Lisa Gerardy's Blog, page 23

Ding Dong! Mary Jane Lady Calling!

Way back in the D-A-Y, before there was Wifi, reality TV, or me, there was the sweetest Avon commercial on TV. It went something like this:

I’m super nostalgic for the 1950’s, even though I was born A LOT of years later, like at least 40. OK, more like 20. Anyway, I would live in Pleasantville if it existed. So, I have thought of a way to bring back the 1950’s Avon lady, but modernize her a bit by changing her product line just a little.  Anyone know where I’m going with this? Wait for it.   Mary Jane lady parties.

Ding Dong! Your Kush is here!
©DankDepot

Instead of the Avon lady showing up with lipstick samples and perfume pouches, the Mary Jane lady would arrive with all of your marijuana needs, medical or otherwise. And just like with Avon, Mary Kay (I never realized how close to Mary Jane that is), Tupperware, Pampered Chef, and MANY others, you could host your own Mary Jane party. That’s right! You could invite your friends over to sample and purchase fine Mary Jane products.

Your personal Mary Jane lady would provide glossy catalogs with a variety of products. She could even borrow a Pampered Chef technique and make pot brownies for you and your guests, giving everyone samples and a recipe card. She could also whip up some green butter and some canned dinner rolls for a non-sweet treat. Your friends may be so relaxed that they can’t get up from your couch. Then you could get out your Avon stuff and make clown faces on them. Think of the fun you could have!

The MJ lady could even make a cake with a green middle!
©SaraonFlickr

And let’s not forget about that host or hostess gift. For every $100 in sales, you could earn a free bong, pipe, or other product of your choice.

I’m not really a pot person, and it’s not legal in my state. So, if anyone out there starts Mary Jane parties, I will expect a check each month totally 40% of your sales. I mean, you will be doing ALL of the work, but it IS my fabulous idea.   It’s a better offer than you would get from any of the sharks on Shark Tank.

©MardiGrass

Disclaimer: Mary Jane ladies do not need to be ladies. We are an equal opportunity employer. Gentlemen are welcome to apply.

 

 

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Avon, Marijuana, parties

Metallica keeps me from viciously pinching my loved ones.

It’s medicinal.

I was already growling in my head when I walked down to the basement to get on the hamster wheel (elliptical for you non fitness freak folks). Then, I saw the three plastic cups on the table by the couch. I had asked my son to bring up all glasses, as he has a tendency to just leave beverage containers on end tables like they will grow legs and walk to the kitchen. He had told me he didn’t have any glasses downstairs. Well, I guess he wasn’t lying, as these were PLASTIC cups. I instantly wanted to pinch him. I thought about picking up my phone and sending him a scathing text about this very serious cup issue, but instead, I got on the wheel, covered my ears with noise reducing headphones, and blasted Wherever I May Roam by Metallica. And this is why my son should send a thank you card to Lars and the fellas.

I spent the first five minutes on the wheel imagining the great satisfaction I would get from yelling at my son through clenched teeth, “You’re not going to pop a tendon by carrying three plastic cups up 6 steps! You’re going to have rats in your apartment when you move out!!” Then, I visualized pinching him so hard that he would look like the survivor of some medieval pox virus, not chicken pox, something bigger, maybe like vulture pox.

Don’t worry, other moms and social workers; he’s 17. It’s not like I’m fantasy pinching a little kid. Though, with my death eater mood, I wouldn’t put it past myself. Plus, I didn’t actually pinch anyone. Metallica saved them.

Of course Sophie, the big, annoying Great Dane/Lab, annoyed the crap out of me today, as usual, just by constantly needing attention and something to chew on. It’s like she just quit smoking or something. If she understood English, I would pinch her cheek and yell, “Sophie if you make one more mess I’m going to turn you into a really big rump roast!”

Then, just to make my day super groovy, Lola the Maltese decided to make the laundry room floor look like a chocolate chip cookie. No, she didn’t do this with finger paint or actual chocolate. She pooped, in tiny droplets, all over the floor. She even managed to get a splatter against the dryer. She had a new, clean potty pad in there, as Lola is not a go outside to go potty kind of dog. She opted to decorate the floor instead. I wanted to pinch her butt closed. For real. No, I didn’t actually do this. I just muttered about how people in certain countries eat dogs as I removed her artwork and threw my slippers, a casualty of the landmined floor, in the washer.

