Tiger Woods is ALL OVER THE NEWS! This is what went down. Allegedly. His wife hit him, because he hit this:

Then he got in his car and hit this:

And finally this:

Anyways, that is one of the versions going around right now. Who really cares though? Except for everyone.

Wanna know what I am really caring about? The fact that Tiger met his wife, Elin, because she was working as a nanny for his fellow golf pro, and friend, Jesper Parnevik. Really Mrs. Parnevik? You hired her as a nanny for your family?

HER:

I mean, I appreciate the fact that you must have enormous self confidence and feel so secure in your marriage. Girl Power! Yeah! High five! But, REALLY?

I feel OK about myself most of the time. I have your usual lows. Your usual, “Oh, God, don’t look at me! I’m a monster, LOOK AWAY! For the love of God, look away!!” moments, but for the most part I am a fairly confident, 31 year old girl, who trusts my husband.

Does this mean I would ever hire a perfect alien specimen such as that, or even anything bearing any sort of resemblance to a perfect alien specimen such as that, to work in my house, around my husband everyday? Can I get a fuck no ladies? I mean COME ON Mrs. P! She is a hot. She is Swedish. She is a nanny. HAVE YOU NEVER WATCHED LIFETIME TELEVISION OR BAD PORN? Major fail! We all know what happens at the end of this movie. And I’m not boil a bunny jealous or anything like that. I can appreciate a beautiful woman. I just don’t want her to live with us.

I’m not walking around with drool on my shirt, that I wore yesterday, and a shitty kid on my hip, while a chick like that serves my hubby a cold beer and dinner with a smile. It would be like living with a really hot Hooters chick or Victoria Secret model 24/7. Errr, thanks, but no thanks. Mommy don’t play dat.

Now, I’m not saying its a fact that my husband, or your husband, or anyone’s husband would, without a doubt, stray if a hot Swedish nanny like Elin was hired. But, well, it definitely increases the odds to like 100% or something really high and definite like that.

And who needs that extra stress anyways? I sure as shit don’t!

Besides, this looks way more like someone you could trust with your children!! Am I not right ladies? Just a gut feeling.

The other day, Luca and I were watching one of his “educational programs” (AKA: not right now honey, mommy is facebooking). It was showing all types of animals. I was naming all the cute little critters for him and face-booking from my iphone. I’ll give you a moment to judge me.

OK, so they got to a 4 legged white animal. He looked at me and pointed at it. “What the hell is it mommy?”, he thought. And you know what? I had NO IDEA! WHAT?! I mean, I knew it was either one of two things: a goat or a sheep. But I honestly did not know. So I problem solved in my head for a bit, not that long though, and said to myself “Baaaa” and then was like “ITS A SHEEP!” And I was correct.

A pretty long time ago, I bought Luca this bath set of cute little animals. Yesterday he held one up to me and thought, “What the hell is this mommy?.” I was like, “Ummmm, Ummmmm, Ummmmm”. So, I did some more problem solving. I remembered the name on the set of animals was “Silly ____”. Again, like the “Baaaa”, I figured it out. SILLY SEA LIONS! I mean, A. Silly Octopus just didn’t have the same ring to it. B. Octopus don’t have whiskers and C. and mainly, because I am an intelligent 31 year old woman. In case you aren’t sure either, because I’m sure that’s, like, super common in adults, I’ve provided you with visuals below.

Sheep

To top it all off, I go into my husbands drawer on Sunday in search of comfy socks. I put the newest and best ones he has on, and I see this:

This made me realize two things. My husband is obviously having his own insecurities about his preschool education, AND, that our kid is fucked.

So, I watch a lot of television. I am what is known as a TV junkie, a couch potato, a lazy ass…whatever you want to call it. I am not ashamed to admit that I could not live without television. Some people tell me “UGH! I hate TV. It rots your brain.” Well, consider my brain rotted. It is my little escape from reality.

Two, OF MANY, of the shows I watch religiously are Dexter and Sesame Street. The first one, because I love it, the latter because it allows me to check my email and FB without certain members of my family tugging on my pants leg and begging me for things. Oh, and Luca loves it, too!

Call me crazy, but the other day I was watching Sesame Street and Baby Bear was doing his thang. I was all “Who the hell does Baby Bear remind me of?!” Finally, after racking my rotted brain, it came to me – Sergeant Angel Batista from Dexter!! They have the same exact accent. It is uncanny. I found a couple of YouTubes of both of them. Check them out and tell me what you think.

So here is what I am thinking. Either Angel grew up on Sesame Street or Baby Bear grew up in Cuba.

I have a farm. A little farm in my computer. It’s where a lot of my friends live, too. In my computer. It works out great. I make all the calls. There are no surprise drop-ins. I only talk to them when I want to. I can turn them all off with the click of a button when I’m feeling anti-social.

