Padgett Family X-Mas

Padgett Family X-Mas
My family celebrates on Christmas Eve. The festivities include a listening to Manhiem Steamroller, plenty of alcohol, and this puppy chow snack mix that is absolutely addictive. We open presents…usually my dad makes at least two or three comments that lead me to question whether or not he did too many drugs in the 60's and Ali blatantly informs us that she will be exchanging 85 percent of her gifts.

Let's not forget the awkward glances between the boyfriends/husbands and my father when my sister's and I pull out our "Christmas Underwear" from Victoria's Secret out of our Christmas stockings. Santa has been giving us lingerie for about ten years now.

My mother and my younger sister's are highly skilled present wrappers….I on the other hand got the short end of the stick in this area. You can always tell the present is from Amy if it is a) shoved in a bag that says "Happy Birthday" or b) If the gift looks like Taylor (my 2 year old niece) wrapped it.

Christmas day we return to the Padgett Family household to enjoy a fancy steak dinner. For some reason we begin dinner by opening these little exploding presents that contain a lame joke and a colored paper crown (you would have to see it to understand)….

Dinner conversation usually includes a few wildly inappropriate topics…we normally try to stick to drugs, sex and bowel movements.

We don't try to be perfect and we have a damn good time doing it.

This year we ended our family Christmas watching the critically acclaimed "Padgett Family Video" . (now available on DVD)…Masterfully edited by dad and put to the Dirty Dancing Motion Picture soundtrack. The video is a rare glimpse of what life was like growing up as a Padgett…with scenes like: "Debbie breaks her tail bone at Abby's Skate Land birthday party", "Parents drink beer and children run around wearing trash bags on rainy camping trip" and "Curt shows no mercy to his eight and nine year old daughters on the soccer field"

The last few years we have had at least one non-family/non-boyfriend guest join us for these celebrations…this year it was Justin…bless him…and please don't judge me by my nine year old rendition of Gloria Eseffan. And I had to read a lot of books to get those Pizza Hut sunglasses!

I feel there is only one phrase that can sum up our glorious Padgett Family festivities…as my father so eloquently put it back in 1989:
"It smells like throw-up in here"….Translation: When is dinner ready?
"Gee thanks Curt"….Translation: If you do not get that camera out of my face you will be wearing your dinner tonight…

I Love My Family!

Dance party USA by myself featuring myself

Dance Party USA By Myself Featuring Myself Current mood: happy

Christmas shopping really stresses me out.

Who are these people? Where did they come from? Why do they not know how to drive? Why on Earth do they walk so slowly? Call me an aggressive shopper, whatever.

So tonight when I got home I was needless to say a little stressed out and in a kind of shitty mood. What is the best cure for a shitty mood?..........How about Dance Party U.S.A. 2006 starring myself!!!

I cranked up my very special play list appropriately named "Vagina Rock" and put on my dancing gear…which is not a whole lot.

I almost forgot how much I loved gyrating around the house and singing at the top of my lungs into a bottle of olive oil, a candle, or the remote control. I started out with a little Anna Nalick and ended up old school with 2 pac…Shorty Gonna Be A Thug!!! Somewhere in between I performed Phantom, Rent and of course Ms. Britney Spears!!! I even brought out the tap shoes…ahhhhw shit.

Damn! I feel so, so much better…I haven't really sang in a long time and I actually do still have a voice hidden under all of my garbage. Okay I rap like a little white girl but I can sing.

I'm not a shrink but if you are bored or in a shitty mood…dance around the house and pretend that you are a rock star. It also helps to close the blinds so the neighbors don't witness your super stardom.

Subcontractor Poo

One of our sub-contractors agreed to come to the office and install a fan in the office bathroom…sounds simple enough right?

Well, I don't want to name any names or dog on anyone too badly, but this guy kind of reminded me of Andre The Giant. Andre and his little buddy with a tool box arrived at the office. I showed them to the bathroom and they got to work.

About thirty minutes later they are all done, the little guy with the toolbox starts hauling all their gear out to their vehicle. Andre is still in the bathroom.

A few minutes later he hands me the bill…$280.00!!! To install a fan, come on now. After they leave I go back to inspect the fan, I figure this thing had better be some kind of space-age clap-on, clap-off super fan for $280.00.

No, are you kidding me? Yes he did! Andre The Giant took a poop in the bathroom before he left and it smelled of dead rodents and moldy cheese! He tried to light some matches to cover up the smell, but he would have needed a fan powered by jet fuel and like five boxes of matches.

