Music I'm Embarrassed To Love

I don't know about you guys, but I am loving all the sugar-poppy goodness that is playing on the radio these days.  The best part is I can crank it up, even with my kids in the car (I like to save my Ice Cube and Nine Inch Nails for alone time).  No swear words, no inappropriate lyrics, and sometimes the husbands even get into it.

It takes a pretty special song to get a grown man to dirty dance (with himself) at the country club pool while singing along to it on a blow-up microphone (yes, that really happened last week...).  And no, unfortunately, it wasn't MY husband.  We wives did get this husband's dance routine on film, though.  Teeeeheeeee.  Perfect Facebook wall material right?  Right?

So here's the special song, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I love it, too!  I even caught my eight-year-old son singing it to himself today...

More Texting With The Housewife

As I mentioned in my last blog, I've been happily texting with my new friend fairly regularly...and the texts  only get funnier.  If this new friend is OK with it, I think I might make this an ongoing series.

Oh hell, who are we kidding.  I don't give a fuck if she cares....I'm posting it anyway.

New Friend: So, last week while unpacking my son's camp things, I found my bra mixed in there. I died, wondering if it came out during 4 year old camp time. Yesterday, while getting dressed, my son asked me why I always wear one of those things. I told him it's a bra, it holds your boobies up. He said, "then why did you send it to swim camp with me???" So, yep, theres my answer. It came out in the 4 year old camp.


Me: Bow chica bow wow.


New Friend: Did you get the text about our cookout dates?


Me: Yes, I'll be gone ***** but any other Sunday works.


New Friend: K, we'll pick the one that you're not here for, then.


Me: Bitch after my own heart.


New Friend: Just kidding.  Are you in the bathroom with a razor blade.


Me: Yeah, I'm shaving my eyebrows off.  So I'll look smoking hot next time you sit by me at swim team practice.


New Friend: Can't wait...oh wait, we quit swim team (she didn't quit).


Me: I know where you live.


New Friend: Stalker.


Me: Duh.


New Friend: Peeps are gonna want my autograph.  Ice ice baby for reelz.


Me: I'm more of an Ice Cube kinda girl than a Vanilla Ice one.  Domino mother fucker.


New Friend: Oh youz straight out of Compton.


Me: Glad you know where I'm from.


New Friend: Tomorrow I'm going to pack KY jelly instead of sunscreen in my son's camp bag...

Texting With The Housewife

As y'all know, I have been busy trying to make friends here in Stepford Wife land.  2012 has been the best year yet; I've made more friends in the past few months than I did in the entire two previous years (thanks to the country club).  I actually get some adult female interaction on a regular basis now, and I've even started to get invited to the group's outings -- and no longer as a charity case, but because they really want me there (at least that's what I'm telling myself).  One of my new friends even dropped, not one, but two swear words at swim team practice today.  I couldn't help but think "mama, I'm home!"

Anyway, I admit that texting has been extremely helpful with my new friends.  We can slowly get to know each other without having to hang out and, as much as I loathe people who are constantly texting everywhere they go, I'm grateful for my little iPhone.

Let me give you an example.  Read one of my recent text sessions with a new friend and you'll see why...

New Friend: Wanna come over tonight and watch The Bachelorette?  My friend is, we usually do on Mondays.  We eat and booz and forget what we watched.

Me: Damn, just got this.  Next time.  Drink one for me.

New Friend: It's OK if I didn't go to the right school or my shore house is in the wrong place.  (this is a running joke between us because I told her the first thing women asked me when I moved to Stepford Wife Land is: what (private) school did my kids go to...and where my shore beach house was....uh huh)

Me: But you look hot and have a big diamond ring.  And you made friends with the west coast hippie chick (that's me, duh).

New Friend: LOL speaking of my ring, a woman at a school party yesterday asked me if it was real.  I was like, WHAT?!  It's one thing to think it and another to say it out loud.

Me: Love it.  That means hers is fucking fake.  Classy.

New Friend: She showed me hers.  Teensy.  Not fake.

Me: Oh jealousy, then -- you must give better blow jobs.

New Friend: I knew I liked you.