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filthy 40 and walmart

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photo 4

This guy looking for camping supplies. Shouldn’t someone call John Walsh?

I turn 40 this Saturday.

For the vast majority of the world that is now younger than I, you may not realize that this means plummeting into a deep depression brought upon by an unwanted subscription to More magazine.

It also means my friends are using my birthday as an opportunity to remind me that there are worse things than my face in a 45x magnifying mirror. Like…colorectal cancer or camouflage press-on nails.

So in their relentless pursuit of excuses to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon without judgment, the Copper Monkey & Co are hosting a “Filthy 40th” party for me this weekend in their trailer. And by trailer I mean 6,800 SF house in a gated community whose deed restrictions are sure to be violated when we drive onto the lawn in our NASCAR flag-flying monster truck.

Only at Walmart can you find discarded Hormel pepperoni among the “intimate” wipes.

As you can imagine, shopping for a trash bash theme in Florida is about as easy as buying a sombrero in a Cancun cruise port.

So I set off this morning seeking inspiration from our local Walmart. Because I typically avoid places where upon leaving my hair reeks of fried chicken and apathy, I try to avoid Sam Walton stores.

I prefer Target where my identity might be stolen, but at least they don’t sell concealed weapons permits in the vending machine at the front entrance.

Suffice it to say I am unfamiliar then with the job description of a Walmart greeter. I only know that he eyes me suspiciously through his cloudy cataracts as I search the empty cart wipes container for one last drop of alcohol to disinfect the shopping cart handle that seems to be coated in a layer of mayonnaise. And while I should feel sorry for him because he makes 35 cents a week and serves no apparent purpose, I meet his penetrating gaze instead wondering why he can’t help thwart the spread of flesh-eating bacteria by…I dunno…maybe refilling the goddamn cart wipes? I guess perhaps I’m expecting too much though from a man clearly exhausted following a night of bingo and klan rallies.

As Weekend at Bernie’s and I continue our stare-off, three people enter the store with AK 47s and leave with shovels. But it was me, sprinting in Rocky Balboa-like to escape the cigarette smoke and sex trafficking in the parking lot, that had him wanting to call security. Especially as I rifled through my Lululemon backpack (in which he thinks I could easily conceal an entire 56-pad supply of stolen Always with Wings) for my own GermX wipes that I will use approximately 236 times in the next 25 minutes.

Because doesn't every child want Sasquatch Beef Jerky in his/her Easter basket?

Because doesn’t every child want Sasquatch Beef Jerky in his/her Easter basket?

Once past this intensive scrutiny, I am ass-deep in Easter candy displays reminding me that Walmart caters to God’s favorite children.

Among the pastel-colored M&Ms and the Cadbury eggs I find a Walmart exclusive: Jack Link’s Sasquatch beef jerky.

I realize there comes a time when we must confess that the Easter bunny does not exist, but I cannot think of a more effective or terrifying way to do so than including beef jerky in your child’s basket.

Not sure why I find this so surprising. After all, if I am playing a Walmart word association game, beef jerky has to be somewhere between “anti-fungal” and “everything wrong with society.”

As I delve deeper into the “God Bless America” merchandise that is all Made in China, I find myself in the apparel section which I maintain is the scariest place on earth since I’ve never been to the Gaza Strip.

I initially thought Peggy Pjs was just running in to get Tylenol for her feverish child or that Delta lost her luggage. But sometimes finding a size 17 acid-washed jort IS an emergency, and there is no time to change.
Plus, slippers be soft.

It is there among the camo cut-offs and Built Ford Tough tanks that I find someone who shows me that the best way to dress for the trash bash is to not bother getting dressed at all.

There she was in all her crusty-eyed glory at 10:36 am still rocking fleece pajamas bottoms, slippers and a braless silhouette beneath an inside-out cotton tee, effusing all the style and grace of a lady not too proud to show her tampon string or c-section scars.

I’d take a stealthy of Peggy Pjs, but I’m pretty sure she could enact our Stand Your Ground Laws to shoot me in self-defense.

It’s important to note that while you might be able to escape Peggy and her olive tapenade-like odor, one visual assault you cannot elude here is Walmart’s relentless dick sucking of the Duck Dynasty franchise.

At every turn you’ll find one of those inbreds peddling anything from school notebooks reminding our children that Si don’t need no math to Tervis tumblers from which we can drink our whiskey and RC Colas seemingly straight from Si’s swamp-stained beard.


To hell with literacy or intelligence.

So loathsome I find this show, I only wish it were around when I was dating 16 years ago so that I could have used it as a litmus test.