Animal-rights activist friends, please do not be alarmed. I’m not actually going to harm any animals, even the moose dog and tiny turd cutter. First of all, Sophie is far too aware of my dark aura to get within 6 feet of me when I am in a pinch mood.  She picks up on my Exorcist like mood swings before I even snarl “Go get a toy!” at her.  She goes to her crate and gives me the worried look before I say anything. If you want to learn more about why Sophie annoys the very humanness out of me, read this or this.  And Lola can hide under beds. So, she is safe, too. And Lola is feeling much better now that she got all of those “chips” out of her system. The cats are simply perfect and do not get on my nerves. Because of this, they are safe from pinching.

For everyone’s continued safety, I will make a daily habit of blasting old school metal into my ears and pedaling as fast as my Dublin stubs will allow. When I run out of Metallica, I will keep on going with Guns and Roses, and maybe a “new” band like Godsmack. Some people drink; some take prescribed psychiatric medication; some do both. I pedal and sing. That’s right; I sing, too. I forgot to mention that. Perhaps, that is punishment enough for my family.

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: metal, Metallica, moms, PMS

We’re Finally the Same Color as the Rest of the Neighborhood!

A work in progress

When we first moved into our Wisteria Lane-like neighborhood, it was pretty clear we didn’t fit in. Our son plays guitar instead of soccer, we don’t go to church, and I have no desire to go speed walking with the ladies. As your token hermit, I try to avoid eye contact with the neighbors so making social plans is challenging. Also, our house was in foreclosure when we bought it. So, the grass was full of weeds, the flowerbeds were dead, and our air conditioner sounded like a chopper out of Vietnam. Oh yeah, and our mailbox probably hadn’t been stained in the seven years the house had been standing.

So, we went to work on the grass, and the flowerbeds. We had the A/C repaired and we ended up replacing the oven and microwave unit as the microwave had been fried during a thunderstorm. We had a fence put up to keep our dogs out of other people’s yards. My husband and I have issues with the “wireless fence” that is in every other dog yard here in Wisteria land as we don’t think it’s right to shock animals. So, we got the place in tiptop shape, except for the damn mailbox. No one seemed to have the time or energy to get the stain, sand the thing, and repaint it.

I felt like a Gastroenterologist.

The homeowners’ association wasn’t happy about this. They sent out a letter to everyone in the entire soccer-loving, wine-drinking subdivision, even though we were one of like maybe two houses with an eyesore for a mailbox. Clearly, we were bringing down property values and causing babies to be tortured in third world countries with this kind of disregard for rules. The association threatened to have someone stain our mailbox for us and bill us for it. I was hoping they would, but no one ever showed up. So, since I had planned to work on writing a novel today, and staining the mailbox seemed like a great way to continue procrastinating; I finally made us match everyone else.

I’m a native Floridian, so when my husband asked me if I wanted to stand out in the sun and paint the mailbox, I said, um yeah. Does a lizard want to lie on a hot rock? So, I put on the most unflattering black shorts ever, an orange shirt, a pink hat, and rubber gloves and practically skipped to the curb. After two years, our mailbox was finally going to match everyone else’s.

While I was out there, I realized that I should probably start a mailbox-staining career. I’m damn good at it. With my Sheldon Cooper type personality, I enjoyed the challenge of getting every crevice properly stained. I went over every inch of that mailbox, totally hearing Mr. Miyagi saying “Paint the mailbox” the whole time. I just focused on painting, and avoided eye contact with my neighbor who was cleaning his boat across the street. As I stared at the grains of wood and attacked them with my brush, I could hear him talking to other people who were out speed walking their dogs. At one point, his wife came out to bring him a drink. “Thanks, baby,” he said. I rolled my eyes under my sunglasses. I hate it when people call significant others baby. It’s so Urban Cowboy.