I am so successful in my little internet world. Completely timely and responsible.

I keep my little Farm in tip-top shape. I am always organizing my animals and harvesting my crops.

I keep in touch with friends and family. I regularly initiate conversations with them via email. I am the one who reaches out. “Hey you, its me! I just wanted to see how you were?!! Love you!”

Did I mention I maintain a fucking farm? With horses, rabbits, ducks, trees (of all kind you guys)! Sometimes I harvest potatoes, sometimes watermelon. But, I never kill them and I make some pretty good coins off of them.

On the other hand, in my real life, the mum that is ten feet from where I am sitting, on my front porch, is dead. All the pretty purple mums, that I never transplanted to the actual pretty pot, look like little brown shriveled balls. My voicemail has about 25 unheard messages. I have Ben-Gay in the pantry and a bag of chips on my desk. I love all my friends dearly, but seldom call them first and sometimes don’t call them back at all! Oh, and don’t even get me started on my closets. Disaster.

I mean, really guys, I can spend 20 minutes maintaining a farm online, yet I cannot step outside and water my mum? For shame!

This got me thinking. I should create a software program that would allow me to organize my closets and pantry, water my plant plants, handle my relationships, and everything else going on in my real life, ONLINE! I would be god damn Super Woman if I excelled in real life like I do in my internet world.

The hubs would come home from work…

“What’s there to eat, babe?”

And I would tell him….

Log on to the computer, go to Local Disk (C:) – then go here -  C:\Documents and Settings\Allison Zapata\My Documents\Nothing:It’sWhat’sForDinner.

Brilliant.

I would like to take a moment to thank my cat, Snoop, for getting me out of doing the dishes most days. Well, technically, I don’t DO the dishes, so, I guess I mean getting me out of loading and unloading the dishwasher (whatevs, same thing). How has he done this you ask? By being a complete and utter asshole. I love him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he can be a total dick. Ask my husband. Wait, no, don’t ask him. Unless you want to sit for 20 minutes and listen to what an asshole Snoop is. Why do that when you can read it right now?

An ex-boyfriend of mine, who shall remain nameless (though, I can think of a lot of names for him), found him as a kitten out in the middle of nowhere. He brought me this cat knowing what a sucker I am for anything with a pulse. Mind you, I lived in an apartment with 2 cats already (awww, i can smell it now). So, I took Snoop in. Anyways, I ended up getting rid of the boyfriend and keeping the cat. Then I met Gustavo. He wasn’t a cat lover by any means, but he wasn’t a cat hater either. Until he and Snoop became roommates. You see, Snoop has this condition my vet calls “hypervocalization”" (AKA: He never shuts the fuck up). He will come into the bedroom at 3 am, sit at the foot of our bed and meow, and meow, and meow, etc. He would do this for an hour straight, if I didn’t pick up him and boot his ass out the doggy door. “Don’t let the door hit your tail on the way out, dude” I somehow convinced my husband that he was, “NEVER LIKE THIS UNTIL HE MOVED IN WITH YOU!” Finally one night, my wine drinking ass confessed to him that Snoop had always been like this and it wasn’t him at all. Talk about regretting something the next morning!! It was totally like a I had a one night stand with a guy with herpes, but much, much worse.*

The happy little family, 2 dogs and 1 asshole cat, bought our first house! Then we got a doggy door. Great idea for the dogs, not so great for the asshole. He started to bring us all sorts of things. At all hours of the day and night. Things = mice, rats, birds, and lizards. Sometimes they are dead, sometimes alive, sometimes in between. Like the time he brought in a live mouse at 3 a.m.. I can tell by the way he meows if he has something. Then we heard him chasing that something around the dining room. In my sleepy state, I prayed and prayed it was a lizard. I always pray its a lizard. But, I knew my prayers had gone unanswered once I heard the squealing. We chased the mouse around the house for an hour. Unable to find it, we barricaded ourselves in the bedroom and went back to sleep. Sometimes he brings in birds that fly around the house. Once he brought in lizard that bit the shit out of me (yes, they bite). If its an injured bird I take it to “The Avian Animal Clinic” by my house to see if they can save it. Or put it out of its misery. Gus likes to joke that they tell me “Thanks, mam, we will do everything we can to save it”, and then they snap its neck and throw it in the trash. Whatevs. In my mind, they hook him up to the little birdie life support machine and do all they can for it. Anways, once I woke up in the morning and found this:

Several times I asked my husband to help me out with the mice/rats. Once I went in and he had on two oven mitts and a some sort of fireplace utensil, that we have in front of our fake fireplace, and was searching the house. I then realized that Gustavo does not (read: cannot handle at all) like mice. It reminded me of my fear of roaches. So, we made a little agreement that I would handle all the rodents that the asshole brought in and he would handle any and all roaches. Yeah, I know, it sounds like I got the shit end of the stick. On the contrary, my friends!