Once I’ve overheard conversations that include, “Does yer hand smell at all?” and, “I can’t cuz I’m itchin’ all over,” I head to checkout with a Waffle House lanyard for my SNAP card, a stuffed pit bull (to which I will affix oversized testicles), and jorts short enough to show my entire g-string when I bend over to pick up my red Solo cup of spilled wine cooler this weekend. With no less than 23 cash registers and only one working cashier, suddenly our entire economic crisis makes perfect sense. People who shop at Walmart are unemployed because they lost their job waiting in that line.

And as I look at the endless string of pork rinds and Slim Jim-filled carts in front of me, I realize there are many things worse than turning 40.

And most of them can be found right here.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

February 26, 2014 at 12:49 pm

things that could have been brought to my attention yesterday

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After seven years of neglect,
I finally called it quits

My local bank — where I was lured in long ago by a promotional interest rate that dropped to .00000001% the month after I opened my account — just shut down yet another one of its branches.

When it first fled from St Pete to Pinellas Park, I schlepped to the farther away Tampa location instead. Because like most people with a complete set of teeth and mixed feelings about the second amendment, I avoid Pinellas Park.

Over the years, my bank gradually became the inattentive boyfriend whose complacency you overlook because you’re just too lazy to clean your shit out of his garage.

But I wasn’t remaining loyal for convenience, good service or an interest rate that yields more than a nickel a year. It was more the debilitating lethargy that set in the second I considered changing the automatic drafts on my Nordstrom card or cable bill.

Plus with e-statements and e-billing, who the hell even knows which cable company I use? Or what rectum I’m going to have to colonoscopy to get the passwords to change all this billing information anyway?

Needless to say, I was heartbroken when the Tampa location closed leaving me alone with its seedy Pinellas Park uncle leering at my breasts and slurring, “It’s just you and me babe.”

I had to make a change.


Close proximity to Starbucks? Sounds good to me

Fees, hand sanitizer near the pens, interest rates, Dum-dums in the drive-thru.

I had no idea what criteria I’d use to choose a new bank, but knew I’d have to save all that mental energy for figuring out how to answer my own security questions in order to gain access to my progress energy bill (who was my fourth grade teacher? Really? I barely remember the professors I blew in college*).

Ultimately I chose a bank where the president is a friend of a friend, utilizing the same logic that goes into all those Target dollar bin purchases.

“This egg white separator is a good thing to have. I’m sure I’ll use it someday.”

Never mind that I won’t.

So armed with total disdain for any place with fluorescent lighting and the sound of women’s pantyhose rubbing together when they walk to the coffee machine, I set out to open a new account and begin the arduous process of telling the world I finally broke up with my bank after years of neglect.

As I looked around the place where I’d soon be depositing all my welfare checks, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the “Senior Personal Banker” setting up my account. Dress code dictated she sport an embroidered black golf shirt that looked more Sears Tire Center than FDIC-insured financial institution. And her desk was jutting out of the center of the lobby like an afterthought or timeout chair. With no partitions or so much as a fake plant to separate her from everyone who wanders in off the street, the poor woman would never be able to update her Facebook status.

But I’m assuming if she could, it would be something like, “Would love to close my door so I can burp really loudly, but…oh shit.”

Or, “Phil Mickelson wearing my same shirt today.” chair_timeout

Anyway, once I shook off the feeling that she was really a Senior Personal Camp Counselor (I couldn’t get past the shirt) and after depositing my entire money market savings into my new account, I went home to begin switching over my automatic drafts. With car payments, Target RedCards, et al, tethered to my old account, this exercise had me so cranky and mentally spent, I snapped at my daughter for requesting breakfast. It was 5:30 pm.

Seven days and five meltdowns later (you know the kind that have you asking people around you to “stop breathing so loudly” because you’re trying to think), I logged in to my new online banking site to make sure my money was disappearing at warp speed from the correct account.

I was overdrafted $359.

How is that even possible?

Did my Senior Personal Camp Counselor use all my money to buy herself a cubicle or lifetime supply of twill polo shirts?

Turns out my new bankfriend placed all my money on a 10-DAY hold, despite my deposit being a cashier’s check to myself which would imply next-day availability and without ever thinking this might be useful information to give me while I am sitting across from her.

Wedding Singer theme penetrates dentist office as well

After a recent routine cleaning, my dentist (who has an irksome habit of singing everything he says) serenaded me with a song called, “If you have an extra three grand laying around, come back next week so I can attempt to undo your childhood addiction to Laffy Taffy.”

Me and my bells palsy Novocaine face

Me and my bell’s palsy Novocaine face

I returned a week later to allow my baritone DDS to whittle away at what would be left of my already expensive (just ask my mother) teeth to prepare them for their new crowns (aptly named after the amount of jewelry you’ll have to pawn to pay for them). For $3k, I’d prefer tiaras.