My husband took some super unflattering pictures of me while I was painting. I think he does that to keep all of the men away from me. This way if John Stamos ever does show up at my door to whisk me away on a plane fully stocked with his favorite yogurt, my husband can just whip out some pictures and make Uncle Jesse wish for mercy in a different way. I’m not sure why, but I look so different in pictures. In reality, I’m tall, with long slender, tan legs, large breasts, and perfectly smooth, flowing hair. Here are the pictures. If you have ever seen me in person, you SHOULD agree, that I look SO much better than this. Right?

Baby’s boat is visible here.

It’s all in the wrist. HOW did he photoshop THAT body on me?

I need to turn in my Native Floridian card with those glow in the dark Dublin stubs. Totally not my legs.

 

 

 

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: color, Dublin stubs, Life in the suburbs

“Shitty at Sales Job Introvert”

This is my shitty Macy’s sales gal look.

My blog stats interest me more than gluten and calorie free Twinkies. (Does such a slice of heaven exist?) They tell me what countries readers are from, what entries they are reading, and what search terms lead them to me. I’ve seen some amusing search terms, but this one really inspired me: shitty at sales job introvert.

I immediately felt sorry for the person who entered that into Google. I imagined a young guy with bills to pay. He’s obviously worried about his crappy sales job, so he can’t sleep. He decides to go looking for real information on why he just can’t sell those cars, newspaper subscriptions, Life Alert systems, or whatever. He is looking for some kind of expert advice. Instead, he finds me. Poor guy.

Well, Mr. Shitty at Sales Job Introvert, today is your lucky day. I’m going to share one of my own “shitty at sales job introvert” stories with you. It probably won’t help, but at least you will know you are not alone.

Let’s go back to Miami in 1990. I had just moved back from FSU to go to FIU,  live at home, and be able to see my boyfriend almost daily. Read more about my first year of college at FSU (insert tomahawk chop) here. I needed a job, and Macy’s actually hired me. Back then Macy’s was still fancy. Now, it’s like what J.C. Penney used to be before they became Sears, and Sears became K-Mart. So, I was kind of excited to work at Macy’s because I would have an EMPLOYEE DISCOUNT. I could buy Guess Jeans and Liz Claiborne everything at 20% off. Woo Hoo!

I had been a cashier at the two jobs I had in high school – Publix and Woolworth. I had no idea what it meant to be a SALES person. I learned quickly. At Macy’s, at least back then, sales associates had to EARN their salary in commission. So, my commission rate was 6% and my hourly salary was 5 something, and I worked about 30 hours a week. So, basically, I had to sell enough merchandise so that 6% of my total sales equaled my base salary. I would do the math for you, but math makes my head hurt. I rarely even met my quota, which means I really never earned anything above my base salary. In short, I sucked.

Anyway, I was totally shitty at my sales job because not only was I an undiagnosed introvert, but I was way too honest. Seriously, when people asked me how something looked on them, I would tell them the truth. If someone asked, “Does this dress make me look fat?” I would answer, “Well, it’s not really flattering on you.” And I worked in the JUNIORS department, people. You don’t make teen girls cry AND make good commission.

As an introvert, I also sucked, and still suck, at being competitive. I just don’t care about winning, no matter what it is. I worked with two FT sales women. One was trying to look like a Barbie even though she was short and stubby like me. She constantly told me of her need to pay rent through her plump, glossy red lips. The other one was a shark from Brazil who spoke Spanish, Portuguese, and English.   So, there I was only speaking English, still living with my parents, and not giving a crap about selling stuff. I lasted about nine months. The highlight of my time at Macy’s was meeting . She used to shop there. I doubt she does now because, as I mentioned, Macy’s is not what it used to be.

So, Sir Shitty at Sales Job Introvert, I have some advice for you. Get out! Run! You are not meant to be in sales. Go get a nice office job somewhere, or a bank job — something where you don’t have to push anything on anyone. You know you don’t have the energy for it. Trust me, you will be able to sleep better.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: 1990's, introverts, Macy's, sales jobs

Hey Gluten Detectives, are you in the bathroom with me at 3:00 AM?

Gluten free cookies — they look “normal.” No kittens were harmed in the course of eating them.