I don't care who you are, but you don't walk into someone's office and poop in their bathroom, especially on a job call. Does the plumber fix the toilet and then take a big deuce?
Note to everyone: Things not to do one the job: Overcharge, then leave a turd.

Ahhh, the beautiful Ozarks

Yesterday morning around this same time I walked out my front door ready to take a morning jog. Upon noticing that the temp. was an unseasonably warm 70 degrees I very quickly shed my sweatshirt and bobbed down the street in nothing but a pair of pants and s sports bra.

A mere twelve hours after my half naked out door run, the temperature in Springfield had dropped forty degrees and I ended up standing in a ridiculously long line at the grocery store watching people buy a plethora of canned goods, bottled water and trash bags in preparation for the first "big snow storm" of the winter.

Why does the snow bother me?

1. Meteorologists predict it is supposed to snow…this is not Armageddon people…like all of the sudden if and when snow hits the ground the entire food supply will disappear and in order to sustain during the maybe three days of winter wonderland we will be forced to eat other humans and drink our own urine.

2.I now have to debate on whether or not to drive to the gym with my morning bride-of-Frankenstein hair only to jog on a smelly treadmill…I compare this form of physical activity to that of a hamster or guinea pig running on one of those wheel things. Or I could pull on seventeen layers of clothing and jog my marshmallow man ass down the street and try not to get doused by the slushy wake of every vehicle that drives past me.

3. If and when it does snow…Springfield drivers (some of the worst drivers in the nation) morph into one of two things. A. being the "my-grandma-walks-faster-than-you-drive driver" and B. being the "hi-I'm-Jeff-Gordon-and-I'm-drunk-and-I'm-on-ice" driver.

4. My dog does not do well cooped up inside all day. He reminds me a little of what Robin Williams would be like if he were ADD and smoking crack. So I now need to invest in the largest dog bone in the world and hide all of my shoes.

5. Johnny is off work today. He does not do well cooped up inside. He reminds me a little of what Robin Williams would be like if he were ADD and smoking crack. So I now need to invest in at least five new DVDs, red meat of some sort and hide all of my shoes.

To do list: Christmas Tree

1.Beg Johnny to move the dog-hair magnet a.k.a. the futon out of the living room and out the front door to it's final resting place next to the trash can. Now we have room for the tree.

2. Dig around in scary garage to find the box that contains the fake Christmas tree. I think it's under the old weed-whacker and the mullet wig that SOMEONE refuses to throw away.

3.Unpack tree. Locate bottom half of tree because it was not in the box.

4. Buy new tree because dog drug bottom half of old tree into the backyard and ripped it apart.

5. Assemble new tree.

6. Buy new multi-colored Christmas lights. Apparently I got frustrated and decided to cut the old strands off with scissors last year around February.

7."Now why the hell can't you just put the futon in the back of your big garbage truck and be on your merry way? I have to pay you to haul that nasty thing off?"

8. Decorate tree with the gazillion ornaments I have collected or made including fancy bubble lights, lots of beaded things and every little Elvis ornament, shoe ornament and fish ornament I was able to find on E-bay (It's eclectic).

9. Teach dog that if he touches the tree or the ornaments he will die.

10. Ask Johnny to put the star on top of the tree. Listen to Johnny complain about tree cluttering up the living room. Plug in tree….ahhhhhh…beautiful.

Charles Manson's Garage Sale

I always try to be friendly with all the neighbors 1. So our dogs can play together, 2. So they won't call the cops on us during the occasional party, and 3. The elderly lady down the street makes delicious banana bread around the holidays

I recently visited a neighbor's garage sale. I have this weird thing about buying 25 cent coffee cups and just about anything else that's only 25 cents. These particular neighbors are a little strange…they have very suspicious looking gnomes outside their house and I'm pretty sure there is a fake deer family in the back yard.

I walked past the tables of comic books, pot holders and sweatshirts from 1994. Then I saw it. What the hell?

I am not joking around, these people were selling a human scull and some other bones (possibly human). Now if I was digging around in storage and found oh say A HUMAN SCULL my first thought would not be, "Gee honey…we can put this in the garage sale".

However, I have to give it to them, if these people are serial killers, what a clever way to get rid of the evidence.

She Cries Folks

One of my favorite authors is SARK. She is this wild woman who writes about all of this taboo shit like using a vibrator, going out alone, and painting the walls in your home whatever color you really want them to be. SARK validates some of the things I do as not being the actions of a crazy person but rather the delusions of a self confidant woman celebrating her individuality.

I love building forts. When I was a kid I used to build my forts out of old sheets and I would sit in my fort for hours eating Oreos and string cheese and writing in my journal.