Only after using a dental AK-47 to inject massive amounts of Novocaine directly into my jaw for about 10 minutes straight (humming how it is more effective [at torturing me] if he goes slow), he tells me that he doesn’t recommend the crowns until I have a periodontist perform a gum graft.


I don’t know what the mother bitch that is, but somewhere between spilling a quart of saliva onto my chest because I was too numb to feel it, and suppressing the urge to scrape his eyes out, Adam Sandler’s voice was once again shouting the obvious.

So I left there with the entire right side of my face completely paralyzed despite having nothing done save for the molding of new bleaching trays. Because in the event a periodontist does sew new gums into my mouth, I would like to be able to order my crowns in a shade lighter than mahogany.

Now, totally hating this lounge singer who somehow barbershop quartetted his way through dental school, but on the hook for the bleaching trays, I had to return a few days later to the site of this dentastrophe to pick them up. The assistant jammed the custom molded bleaching tray into my upper arch to check the fit and handed me four measly vials of bleach she just fished out of the drawer. Not exactly the “Professional Whitening Package” you paid hundreds for, but in line with the professionalism of a place where the dentist numbs you to tell you he cannot perform the procedure you’re there for because he forgot to actually look in your mouth the week before.

“Where is the tray for the bottom?” I asked, sensing she was about to leave the room.

She looked at me confused.

“Oh,” she said. “You wanted the bottom too? We didn’t discuss that.”

For a full five minutes of my life that I will never get back we debated the possible merits of only bleaching one half of your mouth.

To summarize: there are none.

But apparently it is my fault for not clarifying that I didn’t only want some of my teeth bleached.

Once again…information that might have been a little more useful to me yesterday.

*Just kidding, Nana! Second base was as far as we got.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

June 11, 2013 at 10:46 pm

mortification marketing at its best

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Not sure if mortification marketing, like using a cheese grater for exfoliation during a pedicure, is exclusive to Florida or not. But like our ever-expanding list of sexual predators and people who shoot each other over Popeye’s chicken, it’s a source of shame for this sunny state of shady people.

Sure, a part of me respects the Statue of Liberty breakdancing to the demons in his own head on 4th Street in the middle of rush hour traffic (2 pm here because that’s when people get off their shift at Steak & Shake).

And I’m a bit jelly of the guy flipping the Westshore pizza sign because I imagine this form of aerobic activity burns way more calories than a spin class. Not to mention I might one day be relegated to a life of pointing frantically to my PC Repair sign should my job as a bomb-sniffer for the Department of Homeland Security fall through.

But I have to draw the line at today’s Buy Gold Mortification Marketeer.

Employing a pregnant person?


Guessing he’s about six months along

Shame on you.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

January 30, 2013 at 7:35 pm

reason #345 not to stay at the hyatt regency orlando international airport hotel

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I expect hair in a shower drain, but spent entirely too much time wondering how this bushel got on the ceiling.


Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

December 26, 2012 at 10:58 pm

this might be our best option

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Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

September 17, 2012 at 11:15 am

america’s got sweat glands and why i am the worst groupie ever

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Nick Cannon: Actual Size

When the Mahaffey Theater offered free tickets to yesterday’s taping of “America’s Got Talent,” I gladly accepted the opportunity to see judge Howard Stern and the contestants he might draw. A former Tiger Woods mistress refilling a maple syrup dispenser while yodeling through her trach tube perhaps? One could only guess what Howard would do to resurrect the old days of being fined by the FCC.

I ordered the tickets online while trying to suppress a recurring nightmare I have that I’m standing naked under a floodlight in Howard’s former E! Studio while Gary measures my inner thigh fat with calipers, Fred administers an IQ test, and Ralph suggests I press charges against my hair stylist.

The taping information on the tickets was vague with the exception of a dress code policy that rivaled that of an Arab country.

It specified NO open-toed shoes!! Or heels!! with enough all caps and exclamation points to make me wonder why I’d consider associating myself with such American keyboard abuse.

I can only imagine this is because of (justified) fears that Floridians don’t get pedicures with any regularity and should Nick Cannon interview any members of the studio audience their high heels could further emphasize that he is shorter than his infant twins.

Nevertheless, I slipped into flat-as-my-shoes-get Mary Janes and a simple black Betsey Johnson dress just in time for the 5pm taping.

Or was it that I was to arrive at 5pm for a later taping?

Line up at sunrise for the 5pm taping?

It was all very unclear, and the search for shoes in my closet that were less than four stories tall left me frazzled and unable to count out five dollar bills for parking.

Nana insists these are silver. I thought they were gold, but I think we can all agree that their public appearances should be limited to quick trips to Walgreens to refill her thyroid medication.

We arrived at the Mahaffey at 4:59pm. Because that’s how Nana rolls.