I’m seeing all kinds of posts on social media about gluten intolerance being a fad. I’m being told by all kinds of well-meaning people (see here for more thoughts on well-meaning people) that I should feel like some kind of dumbass for wanting gluten free products. I’m not a scientist, or medical professional. I can only go by how I feel. I have some very real pain from eating gluten. So, I don’t care about the scientific studies. Really, I don’t get why other people have decided it is their duty to be against those of us who are not eating gluten. Does a kitten die every time I eat a gluten-free cookie? Are you in my uterus, and are we sharing nutrients?

There are lots of lifestyle choices out there that are deemed to be fads. One of my Paleo loving friends recently posted this. The Paleo diet, and its father the Atkins Diet, is thought of as a fad, too. So, I find it amusing when pro Paleo people try to give me dietary direction. The Paleo IS a gluten free diet, by the way. I did some research on the diet before writing this. I even considered following it, but then I realized I couldn’t eat most of the things I like.

One of my Facebook friends sent me this via the messaging tool. There was no note or anything, just a link. It felt like some sort of “Stop being silly, and just eat like a normal ‘Murican” virtual intervention. As you can imagine, I took this very seriously and immediately rethought my eating habits. [Insert sarcasm font.]

Both of the anti-gluten free blogs above point out that the FODMAP diet actually works for IBS, but a gluten free diet does not. That actually makes no sense. I have had stomach issues since FIRST GRADE, and I have done some research. I was not merely waiting around for people to post links on Facebook. Shocking, I know. I have done a lot of reading about the low FODMAP diet. I have even followed the FODMAP diet, and it does help a lot.

The FODMAP diet is wheat free and MOSTLY gluten free. If you click the link you will also notice there are a host of other foods on the bad list. Could it be that someone who was eating gluten free was eating the other “bad” foods (like peppers and onions etc.) because they don’t contain gluten? In doing so, this could have skewed the results in the official “gluten free is a fad” scientific studies.

If you have any doubts about gluten causing me extreme stomach issues, please feel free to join me in the bathroom at 3:00 AM after I have eaten pasta, bread, or had gluten slipped to me in some sort of sauce. If I go to a restaurant and ask for a gluten-free menu, and they actually have one, don’t make me feel like an asshole for ordering from it. There is one person who can offer me dietary advice, my gastroenterologist. She knows me inside and out, literally, and she has a little thing called an M.D. after her name.

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Fodmap, Gluten, IBS

Random Thoughts on Every Episode of Mad Men

Some day, when I am older, I will be just like Sophia on the Golden Girls. I will say exactly what I am thinking in that exact moment. For now, I hold everything in and just post it on my blog. Here is what goes through my mind every time I watch Mad Men.

 Don Draper should have herpes.


 Does Jon Hamm get Botox to keep that bland face going.


 I hope to all that is holy that they are really drinking colored water.


 If they are actually drinking that much liquor, there would be mountains of puke on the set.


 They really do sew Joan into her dresses. I hope she doesn’t have IBS.


 She obviously didn’t breast feed.


 Why doesn’t Joan just marry Roger? He’s her baby daddy and it’s the 60’s.


 Plus, Roger is RICH.


 And he’s super sexy. Roger is WAY sexier than Don.


 Don is pretty and all, but Roger is funny. Funny wins. Always.


 And Roger has blue eyes. Brown eyes remind me of dried turds.


 Not that I study dried turds or anything.


 Why is Megan considered sexy?


 She has no ass.


 And she walks like her ass is trying to mug her crotch.


 Can’t they do some surgery to fix that?


 At least Betty has a shape.


 Even fat Betty was better than Megan.


 Who the hell is this Lou asshole? Get rid of him.


 I love Burt. He’s so fake Asian.


 Really? Just lighting up weed in the office, huh?


 Well, I guess they drink in the office.


 And have sex in the office.


 What possessed Peggy to screw Pete?


 He’s a walking enema.


 He brings out the worst shit in people.


 I want to live in Don and Megan’s California house, but without them.

Oh, the song is starting. It’s over already?

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Mad Men, Unfiltered thoughts

Why I Have an Only Child – For all of the NOSY People

When my son was little, well-meaning but really dumb people would ask me when I was having another child. When I told them I wasn’t really thinking of having another, they said well-meaning and totally stupid things like:

What if something happens to him? I assumed they meant death. Well, it’s not like I would stand next to his grave with my arm around my second child and say, “Thank the universe I had the spare.”   It would still destroy me.

