Welcome to the Crack Time Show

Another Thanksgiving come and gone. Another year of real napkins. Another year of frantic phone calls from JBear daring to ask me if I have extra doilies for the "dessert display" (I told her I could rip up a paper towel or two) Another year of football. Yet another year of ass crack.

I get dumber every year. Every damn year. By the time I'm 40 I expect to simply be comatose. Give me a few beers, some turkey and the Best Mashed Potatoes in the World (mine, of course) and I think I'm in the running for the Davey O'Brien Award AND the Heisman Trophy. You need me to play two positions? I'll play center and QB. Here I am about to hike the ball. To MYSELF:

Despite my shortcomings, it was a gorgeous day for football, an even better day for golf. As expected, we were absolutely slaughtered as we had the unfortunate issue of being "Hotsinpiller-ed." Nothing anyone could have done.

Annual post-football pic, wake me up when it's over. Take One:

Take two:

Doesn't Play Well With Others

Earlier in the school year, I volunteered to be a "Party Mom" for my daughter's Winter Party. Obviously you can tell this was a gross misunderstanding on my part.

After receiving an email from the coordinating "Party Mom," I can see I made a horrific mistake. I thought I just had to help hand out shit to the kids, maybe pour some of that nasty punch made from sherbet and 7-up, smile, use a lot of antibacterial gel and look good. Hell, I thought I WAS the party.

As it turns out, tragically, I have to work together with the other volunteers and plan the entire thing complete with an itinerary for the hour long affair. Itinerary? Okay:

1:30-1:31 Hand out crackers and water

1:32-2:30 Retreat to corner and drink heavily with constant eye on clock

There is a two page long list of "Acceptable Treats" that we must refer to when buying the little snot rockets their goodies. It seems that in the 20-something years that have past since I was in Kindergarten children have developed into tiny fatally allergic, asthmatic, obese germies.

25 kids. Budget: 20 bucks

I'm off to the dollar store to buy 20 naked plastic dolls. Too bad 5 of the booger eaters will have to share.

You better believe I will have a few words with Frank the Tank, the kid who found himself in the Principal's office the second day of the school year after talking about naked chicks with my daughter. I have no qualms about hip-checking a 4 foot brat.

There at least better be some MILFs to look at.

While the Kitty is in Bed (as told by JoDizzle)

In an effort to return the favor that our Jana provided for our (ahem) heartbroken husbands during our Napa-Girls-Gone-Wild weekend, I, the selfless JoDizzle, decided that it was time for Jana to get some much deserved rest. What with working full-time, blogging full-time, and being a full-time mother and wife, the martyr still found the time and energy to keep our husbands happy whilst we were traipsing across the west coast.

So without further ado, let me present JoDizzle and posse (that's posse with a u):

Getting to know each other and learning each one's names.


REALLY getting to know each other....what's in a name?


Consulting with T-Rod..."Hmmm, whatchu think about dat one?"


Don't worry, Jana, no need to roll over; I took care of him. Fo' Shizzle!


Cover charge at the local 'wannabe nightclub': free ($5.00 paid by JoDizzle)
Bottle o'beer: free ($4.25 paid by JoDizzle)
Several shots of Kryptonite: free ($35.00 per round paid by JoDizzle)
Spending the evening amongst new friends...priceless (compliments of JoDizzle)

Please note: the difference between your husband's evening out and my husband's evening out was that my husband knew everyone and therefore was held harmless...your husband discovered unchartered territory....look out Christopher Columbus!

Good Girls Gone Wine

The Newbies


The Veterans

Our long awaited annual girls’ trip weekend had finally arrived. Suzakins, KimmyKat, Con-con and I (the veteran members of our group) decided that we should expand our horizons and reach out to others to enjoy and partake in our antics on this virgin tour of Napa Valley Wine Country. During our vetting process, we decided that JoDizzle and her posse, Terry-Terri-Teri and Stay-C, would be good candidates that seemed brave and worthy enough to witness what shenanigans occur on our annual trips. Little did they know that they would be expected to be smack-dab in the middle of the mischief.

Since we arrived on the west coast so early in the day, we decided that we should spend the afternoon in “Frisco” to have some lunch and take in the sights.