Yes, in her never-ending quest to be the cool mom who’s not the least bit offended by irreverent assholes like Howard Stern (or her own children), Nana joined us after managing to locate gold ballet flats somewhere in the bowels of her own closet. Or perhaps, from the looks of it, the local Goodwill bin.

“What?!” she said after noticing my brother’s face twist up in a grimace similar to that of someone who just licked battery acid. “I don’t have a lot of closed-toed shoes that are flat.”

Bottom line: if we were going to wait in a queue that choked the perimeter of both the Mahaffey Theater and Dali Museum like a noose, then we were not getting turned away for making Nick Cannon look like a Pygmy.

Worst Groupie Ever

This might come as a shock given the Mary Janes, but I am not a good groupie.

For instance, I’ve been fairly obsessed with Dave Matthews Band my entire adult life. They DJ’d everything from my drunken hook-ups in college to my wedding. A good litmus test for my boyfriends involves putting their iPod on shuffle. If DMB isn’t playing by the third song, I’m well within my rights to end the relationship. And during my pregnancy, I swore that “One Sweet World” actually made my daughter kick. But when DMB comes to Tampa each Summer, I find myself saying things like: “I dunno guys … the amphitheater is pretty fucking hot in July.”

That being said, because a sitter was already being paid $15 an hour for me to be at this taping, I felt I owed it to my forehead to at least get a basal cell carcinoma while standing outside in the blazing hot Florida sun.

America’s Got a Bunch of Idiots … Namely Me

It didn’t take long for me to notice that even though hundreds of people were waiting in line, only a few who may or may not have been wearing pirate costumes (I was hallucinating and close to passing out at this point) were escorted inside.

TV crew members walked by the line suggesting we wave, look at the camera, don’t look at the camera, and squish closer together to determine who remembered deodorant and who didn’t.

Me standing in line

Several pictures were taken, and I can only imagine I looked like a glob of freshly poured asphalt having stupidly obliged the dress code which clearly screamed: DARK COLORS APPRECIATED!!

As 5:45pm approached, and a total of two people were relieved from the steaming cauldrons of waiting purgatory, my brother joked that maybe there wasn’t even a show.

“This is just a sociological experiment to see who would actually stand here and for how long,” he suggested, while giving me a look that said, “I was ready to bolt 44 minutes ago, for the record.”

But here’s the tricky part: there comes a time when your fears of becoming a total moron are overruled by the investment of sweat that’s dripping down your back.

Sure, the rational part of me yearned to say “fuck this” and pass out in a puddle of perspiration on my couch at home instead, but the other sunburned, very dehydrated part of me that spent an afternoon with a leaf blower trying to unearth these not-so-flats was pretty determined to see Howard Stern make somebody cry, dammit.

Luckily for my electrolyte balance, at about 6pm, the crew who pretended to be too important to answer questions, avoiding all eye contact and pressing their earpieces further into their ears as if receiving life-saving information, was finally finished taking pictures of the sweat cascading down our ass cracks.

It was now time to address the crowd and Nana’s 14kt gold lamé flats that shone in the afternoon sunlight like a beacon of bad fashion:

“Sorry guys. We’ve already filled the theater. You’re going to have to come back tomorrow.”

There were other words said, but it’s amazing how much faster your heels can turn when you’re not wearing any.

I was already buckling my seatbelt in the car when the crew promised priority passes and details about the next taping that basically translated into:

“We used you all to make this venue look completely packed. Made you stand out here for AN HOUR knowing the theater was already at capacity with 1,200 people who presumably knew enough to line up here last week. We took pictures of you waving like imbeciles for our season premiere and/or a Summer’s Eve douche commercial.”

In summary, America’s Got Talent at pissing off people and making them question the effectiveness of their deodorant.

Howard Stern Can Still Make You Cry

Beth Stern not at all wearing flats or DARK COLORS!!

Amazingly, I didn’t even need a judge on a reality TV show to remind me of my genetic inferiority.

As I sat outside at Parkshore Grill later that evening, Howard’s beautiful wife Beth turned up looking completely gorgeous, thin, and in no need of Photoshop.

So thanks a lot, America’s Got Talent.

Nothing quite boosts one’s self-esteem like sweating off all your makeup right before standing in almost-flats next to a 6-foot-tall supermodel.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

April 4, 2012 at 10:00 pm

not my dream

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Disney Dreamer Rockin' Out at the Welcome Party

Not only is our Christmas elf Jingles a bit of a drunk who often forgets to hide after a night of revelry, but this year he decided to hijack our Spring break plans by scheduling a Bahamian cruise aboard the Disney Dream.

One would think December gave us adequate time to reserve a concierge suite or beach cabanas for a trip taking place in March, but apparently Disney cruisers know to book those before the ship is even designed. These are the same assholes who make getting dinner reservations at Cinderella’s Castle only possible long after your daughter stops giving a shit about Disney princesses.

who’s going down with us

As our sail date approached, I ran into an acquaintance at Shorebucks who mentioned he and his family also were going on the Disney Dream over break.