You don’t want him to be spoiled. Well, I was raised as an only child because my brother lived with my father after the divorce that occurred before I can remember even being alive. I don’t consider myself spoiled.   Bite me.

Aren’t you afraid he will be lonely? Nope. I would be more afraid if he didn’t learn how to be alone. I’m an introvert, just in case you have never read this blog before and don’t get that.

As my son got older, people were less inquisitive about any impending pregnancy. Now, that he is 17, most new folks assume I am his sister. Because I’m that hot. I made that up. Seriously, people have finally stopped asking. So now, I will actually answer. Here are the reasons I never had a second child:

The labor experience was HORRIBLE. No, I didn’t forget. Seventeen hours of labor, with a necessary SECOND epidural, and then an unscheduled C-Section. This was followed by REALLY UNSUCCESSFUL breast-feeding.


I soon realized that I am not great with babies. I like humans who can talk and tell me what the hell they want. I don’t do crying and sleep deprivation well.


I was not put on this earth to clean up shit and puke. Some people love to care for others and can deal with this nonsense. They are called nurses. Go hug one.


I separated from my first husband when my son was three. Even though it is in vogue, I opted to not have the bastard child with a random baby daddy that I thought was cute on a Saturday night while I was drinking. And like I had time to date. I had a PRE-SCHOOLER!!


When I did remarry, my son was already 8. By the time my husband and I realized we had fertility issues, he was 12. Sure we could have tried super expensive medical intervention, but why? By this time, my son didn’t even bug me in the middle of the night when he puked. Sometimes, there’s no going back.

So, there you have it. This is why the apple of my eye, and he is, is my ONLY apple. I love this boy more than peanut butter cups and kittens, and I’m glad I can focus all of my maternal love on him. Tune in next time when I tell you why I never had him baptized. ;)

My one and only

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: infertility, only children, parenting, Teens

Google Stalking a Former Bully

How could she not make fun of this?

As your token work from home hermit friend, I spend a lot of time on ye olde interwebs. Basically, unless I am sleeping or doing something that requires water, I’m online at least five days a week. Like you, I sometimes need a break. Unlike you, I don’t have a water cooler to gather around with my co-workers. So, I browse the Internet. I think “surf” is the hip term, but as I may have mentioned, I’m old-fashioned. Every so often, someone from my past comes to mind and I wonder whatever happened to that person. So, I Google stalk him or her. Most of the time, I can’t find anything on the person because of a common name like Smith or Sullivan. Sometimes, I hit GOLD, though, like I did with my former bully, Z.W. If her initials are Z.W. you can probably imagine her name. I won’t share her name with you, but I will share the letter I would like to send her.

Dear Z,

You probably don’t remember me. I was that short, chubby, white girl that you used torment at McNichol in the mid 80’s. Well I’m still a short, chubby, white girl, but you don’t torment me anymore.

Remember the day that I hit you? I’ve never been so angry in my life. Well, maybe I have been angrier since then. You were sitting behind me in pre-algebra. Remember, we had that teacher who probably kept Bourbon in her desk? She was one of those mean, raspy-voiced drunks, and she had that pube-like hair – just frazzled. Between her scary “teaching” style and your constant criticism, and the fact that it was MATH class, I was in tears nearly every day.

I remember that one day you were poking me in the back because of course you just had to sit right behind me. I had enough, and I grabbed my yellow Jordache purse and I swung it around and hit you right in the head. You’re so lucky we didn’t carry big smart phones around back then. You looked so shocked. I was shocked too. You said something about kicking my ass, or whatever, but you never did. You just threatened me a lot, as usual, but then you sort of left me alone. I don’t regret hitting you.

Not only were you mean, but you had everything I wanted. You had Gucci and Louis Vuitton purses. You had Beverly Hills Polo Club outfits — everything I wanted. I could never understand how someone who was as rich as you appeared to be went to McNichol – a ghetto school. For some reason, you came to mind recently, so I Googled you and I figured it out.