So I am 26 now. Sh*t. And I still have a fort. Really, it is in the spare bedroom in my house, and I have all kinds of glorious treasures in there…my favorite shoes, magazines, books, feathers, nail polish, candles, oil pastels and of course, my journal. I even have a sign that says NO BOYS ALLOWED (UNLESS THEY ARE NAKED).

I cry in my fort. I don't cry a lot. When I do cry, and everyone should, I like to be alone and somewhere safe. What better place to cry than a fort of scrumptious blankets and sheets and candles?

It is October 28th 2006 and I have not cried for weeks…but I get in my little big fort and I start a conversation with my tiny ego that likes to act like it is the bomb. I want to be sad for everyone I have hurt and for everyone who is lost….and I cry.

I feel so much better now. How do you end a blog like this? GO CARDS!!!!

26 Years of :Battle Wounds"

So I'm 26 years old…Past my quarter-life. Some people are surprised I made it, and at some point I really didn't think I'd make it to 26 years old.

Age 8- If you sit on a hot exhaust pipe, you will be tattooed with a permanent ring. I was scared of VW Bugs for years because of this incident.

Age 10- If you are not an Olympic diver and you are 10, do not attempt a double backward flip off the diving board.

Age 12- I'm still looking for the gang of wasps that built a nest under my bicycle seat. This was a nasty, nasty crash.

Age 16- When trying to jump hurdles…make sure you know what the hell you are doing…because if they are turned backwards they don't fall over on impact, they just kind of slice your legs all to hell.

Age 18- The director encourages the performers to stay away from the edge of the stage for a reason…falling into the orchestra pit is embarrassing as well as painful.

Age 21- If you haven't studied for a final be sure to wreck your bicycle on the way to class and show up for the test with torn jeans and bleeding all over the place, if possible faint too.

Age 22- This marked the beginning of my lets-try not-to cut-your-fingers-on-bottles, beer caps, or broken glass era. Wounded bartenders really don't make the best cocktails. Sorry sir, let me get you another vodka tonic, minus the blood, and this one is on the house.

Age 23- Music festivals are great fun, try to stay out of the trees, at some point go to bed, and if someone offers you a ride on a golf cart…decline immediately. And when you go to the hospital with a fat lip and concussion, don't have your dad take you.

Age 24- People do not bring hard liquor on float trips for a reason.

Age 25- As I have said before, it is imperative not to throw water on a grease fire. I couldn't walk for a week or so because my feet were burned so badly.

I used to have a floor in my bedroom

Johnny and I are at war with our laundry. Yesterday I was cleaning out Johnny's closet and I found a T-shirt that was advertising some sort of car wash. I'm sure, in it's glory days, this was a great shirt…however it is now faded and has arm pit holes.

I asked Johnny, "Baby can we throw this away?"

He looked at me like I had asked him to give up all of his worldly possessions and join a monastery. So I guess the Safeway Cleaning shirt stays.

Johnny's laundry is sneaky stuff. I'll have it all contained and happy in its little hamper when I leave for work in the morning. I come home and it looks like a laundry bomb has gone off. I know there is a hardwood floor under there somewhere. I'm convinced that his laundry gets hungry and eats my laundry, because I used to have socks...not so much any more.

The dirty clothes (some of which I am convinced are clean) not only terrorize the bedroom, but they have been known to ambush the living room and kitchen. My favorite is when Johnny comes home from the gym and puts his sweaty, smelly shirts and shoes on the furniture. It's like a shrine of stinky manliness right there in the middle of the living room.

How am I supposed to keep this clean? I've tried various reward systems…like if you stop throwing your dirty underwear in the middle of the hallway you can pick out the movie we watch tonight. I've tried bribing him with Mexican food, sexual favors, and money.

This does not work.

So my battle with the laundry continues…he's worth it though.

So these new baked cheetos are good for me?

Um, actually I would think that anything leaving a toxic glowing neon orange residue all over the place should probably not be ingested. I know, I know… "it's just so good when it hits your lips".

And as for the "baked" part…okay, I bake cookies, I bake chocolate cake…I could bake a pound of lard if I wanted to. Just because it is baked, does not mean it's healthy.

What are Cheetos anyway?

Civilians may never exactly know. I'm sure there is some secret society that protects all of the recipes for the Crunchy Cheetos, Cheeto puffs, Chili Cheetos and so on. And if one were to discover these secrets they would have to be killed.

Actually, according to the ingredients they are not much more than enriched white corn, sodium, fat and food coloring.