While we appreciated the city’s cultural and architectural aspects, our highlight of the day happened when we came upon a homeless person who was entertaining onlookers by taking cover behind some make shift camouflage and surprising unsuspecting victims. Turns out that he’s quite infamous in the city by the bay and is referred to as 'Bushman' by the locals. ‘Twas quite a treat.




We trekked up to Napa and found the rental home quite lovely (of course, nowhere near as exciting as my and Jana’s Michigan rental fiasco). I was a little disappointed that there was no dirty underwear in the laundry room, nor were there any stray bottles of Crown Royal in the linen closets.

While we tried to maintain a sense of poise, refined manners, and an eagerness to learn about the various wines and champagnes , the pretension never lasted (at one point, Suzakins insisted we emptied the disapproved wines into her mouth rather than discard them into the glass buckets the wineries provided). A comment, a cackle, some hillbilly teeth, drunk dialing, fake vomit (which, by the way, almost led to our being escorted off the champagnery premises via Mrs. Schramsburg herself) always seemed to surface. Let's face it; no matter how fine the dining, how expensive the wine, how beautiful the scenery, our main focus is (as usual) trying to one up each other as to who can be more obnoxious than the other.









Fun times, ladies. Can't wait until next year! Party on.

Sir Secret Keeper

At approximately 2:32 this morning, I was woken by my husband arriving home from watching a band with some of our friends, including Jodi (whose husband can be seen licking my ear in a previous post). He informed me that "payback is a bitch" and said JBear and Jodi were up to something to pay me back for a previous misdeed, he was sworn to secrecy and it would be posted on this blog today.

Well, I don't take secrets or surprises well. Actually, I don't take them at all. Below are my early morning attempts to glean the secret from Benedict Arnold:

• The ancient torture technique of scratching just a small portion of someone's back. This leaves the rest with that unscratched feeling that can lead to insanity
• Constant pinching, poking and general bothering
  
• Threat of withholding sex for weeks
  
• Allowing the grabbing of my boobs
• Letting him get to the brink of sleep, only to yell, "What is it? Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me"
• Attempts at an Indian Burn (I was laughed at due to "my weak wrists and small arms")
• Threatening to change the password and admin rights on the blog
  

I came so close to water boarding and/or divorce. All he would say is, "It is not my secret to tell" This strange man in my bed could also be holding top secret Russian spy information. After over an hour of the most obnoxious questioning I could muster, my blood pressure was 200/130. I retreated with pillow and my eye mask to the comfort of my daughter's bed and slept with her.

WTF.

Who's Armless and Lives in a Pineapple Under the Sea?

Stop it, just stop it already. I can't handle this constant barrage of phone calls, emails, texts, and Twitters (Tweets?) begging for a glimpse at the famous cake.

Without further ado, feast your eyes upon the armless masterpiece:

Now that you have all satisfied your morbid pleasures, "saved as" and added to your massive porn collections, I will let you know he thoroughly enjoyed it. I even bought some of this mousse shit, blew his hair dry and:

It stayed in this fauxhawk for about 2 and a half minutes before reverting to Muensterville.

On to Thanksgiving. We have one freaking ginormous family. JBear hosts every year gangsta-Martha Stewart style. Last year we decided to eat a bit earlier and play some touch football, get the kids involved. Good thing I'm not competitive.

Our pic up top was taken after the game, I am, as always, under-dressed and freezing, hunched over warming my hands between my legs. Yep. Just wearin a sweatshirt. In Chicago. In November.

This year we plan to make it Turkey Bowl Part Duex, since last year was so successful. From firsthand experience, let me tell you: There is nothing more exhilarating than going in for the Turkey Bowl Tackle of the Day, (in a touch football game) getting off the ground with your yoga pants half off and your Vicky's Secret black satin thong exposed for all family members to see. I don't think you're ready for this jelly.

Do we want an instant replay? Hell ya, we do.

Are you ready for some football?

B.O.Y.