A few weeks ago I opened up the dishwasher to load the dishes. Guess what the hell jumped out at me? A live, huge as shit, motherfucking, flying cockroach**! YES! It came in through the drain in the d/w. I ran away, shaking uncontrollably. Nearly puked and I’m pretty sure I cried. This happened to me once more a few days later***. So, now I have an unrealistic fear of doing the dishes and loading the dishwasher (more than I did before). I really have to psych myself up before opening it. So, most of the time, I just don’t. Gus gets home from work and I’m all like “You said you’d handle the roaches and there is a .05% chance that there is one in there so I was unable to clean the kitchen today. Sorry man, but that was our deal. Whaddya gonna do?”

Thanks, Snoop, for being such an asshole and having my lazy back!! It’s totally his way of thanking me for loving him unconditionally despite his flaws. I mean, I can be a hypervocalizer, too, and you don’t see Gustavo taking my ass to the pound…..yet.

*I have never had a one night stand with a guy with herpes.

**When I found the first roach I closed the d/w and turned it on. At the end of the cycle the roach was dead. Then I started feeling really, really guilty. What an AWFUL way to die. This is one of the reasons I know that I need major therapy.

***The D/W has been cleaned and sanitized. With that said, I totally understand if you want to bring your own dishes next time you dine at my house.

About a week ago, I went to the doctor. I felt like shit. Awful. I convinced myself it was H1N1. I was swiney and I knew it. After seeing the doctor, he totally made me feel much less like the hypochondriac I know I can be. He told me it was too early to test for H1N1, but wrote me a scrip for Tamiflu and told me to start taking it if I got a fever that night.

I left the doc and went straight to Walgreens to drop off the prescription…since I was dying and everything. It was about 5:30 and Luca was with me. He usually goes to bed around this time, (yes, really! and sleeps till 7) a fact I’m sure makes me annoying to a lot of people. I know its the only reason people “Hide” me on FB or even defriend me….GASP. Whatevs. So he looks like he is about to fall asleep and if you’re a mom you know this is VERY undesirable. Falling asleep in the car seat for 5 minutes and then, the second you get him out of the car, its like he drank a Red Bull all of a sudden. Major fail. I was talking with my cousin about this last night, actually. Comparing our”wake the fuck up” techniques. Turn the music up, scream their names loudly, apply the brake a little too forcefully at the four way stop. Whatever works to not screw up my night…because it is, after all, all about me….always.

Anyways, enough about my awesome parenting skills. Where was I? Ahhh, yes, at Walgreens. I pull up to the drive-thru to drop off my Tamiflu. There are two lanes. On a side note, don’t you hate getting in the far lane with the little bank shoot thingamajiggy? Even if there is one car in the first lane and no car in the second lane. I just feel like a second class citizen, less cared for, less important, less loved. Ok, so I pull up and there is about two cars in the first class lane and one car in the loser lane….AND one car, in the middle, behind both lanes. Waiting…and blocking both lanes with her stupid little white sports car.

Personally, I think there is an unwritten rule we all should follow when it comes to drive-thru lanes. For instance, when you pull up to the bank, and no one is behind you, its perfectly acceptable to hang back and wait to see which line opens up first. On the other hand, if you pull up to the bank and there are cars behind you, you have to bite the bullet and pick a lane. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you’re screwed and get the longest line. But, my friends, that’s just the way the stupid cookie crumbles (or lucky cookie, depending on the kind of day you are having).