Now here's an idea, let's put a cartoon character on the box to get all of the children. Yes, we want kids to be begging their mommies to buy the Cheetos because Chester says it's cool. And we wonder why we have these chubby little kids running around everywhere.

Oh, and I love the idea of the 100 calorie Cheetos "asteroids". Yes, you can still enjoy your favorite little salty snack, and only 100 calories. Like people don't have enough self control to not eat the whole bag of Cheetos, and actually they don't. In a package of Asteroids you get 0.62 oz of Cheetos, that's something like nine Cheetos. So that's pretty pointless.

I think I'm going to hold out for the Cheetos scented bubble bath and body lotion gift set.

He's Just Special

I have been so looking forward to taking Crux to the 3rd annual dog swim at Fassnight Park.
I'd like to say that Crux (my year old boxer) is very well-mannered and he obeys almost every command I make…but I would be lying my ass off.

We managed to make it through the parking lot and into the line. Crux was already pummeling small children and sniffing other puppy private parts.

After proving to the park board that he was foaming at the mouth because he was just really excited and not because he has rabies, we were allowed in the pool gates. Crux was off… slipping and sliding, and shaking all over the place, and pooping all over the place. We actually spent a great deal of the time running after him with the complimentary get-your-dogs-shit-off-the-pool-deck bags.

He jumped in the pool once…almost drowned…jumped in again…almost drowned…and this continued for about an hour.

It was like my mothers worst nightmare, a bunch of wet dogs licking everyone. and slobbering all over the place. I loved it.

Although he was gang raped by a group of Labradors, first in show in the poop division, and the only dog asked to leave because he cut his foot and was bleeding all over the other dogs…I think the event was a success, can't wait for next year!

The Gillette Sensor for Women is a Toy of Death

I was once told that I was not allowed to play with sharp objects...I was two. Now sometime between two and twenty-five I have managed to turn almost everything I touch into a weapon of destruction.

I have been using Johnny's razors to shave my legs for about two years now. My old razor fell prey to my bedazzlement and subsequently became a mess of moldy hot glue. I figure what is the difference between man razors and women razors?

I go to Wal-Mart (I know it's sick and twisted...but cheap) and I see this statuesque pink and silver razor at the check out line. I buy it, I take it home.

This morning I'm in the shower, singing and soaping and reading the fascinating descriptions of various shampoos and conditioners, the usual. And I whip out this impulse buy, ready to treat my legs to a "smoother, cleaner shave".

Maybe they should change the packaging to say "Call into work late because you are looking for enough Band-Aids to retain the blood caused by multiple puncture wounds to the knee and ankle areas".

Now my legs are all torn up, I'm late, and it looks like slaughter house five just went down in my bathroom. Seriously, little bloody dog footprints all over the place. I am going to use man razors forever!

If anyone saw me on Sunshine today, I can explain...

Today I was on my lunch break, waiting in traffic, when I look over to my right and there is a massive spider dangling from the ceiling of my car.

Green light...shit, stay calm. So I swatted at him, and he fell in between my legs...and I was wearing a skirt! So now I am seriously freaking out. I pulled on to one of the streets right off Sunshine, and I began the oh-so-tribal spider dance....that is, jump up and down, flap my arms, scream, run around in circles and smack myself. If I had not been on one of the busiest streets in Springfield I would have ripped all my clothes off too.

Now I feel like an idiot. I mean I feel really stupid. No joke, people were laughing and pointing at me.

I get back to work, I'm sitting at my desk, and I grab my purse to get my lip gloss. That little bastard is swinging from the bottom of my bag! I scream bloody murder(again), did the spider dance (again), and threw my purse against the wall.

No one else was in the office this afternoon. It was just the spider and I...mono e mono. I was wearing some pretty serious heels and feared that if I threw one I might knock a whole in the wall. So I reached for the air freshener. I put my game face on, picked up my mangled purse and waited for my nemesis to emerge.

When I saw his little hairy ass run for the corner I started squirting him and eventually febreezed him to death.

You got served biiiaaatch!

I love baseball player butts!

First and foremost...out of all the professional sports...baseball players have the best butts. Maybe it's the pants, but I love to look at their bottoms.

Baseball has the best food. It's a six course meal really...Beer- $5. Hot Dog- $4. Nachos with the works-$6. Beer-$5. Peanuts-$3.50. Ice Cream-$5. Getting to sleep next to the person who is digesting all of this crap.....priceless.

Where else can you watch a milkshake drinking contest? ( actually it was pretty gross, and I almost threw up for the poor contestants).

