitchen. Thomas is still a douche. Homeboy subsists exclusively of nicotine and misery.

thomas

“It may appear like I am constantly smoking a cigarette, but I am really trying to figure out how to crush your soul.”

Shady McPerm and Tommy LeSatan are seemingly on the outs. Which is a shame really, because they are quite the destructive duo.

Who's life shall we ruin today?

Who’s life shall we ruin today?

Then, O’Brien’s eleven-foot love child, Alfred, appears out of thin air after an apparent lobotomy, only to fuck up Lord Grantham’s wardrobe. And Thomas is all “Bitch, please. I’ll cut you. I get to dress the men.”

Pfft. How hard can it be to iron.

Is it that difficult to iron? Even in 1920?

Master Bates is in the clink and Mumbelina is on the hunt for some piece of evidence that will exonerate him. We, the viewers, are wondering if it was perhaps Batesy that killed Vera, the wonder slut, when he tries to strangle his cell mate with his gigantic man paws.

What the hell did you say?

What the hell did you just say? It was Bates. In the kitchen. With the arsenic. Fact.

I still have an epic girl crush on Sybil. Who doesn’t love a feminist from the roaring twenties who runs away with the Irish rebel chauffeur? And then he gets fake hammered at the dinner table and starts yelling about the black and tans and I’m smitten. Reminds me of home.

Swoony McSwoonerson

Swoony McSwoonerson

Mary Shoulders Crawley. You almost forget she killed a Persian with her vagina not that long ago or that Matthew couldn’t even breathe on his own very recently. These two are meant to be. Mary’s wedding dress is everything.  Everything. Mary and Matthew forevs. Except for when he leaves her for Moseley.

Shut. Up.

Shut. Up.

Lord Grantham bounces the only (creepy as all hell, crippled) man who would have Edith from Downton. He’s all “Nah. Let’s make her miserable while her two hot sisters lead glorious lives.” And then we have to watch painfully as Edith and Sir Sneers-A-Lot sneer the shit out of each other. Side-eye, Grantham.

sneer

One of two things are going to happen with these two. They’re either going to have like eleventy sneery babies or he’s going to die. Either way, Edith will continue to hurt my soul.

The good news is that Countess Xanax continues to be vapid and emotionless.

Lord Grantham: “Darling, I seem to have blown your fortune.” Countess Cora: “What’s that, dear? I must have blacked out. Don’t I look pretty?”

grantham

One low note: The wildly inappropriate sex jokes:

Lord Grantham to Matthew: “How was the honeymoon?”

Matthew: “My eyes have been opened.”

Lord Grantham: “Mwahahaha.”

Me: “Ew, bro. That’s your daughter.”

Shudder.

Daisy continues to surprise us with just how dumb a human being can actually be. But we love her. Because she’s Daisy. And because her tongue perpetually hangs out of her mouth. But she’s dumb as a bag of veal pies and other meals that absolutely nobody has ever heard of. It was fun watching her try to light the stove for two straight hours.

dai

Meanwhile the world’s most depressing conversation takes place in England’s longest, coldest hallway. Mrs. Hughes has breast cancer. Cuz life as a servant isn’t bad enough. Let’s give the nicest character cancer while Mary gets a new flapper dress.

world

I’m gonna die. G’Night.

While Mary’s upstairs all “But how will I afford all of my hair feathers n’stuff…”

Downton Forever. It’s going to be a great season. I heard no one dies.

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