I couldn’t contain my excitement. We would know somebody else with whom to commiserate over the repugnancy of the all-you-can-eat turkey leg buffet! (I may have made that up, but it was Disney after all. I knew churros and turkey legs would have to make an appearance at some point.)

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re really excited about it.”

He wasn’t kidding.

I was deflated.

It’s worth noting that the only appropriate response to, “I’m going on the Disney cruise” is: “I’m sorry.”

welcome (to olfactory hell) party

If your elf ever screws you over and you too find yourself aboard the Disney Dream, avoid the “Welcome Party” on the pool deck at all costs. This is merely a ruse to get you to either jump overboard or accept a fruity frozen drink you don’t want, thinking it’s complimentary, but later realizing you were charged $11 for it.

If you can imagine 4,000 people crowded into an area roughly the size of a waffle, then you can appreciate how badly my allergies were flaring up during this event.

For the record, my allergies include, but are not limited to:

  1. Sweaty people who “arm rape” me in a crowd.
  2. Cheap hotel rooms.
  3. Dirty feet; sticky hands.
  4. The existence of body hair on anyone over 150 pounds.
  5. An assortment of olfactory assaults too numerous to list…greasy scalp, earwax (yes – I can smell that), any spice (curry) or food (garlic, hotdog) odor emanating not from food, Eternity for men, and anything that smells like scented maxi pads.

it’s the tallest midget

As far as cruise ships go, the Disney Dream probably ranks higher on the list of acceptability. It’s newish and cleanish, and to my delight, every time you enter a dining room, a foreigner is paid 14 cents a day to hand you an antibacterial wipe.

But if like me, you think cruise ships are nothing more than a floating Petri dish of unnamed viruses that will stump your board certified dermatologist into thinking the origin of your skin rash is: “a reaction to drinking too many rum drinks,” then you should steer clear. And for the record, I was 23, and Malibu and pineapple juice were cool at the time.

that’s totally a shit stain

Not being an experienced Disney fan(atic) who looks at a topiary shaped like Donald Duck as the 8th Wonder of the World, the best room I could reserve on short (three months!) notice was a deluxe family stateroom with outside verandah that sleeps five.

Let me clarify that “five” must actually mean “five fetuses.” Because I’m pretty sure at one point my daughter was deciding which parent she liked the least so that she could accidentally on purpose throw one of us overboard to have more space to wave her $16 sword we were waterboarded into buying for the ship’s pirate party.

The cabin featured a split bath which made any imminent asstastrophes (it is a cruise ship after all) possible in privacy while I took my third shower of the day, ignoring pleas to conserve water or obey the 2-towel daily allotment. Trust me, from the smell of it, many of those cruise-goers were conserving water, so don’t blame me for ruining the environment.

Besides having the obvious benefits of a private pool deck where you might actually get a chair (not possible otherwise), concierge level rooms also have another huge advantage: shower gel.

I assumed our room steward forgot to supply us with shower gel only to discover that “luxury” was reserved for concierge rooms only.

“Let me get this straight,” I immediately turned the color of the $11 daiquiri we just threw out, “for $5,000, I am to give my child a bath for four days with a single bar of soap the size of a sugar cube?”


Good thing I always bring my own shampoo and conditioner because I had to use Disney’s to shave my legs the rest of the trip.

Shortly after my frustration over the lack of shower gel and annoyance at the impending mandatory muster drill, I spotted a brown smudge on our upholstered sofa bed designed to sleep one of the fetuses. I should mention that we did not have a fetus on board since this was a “vacation,” and anyone who knows me knows that my menstrual cycles are tied directly to my vacation schedules.

“That’s a poop stain,” I announced before dry heaving and covering it with magazines.

Brian looked at me with the exhaustion of someone who has been traveling with me for 15 years.

“It looks like chocolate pudding,” he replied nonchalantly, moving the magazines aside.

“How can you SPILL chocolate pudding in the shape of a diamond?” I demanded, adding additional magazines to the fecal barrier which I diligently saw would remain intact for the rest of the trip.

Luckily the muster drill occurred in the middle of this heated debate, so we could then switch our focus to which assholes would be elbowing us on the way to the lifeboats should our boat Costa Concordia itself right into a reef.

communist dinner

Server Gustavo does not speak Russian and therefore cannot explain to Buela why she may not have four appetizers.

Not reserving our cruise the minute I conceived created yet another last-one-to-the-party challenge: an unchangeable-because-the-boat-was-fully-booked 8:30 pm dinner seating.