This birthday cake is shaping up to be the Best One Yet. My son turned three on Thursday and we are celebrating with friends and family tomorrow. My son has many several attributes that make him a unique little P.I.T.A.:

• He refuses to be called anything but "Buddy" even though his name is nothing close. To call him anything but Buddy results in a whine that shatters glass. "NOOOOOOOO, cawl me Buddy." My husband told him when he turned three we were going to have to start calling him Booby. I had to leave the house for a few hours.
  

• He loves boobs. He thrives on distracting me in order to pull my shirt down and grab my boobs. "Mom, what's dat wittle thing out dere?" Yank. I fall for it every. single. time.
  

• He loves to look at his own shit. "Iwannasee, Iwannasee" Every time he takes a dump and I lay him down to change his diaper, he props himself up on his elbows and gazes adoringly at his creation. He then turns his eyes to me to see my reaction.
  

• He loves Barbie threesomes.

• He is incapable of growing anything but pubic hair in the form of a wicked Eddie Muenster widow's peak on his head. See:
  

He is such a little shit, but I broke down and decided he needed a Jana Special Birthday Cake. He said he wanted a Sponge Bob Cake. How hard can that be? As it turns out, it is pretty damn hard if you're me. I bought fucking Halloween orange frosting. I thought it was white. Sponge Bob is yellow.

Here is where I'm at now:

The pants part fell apart and is sitting in this bowl. I should shove it in a diaper and make it a Buddy's Shit cake instead. He would love looking at that.

While the Cats are Away...

Ladies, hope you are enjoying your long weekend in Napa. Thought I would write to say all is well here. It is not easy tending to the needs of all your husbands.

A girl with my kind heart couldn't bare to see your husbands alone, neglected on a cold, dark, rainy, windy Saturday night. I decided to take them out to get their minds off the hole you left in their broken hearts as you drunkenly traipse from one winery to another champagnery.

I made them shove aside their lonely grief and blindly follow me. I wiped their tears and dragged them off their respective couches, making them leave behind your picture and the shirt with your scent that was clutched in their fists.


As you can see in the mirror of the above picture, the clientele of this particular establishment needed rhythm lessons from the only pasty white girl with a black girl booty in the joint. I was happy to oblige.

I was also nearly dry-humped to death by a 4' 2" Latina chick with tattooed double Ds who decided to make me her beyotch. All in the name of friendship, ladies.

It was difficult, but I think your men had a good time. I had them out until 3am, so I apologize in advance if they are late picking you up from the airport. Just take a cab and rest assured, I've kept your side of the bed warm for you.

P.S. And yes. That IS, in fact, Randy Jackson in the first photo. And yes. I AM goin' to Hollywood!

Potty Mouth

I just got a call at work from my almost three year old son. He excitedly told me he pooped on the potty for the first time. My daughter grabbed the phone and said with an exuberance usually reserved for Santa Claus and puppy dogs, "And Mom, it wasn't any tiny turd, either. It was a GIANT LOG!"

Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

It started innocently enough, Cyndi was herself, I was a liberal tree-hugger and Heather was a witch doctor. Hell, I even had the goofy liberal grin down:

Oh, and the kids! Yeah, the kids were there, too. I think.

As the kids rang doorbells, we did some trick-or-treating of our own. When our beers and vodka lemonades we brought along were gone, we were fortunate enough to hit the house that usually makes jello shots. We gave him a trick for his treat and he threw us a few beers and we were on our way.

We went back to my house, ordered pizza and set the kids loose on their 5 pound bags of diabetes serum. JBear and I went upstairs to get into character.


"Look up the stairs, it's a bird, it's a plane, no - it's Super Bullet. Faster than a regular bullet, more powerful than a rabbit, stronger than 1000 men, able to make chicks leap tall buildings in a single bound. With my trusty companion, KY at my side we will conquer the world."





Heather naturally had to try it on and immediately broke it, just like the other three.

Our new young, early 20-something neighbors came by and we again horrified them with stories and behavior they hadn't seen since three years prior when they were in junior high. We continue to scare them away from parenthood and growing old as ARod told story after story, from the vacation home reenactment to the Jana-Chokes-on-a-Steak-Quesadilla-and-I-Saved-Her-Life incident, all the while building a hot chick pyramid with my son's Barbies.

As everyone packed up to walk home, Heather deftly smuggled the SB out of the house. The vibration could be felt for miles.