I'm not that impressed, but the boys really seem to enjoy the under age Cardinal-et's that throw stuff at people. Guys are sick.

The take me out to the ball game song, classic. My father had me listening to this when I was a fetus.

Dodging the foul balls hit into the stands is fun too. If you are going to loose any of your teeth...this would definitely be the way to go.

Stop calling your arms guns

Top 10 peeves about going to the gym:
10. The women who wear make-up to work-out

9. The thirteen year old girls that wear make-up to "work-out" . I was unaware that dressing like a little tramp and flirting in the weight room burned all that many calories.

8. The nasty guys that flirt with the thirteen year old girls.

7. The guys that grunt like they are pooping and scream when they lift weights. Don't spit in the water fountain, should there have to be a sign? And where did his neck go anyway?

6. Small talk in the gym. I am covered in sweat, we are not really friends, and no, I don't feel like chatting.

5. The people who swim like evil sharks around the treadmills to grab the first one that opens up. Run outside! I'm pretty sure it's not snowing.

4. The fact that when I jump in the swimming pool, my hair immediately turns green and starts to fall out, and I get the sensation that I am being burned alive by chlorine.

3. The employees in the weight room that sit around eating egg-whites and spoonfuls of augmented protein supplements. Seriously, there is a sandwich shop around the corner...go eat lunch.

2. The cycling class ladies that spend more time picking out what to wear to the gym than working out.

1. The people that look at themselves every time they pass a reflective surface. Do I still look the same? Yep...What about now?...No, still haven't changed. Or the damn-I'm-sexy mirror lookers...those are the worst.

Real Wedding Heros

It just would not have been the same without you...

Thank you Mr. wedding photographer (Jeff): You boldly snap glorious photo after photo, silently stalking your prey. Where is the bride? You know where she is.

Thank you weird DJ with the red hair: You play the crocodile rock, you act enthusiastic, but really you are thinking about the bomb you are building in your basement, and the small child you kidnapped trapped in your closet at home.

Thank you Murray: You selflessly offered the young children beer and cigarettes and managed to out drink, smoke, and talk everyone. Murray and Paula are officially invited to every party I ever throw for the rest of my life.

Ah the "Little People" Yes those are my grandparents, a testament to true love, they have been married since the dawn of time, and no they are not midgets.

Thank you hot bartender: You graciously pour drink after drink, You transform the wedding guests and party into sweaty people that love everyone and like to cry. and you are hot.

Thank you Justin: Right when we thought the party was settling down, going home, you rip off your shirt and start dancing like a rock star! Did I see you doing the worm?

Thank you cheese tray: Note to self: cheese gives people gas...next time steer clear of the cheese before the wedding. Also: blame gas on the small children.

Oh Allison! A party is not complete without a little Padgett interpretive dance...and you are the master. All other interpretive dance pales in comparison. Thank you Ali for showing up to the brunch the next morning in a Betty Ford Clinic T-shirt!

Grandpa: Thank you for not beating-up any of the groomsmen or anyone else, we have all heard the story.

Thank you tanning beds: You turn our pale skin into bronze beauty. The equator called...and they want their sunlight back. Actually, some of these pictures kind of make me look like I'm not of this country. Absolutely nothing in moderation!

Mr. Jim Beam: Thank you for giving Johnny the courage to bust out some mean step touching to Footloose.

Thank you Dad...you are the king of speeches, I mean seriously you could make Lucifer cry with a toast or a greeting card.

Thank you weird tennis shoes. Yes, you guys all have weird looking tennis shoes. Bobby were those Air-Jordan's, '94 style? That was hot.

Thank you sedatives: I don't know what kind of muscle relaxer mom took, but she needed to have about five more, because I feared for my life before the ceremony.

Thank you groomsmen: For throwing the after party, where, it is said a lot of inappropriate behavior took place involving swimming pools, bath tubs, and super human extremities.

Good Morning Monsters!

Worry

What is the point really? It's like poison, poison I tell you!

The sun is going to rise, and I might be in my bed or I might be in my car covered in half eaten taco bell gorditas. Hopefully not the latter ever again, but the first thought that comes in my mind should be a graceful one.

I mean yeah, the bills must be paid, yes, I need to plan plan plan. Yes, I have to deal with the unpleasant. But I have discovered this awesome thing...Surrender. If I wake up everyday and say yes to my universe instead of no, I stop drowning and start treading water.

Someone really cool said, "I do what is in front of me to be done and let go of the rest". I remember that I have done the best I possibly could in the past for the person I was at the time, and know that as I grow my accomplishments and mistakes will also grow in number, they have to. Damn that feels good.