My daughter is seven. She’s asleep at 8:30 pm, and that is when we are slated by these Nazis to eat dinner every night? It made me want to scream, “Where the FUCK is my shower gel?!” before punching our waiter Gustavo in his coiffed up pompadour.

In yet another blow, we were seated with a family of three that spoke little English. This ended up being a blessing though because it would have been awkward to strike up a conversation with parents who I’m certain ate their other four children during the Cold War.

Boris and his wife Buela (I have no idea what the fuck their names were, I was too pissed that I had to sit through a 4-hour meal across from them) looked equally disgusted, as our two children fell asleep face first in their macaroni and cheese each night after 63 rounds of tic tac toe.

profiting on a parent’s need for alcohol & caffeine

The Disney Dream features 11 nightclubs and two cafes where the requisite lattes are $5 a piece (your $5k actually buys you a “somewhat-inclusive” cruise).

Although I appreciate how and why most parents need alcohol to cope with the fact that their vacation is taking place aboard the Disney Dream, I cannot understand why you’d bother to take your children to anything Disney only to drop them off at the Oceaneers Lab (the babysitting area that’s name so obviously refers to the bacteria cultures left behind) while you practice your running man on the dance floor of a pink lounge shaped like a champagne bottle.

Don’t get me wrong. We used the babysitting service a fair amount. Like when our daughter expressed some concern over the fervor with which Boris tore through a chilled lobster tail. I somewhat guiltily checked her in to the Lab, a process similar to an Act of Congress, trying to ignore the fact that the little girl right behind her was wearing her wrist GPS unit on her ankle, most likely to match her father’s. I wish I had a photo of him (but want to live), since my description of his ZZ Top-like beard complete with two braids just wouldn’t do him or his Led Zeppelin concert T-shirt justice.

cocktail dresses on disney cruises have me longing for neverland

But for the most part, this vacation was not for us…it was for a sweet, seven-year-old girl who love(d) Disney and being with her parents (for now).

There just seemed something tragic and sad about me sporting a cocktail dress from Dress Barn and ordering a frozen drink I would later spill during the Cha Cha Slide in a Disney “dance club” while my daughter attempted to avoid the Norwalk virus from a Toy Story-themed play area by herself.

In fact, I’m pretty proud to say that I didn’t bother to brush my hair the entire trip and have the pictures to prove it. The optional “Formal” night had me acting like a rebellious teenager, donning Hollister sweatpants, Havaianas and a chipped pedicure. I watched as grown men in suits clumsily shifted their weight from side to side in the Atrium during the character dance party, wondering the whole time what I was doing there.

And then it hit me.

The genius of Disney isn’t in the mandatory gift shop walk-thru at the end of every ride or the $12 M&Ms they sell outside the movie theater on this boat.

It’s in the constant reminder of Peter Pan’s most important lesson: “Once you grow up…you can never go back!”

So I hope that my daughter left that ship wanting to cling to her childhood just a little bit longer.

After all, arguing about poop and pudding and all the responsibilities of adulthood can wait.

For now, she can just use the shampoo and pretend that it’s shower gel.

Look at those douchebags. Being an adult must really suck.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

March 19, 2012 at 1:14 pm

“running in” to walmart. never without consequence.

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Not only did someone make the brilliant decision to assign this poor turtle to the “speedy” checkout lane, but this is a place that displays hemorrhoidal ointment, anti-fungal cream, and “Warm Touch” lubricating jelly at the register scattered among the typical point-of-sale purchases including gum, magazines and M&Ms.

Now by no means am I claiming to understand the buying habits of customers who voluntarily get stampeded to death on Black Friday for $1.88 paper towels.

But is your jock itch, bulging ass vein and dried-up Netherlands really something you forget about until you happen to be standing at the cash register tossing a tin of cinnamon Altoids onto the counter?

“I came here for a gallon of milk, but come to think of it…I haven’t had a sufficiently lubricated vagina since before my cashier’s back became a complete right angle.”

I know. I know. What did I expect from a store that is the inspiration for a website devoted entirely to horrifying the world with pictures of morbidly obese women sporting ripped, lace jeggings.

Besides. Just entering the threshold of Walmart should have indemnified my frustration toward the boxed-wine-stained-tooth hag in front of me, coughing up a Camel-coated lung and unsuccessfully attempting to hide her 400 cans of mixed vegetables beneath those two tablecloths.

Ten items or fewer is a difficult concept to grasp, but it’s there for a reason.

Specifically, I have a hair appointment in five minutes, and our cashier is averaging 12 minutes per can. That might not be a math problem I can calculate without a tutor, but it was sufficient time for me to realize why the typical Walmart customer doesn’t believe in evolution.

Not sure our cashier walked upright. Ever.



Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

March 7, 2012 at 12:22 pm

whorlaween whorrors

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There are certain truths in life.