I found an article about your stepdad being arrested as one of the biggest heroin dealers in South Florida. The article talked about how you lived in a huge house on three lots, but located in the hood. There was even a quote from you yelling about how they didn’t know what kind of man he was. It all made sense then. I lost all anger towards you and totally understood. You had a heckuva life. You may have had all those things but you had a lot of drama at home; I’m certain of it. If we had ever actually talked in school, we probably would have been friends.

Through the magic of Google, I see that you’re now a midwife and an all-around very spiritual person. You are also an artist. I have to say Z, I never would have pictured you becoming the person you are today. I’m happy for you. You seem peaceful–so far away from that mean girl I knew. Good for you, Z.

Hugs,

That little, fat white girl

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Broward schools, Bullies, McNichol, Middle School

Saving your Privates from the Heartbleed Bug

Most of you know that I am the self-crowned queen of TMI. I will talk about ANYTHING really. I have even shared my IBS issues with you. Afterall, I did post a picture of dog poop once, and cat poop. Yep, I posted that, too. So, you may find it hard to believe that there are things that even I won’t share with my readers. These are things that would make my beloved Mac susceptible to viruses like the Heartbleed bug. So, in honor of Choose Privacy Week, I’m going to share with you the three things I will never blog about.

My Mother’s Maiden Name. I may have told you about my Dublin Stubs, or short, thick, Irish legs here, but I will never tell you my mother’s Irish maiden name. Even though there are more security questions now, mother’s maiden name is still a big one. So, it shall remain a secret.
My Magical Pin Numbers. There are a few combinations that I tend to use for pin numbers. I will never mention these numbers in a blog or on any social media site.
My Phone Number. Not only do I just HATE talking on the phone, but I know there are numerous scam artists who access their victims via telephone. They will be SOL with me as I won’t answer it.

For Choose Privacy Week, I would love it if you could come up with your own list of Internet no nos. It’s something everyone should do, really. What will you never share with the online community? Let me know in the comment section. My friends over at SingleHop would also love to hear from you.

The Heartbleed bug could do this!

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Choose Privacy Week, Heartbleed, SingleHop

ONE Baby Daddy Old-Fashioned

Sleeves and mom pants are my uniform.

I like to think of myself as young and with the times. I even tell myself and most of the time others that I am 28, just to keep a young mindset. I don’t actually believe that I’m 28, but it sounds better than 42. I love techy toys, and keeping up on all things science and technology. I really enjoy a good $5 cup of Starbucks. I have always thought of myself as modern, but recently I have discovered that even though I have an iPhone 5S and a VW with Bluetooth, I am really just an old-fashioned hermit. Here’s why:

I only have one baby daddy. It’s true. My son’s father is my ex-husband. We were married for two years before I got pregnant. I’ve only been divorced once. In my defense, I am on my second marriage, which makes me somewhat “modern.”

I don’t like low-rise jeans. Give me a good pair of mom jeans that covers my carb-induced fat roll any day.

I like sleeves. I had a hard time finding a wedding gown because everything is sleeveless and open. I think beautiful sleeves can really add a lot more to a dress than someone’s skin hanging out.

I still think smoking is one of the unhealthiest things you can do. Whether you “vape” or smoke regular cigarettes, you’re still sucking in a chemical shitstorm. The American Lung Association tends to agree with me.

I think it’s good for kids to have free time after school and in the summer. They will have plenty of time to be super busy and stressed out; it’s called adulthood. They don’t need to be scarfing down a happy meal in the car on their way from soccer to judo.

I don’t care if the bucket of soda is only a dollar more. I don’t want it. I want something smaller than the huge cup you call a small. No, I also don’t want to super size.

I don’t mind cooking dinner for my family, and I love it that we eat together at the kitchen table almost every night.

I will not “get rid of” a pet. Pets are members of the family. I won’t give them away just because they are inconvenient sometimes. Thought I will admit that Sophie pushed me to my patience limit.

I’m not having botulism injected on purpose. If I have any lines, I’ve earned them.

I’m also not having any implants or liposuction. I will exercise and diet until I drop dead to have the best body I can, but I am not going the Barbie doll route.

I eat carbs. I always will.

What about you? Are you with the times, or hopelessly old-fashioned like me?

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Apple, Baby Daddy, Divorce, Mom Jeans, Old-Fashioned, Starbucks