The yellow gum-ball should not exist.

Not a single “friend” on Facebook gives a shit that you’re making banana bread.

And Halloween parties were invented by men who want to mark an annual occasion for all women to dress like strippers.

Trying to avoid showing cleavage, leg and ass fat during Halloween is like trying to avoid the question, “You work today?” during a pedicure.

Not even overweight women get a free pass, as each costume site is brimming with “plus sized” get-ups that are nothing more than larger versions of the same slutty attire about .09 percent of our population should actually consider wearing.

Your husband just ordered Stripper Shortcake standing next to you in the Strawberry thigh highs.

Sure you can dress up like a traffic light or ATM machine, but you will be shocked at how quickly you’ll regret not taking the opportunity to sport thigh-high lace stockings without consequence or judgement. Not to mention you will feel invisible for failing to wear the requisite fishnets and not reading the Whorlaween Rulebook which clearly states: “dominatrix, stripper or some version thereof are the only acceptable costume choices for any woman over the age of 18.”

It may have taken me 30-cough years, but I’ve grown to accept the fact that during the Whorlaween season, there is a better than average chance a perfect stranger will see more of my cervix when I bend over than my Ob-Gyn. I’ve also learned that if somebody tells me my costume is clever, it’s the equivalent of saying my baby is big. It’s just code for ugly.

So the question has become less what costume am I wearing, and more: what cheesetacular porn star will I be this year? Or for Saturday’s Annual BrewHaHa Event: which BrewHaHottie will I attempt to pull off?

Well…as part of the Navy Seal Team Six Unit that turned Bin Laden into chum, “Commando Kim” will be storming the Farley Estate tomorrow night equipped with a plastic bullet belt and about 15 more pounds than anyone should have sporting this ensemble. I just hope no one mistakes me for a real military officer as my camouflage corset, leather garter belt and black tutu look strikingly similar to what any member of our armed forces would be wearing during top-secret missions to kill Al-Qaeda operatives.

Guess the tutu is supposed to be as short as your bangs

When my costume arrived from spicylingerie.com yesterday (along with a complimentary pair of crotchless panties that scared me more than a little), I was excited to try it on forgetting that when the weather dips below 75 degrees, I start inhaling Starbucks hot chocolates like they’re oxygen. This is unfortunate. As my tutu was shorter than my thumbnail, and there was seemingly no way to camouflage my inner thigh bulge despite Sara Blakely’s empty promises.

Knowing it was too late to get a new costume or swear off solid food, I this morning embarked on Commando Kim’s first mission: to locate the kind of tights Hooters waitresses wear. I didn’t know where to find them, but was confident they were strong enough to hold back a crash test dummy during a 110 mph collision.

My options at 9 am were fairly limited until I passed by the XXX store “Naughty by Night” across from the Tyrone mall. The neon “OPEN” sign seemed to beckon every pervert, pedophile and last-minute, desperate Halloween party guest in Pinellas County.

Normally I’d be nervous about doing so much as a u-turn in the parking lot of a place like this, but Halloween is really designed (by men) to bring out the whore in all of us. Thankful I hadn’t yet put the Shorecrest Preparatory School sticker on my new car, I entered the store wondering what sort of communicable diseases I could get from just breathing the patchouli scented incense burning inside. Trying not to guess what the smudges were on the glass door as I entered, I was met by a worker with a terrifying set of iridescent blue contact lenses straight out of Avatar. She greeted me with a certain hesitation, like I was an FBI agent on a sting. She asked me what I was looking for, and it felt less like an offer to help than part of an uncomfortable hazing process that led me to believe I was pledging the wrong sorority. I can only imagine this is because I was still carrying the GermX wipe I used to open the door. A possible indicator that I was not a frequent shopper.

Does this come with an instruction manual?

I blurted out what I was in search of like it was an apology. A confession of sorts. Luckily the Naughty by Night Na’vi seemed relieved I wasn’t undercover and walked me over to the pantyhose that she reminisced about once wearing during her stint as a Winghouse girl. Judging from the whimsical glow in her xenon headlight eyes, I think she may have wanted to chat with me about the good ole’ days of spilling pitchers of beer on intoxicated men as they played Golden Tee. But I really only needed to know one thing: will these tights hold in my thigh dough enough that I won’t be forced to wear a Burka to this party instead? She winked at me. Which either meant “yes” or “I can perform cunnilingus on you in the dressing room right now.” I’m not sure which, but I grabbed two pairs of my Winghouse tights and made my way up to the register.

It wasn’t until I waited for her to process my credit card that I allowed myself to look around.

I had never felt so Amish and confused in my entire life.

As I spotted whorrifying contraptions that resembled glass, phallic lava lamps, what I can only imagine were vibrators large enough to clog the Holland tunnel and leather paddles wider than my paddleboard itself, I couldn’t help but wonder… what is that for? Where does this go? Who? Why? I want my mommy.

So if you want a real scare this Whorlaween season, I suggest you skip the haunted houses and supernatural horror flicks and just visit your local adult novelty store where the Winnebago-sized rubber penises are sure to give you nightmares for years to come. In the meantime, I’ll be skipping my next three meals in the hopes that I can be more BrewHaHottie tomorrow night than BrewHaHeifer.

Clever. And your baby is ugly too.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

October 22, 2011 at 12:02 am

tampa bay succaneers preseason home opener

with one comment

Thousands of sweating, domestic beer-drinking football fans turned out last night for the Tampa Bay Succaneers preseason home opener at Raymond James Stadium.

It also kicked off a series of conversations I will have with myself about why paying the equivalent of seven pairs of Manolo Blahniks for season tickets is a move anyone not suffering from febrile seizures should make. Of course one could argue that seeing the scrumptious Tom Brady (not dancing at Carnival) was worth the $7k alone.

But if you’re still pissed at Brady for leaving a pregnant Bridget for that Brazilian freak of nature, then perhaps the $35 food & beverage credit per game is enough to entice you to jump on the Succaneer Pirate Ship as a club level season ticket holder.

Yes, that’s right. Each club 1 season pass is loaded with enough money to get you a bag of popcorn assuming you’re willing to suffer through a line longer than Jerramy Stevens’ criminal record. But please, whatever you do, do not expect ice in your fountain Coke because “they haven’t brought that up yet,” or order anything off the grill menu because the organization literally just scraped five homeless people off Himes Ave. three minutes before kick-off to work the registers.

After a small nap and threats of firing the cannons directly into my skull, I am pleased to report I got my “dinner” minutes before halftime or when we had passed for a total of two yards. My hot pretzel was somewhere between salted and renal failure. So in addition to suggesting the Sucs employ people who are not completely confounded by requests of ice or carbonation in their soda, I’m also going to recommend they offer free kidney dialysis for anyone who gets a salted pretzel.

Although that $35 is a huge incentive that is likely to entice readers to jam the phones at One Suc Place in efforts to secure their own season tickets this year, please first consider the following:

1. Where you are sitting: Sure you can choose seats on the West (shady) side under cover and on the 50-yard line, but when someone whose gender is questionable removes its Birkenstock sandals to scratch the bottom of its hooves on the padded seat in front of her/him, it’s important to understand this is the equivalent of a 350-pound elderly woman armed with a tuna salad sandwich and love of medicated body powders squashing her jelly rolls and ham-hocks into the seat next to you on your 4-hourlong Southwest flight. Only it’s for the next seven flights.

2. Row exiting/entering etiquette: Please understand that when someone pays thousands of dollars to behold athletic mediocrity in 100-degree weather, they do not expect their neighbors to enter or exit through the rows penis facing. Everyone knows you enter and exit a row sideways ass facing. I literally almost had a penis jammed into my belly button last night thanks to an awkward encounter with seat #7, whose beer run met his blatant disregard for only the most basic unspoken rules of stadium seating.

3. Your attire and how it may annoy me: I find it extremely distracting when people attending sporting events are confused about what team they are supporting. I am a Gator fan, but do not feel the need to wear my Gators gear to a Sucs game. So why then last night did I spot in the first five minutes shirts for the Crimson Tide, Pittsburgh Penguins, Chicago Cubs and the Brazil National Team, to name a few? If you’re going to a Sucs vs. Patriots game, you wear *Sucs or Patriots colors, gear or **neutral attire. Period. If you want to significantly increase my annoyance levels, wear unrelated items together such as a Tampa Bay Lightning visor and University of Miami shirt (um, I guess thanks to my buddy Nevin there are no fears of anyone sporting that).

4. You may be seated next to someone with olfactory superpowers: My Fairy Godmothers did not bestow upon me wishes for beauty, wit or musical talent. Instead they stood above my bassinet and granted me olfactories that could smell a mayonnaise jar that was just opened somewhere in a 3-story walk-up in Yonkers. So Row V, seat #2: your plate of pulled pork that sat festering on the concrete in this blistering Summer heat was the equivalent of someone eating a foot-long hotdog and burping in my face for two hours straight. Crimson Tide: I realize you may have been a little drunk and confused (the NCAA games are not actually played at Raymond James Stadium), but the 2-day old Clinique Happy perfume oozing from your pores combined with the spilled Bud Light soaking into your Forever 21 jorts, was enough to make me turn the cannons on myself again.

*Jerseys are allowed, but will increase your concentration of douchiness.
**Neutral attire is anything with the exception of Affliction, Tap Out or Ed Hardy (see above).

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

August 19, 2011 at 11:51 am

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