So, the chick in the stupid white sports car was directly in violation of this rule. She was in the middle of both lanes, with me, and a couple of other pissed off people, behind her. I was not in a good mood to begin with, being that I was dying of H1N1, yelling at my kid, blaring the music as loud as I could without hurting his poor little exhausted 15 month old ear drums, so he would not fall asleep before we got home. When I pulled up and saw this chic, I was all “Oh no she didn’t” and I slowly drove around her and got in the longest lane (the loser one) so she would have better odds. I am gracious like that. It’s just how I roll, yo. SO, all of a sudden, I hear her slam on her horn….a continuous, mean honk…not a non-threatening “beep beep”, but a “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP” She continues to do this, so finally I roll down my window and say to her, nicely I might add (especially being that I had Swine Flu), “Hey, there are two lanes dude, you have to pick one”. I then roll up my window. All the while this is going on, another girl looks at me like “oh no she DID- ENT!” She was totally on my side, because I was right of course. I continue waiting, yelling at Luca, I may have thrown a hot wheels at him, but my memory is fuzzy b/c I had swine flu. When, ALL OF A SUDDEN, I hear a car door slam and see this stupid white preppy chick (from the stupid white sports car) getting out of the car and walking directly towards mine. REALLY? So, she starts screaming at me through the window. I finally roll down the window because, believe it or not, I am, on occasion, unable to shut my mouth and keep my opinions to myself. She is screaming at me “What the fuck, you cut in front of me!!”. I start telling her about the unwritten drive-thru rule, but it seemed there was no getting through to this nutcase. She was PISSED. I thought about calling her every name in the book. I even thought about the dreaded C word that’s, like, the worst word you can call any woman. That’s how much I let her get to me. I didn’t say it though. I just thought it because, again, I am classy like that. Plus, my kid was in the car. I mean, the last thing I want him doing is calling his teacher a cunt on his first day of school. That would totally make me look like a bad parent…unless I blamed it on Gustavo (hmmm). So, crazy prep chic is still yelling, and I still had nothin’. Then finally it came to me. I knew what to tell her to get her the hell away from me and my child. So I calmly SCREAMED at her, “Hey!! I have the Swine Flu BITCH, so I would run away as fast as you can before I cough in your psycho face.” And you wanna know something? It worked. She ran away. She then proceeded to get in her stupid car, somehow managed to reverse out of the line, peeled out passed me and shot me the finger with both hands. The double bird!! I waved “buh-bye” to her sarcastically. Funny thing is, right when she left all the lanes opened up and started moving at warp speed. I guess the moral of the story is that being a bitch can be a bitch! The line inside was like 10 people deep. Poor girl. I hope they had her anti-psychotics filled when she got to the counter one hour later.

Update: I didn’t have swine flu. It was a mixture of chronic sinusitis and crazy paranoid bitch syndrome. So, now I have this box of Tamilflu and I’m feeling guilty about it. I mean, someone really does need it and its not me. I ended up offering it to the love of my life – my housekeeper/nanny (or any of her friends who may get sick) Those pills are expensive!! Especially without health insurance OR when you can’t even see a doctor to get it.

P.S. Upon the advice of my mom, I will not be rolling down the window to yell at strangers anymore. I will instead give her the double bird and continue yelling at my sleepy child.

Ok, so, if I see the “Your Baby Can Read” infomercial http://tinyurl.com/ycoqfu8 one more time I think I might snap. Really?? You can teach my one year old to read? I mean, it sounds good, in theory, I guess. I can see it now:

“Luca, be a doll and go to the basket of magazines by the toilet and grab my latest US Weekly and read a few pages to mommy!! Those three glasses I just drank of mommy’s special juice seem to have made my vision a little blurry.

(Luca walks…or crawls…to get the mag)

No, no, no Luca, start on page three. I already told you! I don’t care about the letters to the editor OR the table of contents, GAH! I just want to hear how the celebrities are JUST LIKE US!

(Luca asks what a three is again, since he can’t talk or anything, and mommy has to help him find the page = Loser.)

WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, read that again, love. Rachel Bilson REALLY wants to cross the street? OH. ME. GAAD. I totally want to cross the street, too, like, all the time. Sorry to interrupt, keep reading hon. Wait, WHAT?! GET OUT OF HERE!!!

(punches Luca in the arm and shoves him off the bed, by accident of course…helps him back up)

Mario Lopez PUMPS GAS TOO!. Just like us. I knew it. I knew we were normal. I told you so.”

Ahhh, where to start.

A. First off, I call bullshit about an 8 month old reading. Like Luca is going to ask me to buy him a Vonnegut novel instead of a “Thats not my monster” touch and feel book next time we’re at Borders.

B. Why the HELL would I want to teach my one year old to read? That’s why I am going to send him to school in a couple of years. Well, so he can learn to read AND so that I can come home and watch The View without having to play leggos in unison. If I wanted to home school my kid, I wouldn’t be applying for preschools that cost more, yearly, than my entire college degree did. “Sure, we don’t have to eat dinner every night, Gus, as long as Luca is learning his ABC’s two days faster at this school than the loser kids at the preschool down the street.”

C. Aren’t one year old children supposed to be playing in the mud, or with hot wheels? Or shitting their pants? Or playing with themselves? I mean, they have like two decades (three, if they go with my college plan) of school ahead of them. Please, please, please don’t make them start reading shit now, dudes. The video says they can sit through the lesson “without stopping and being distracted and running around the room.” I can’t even do that now and I’m 31.

D. It’s just creepy.

Really, the only way I think I could buy into it, is if it would help him put his poo poo in the potty.

If that’s not the case, then can you please create a “Your baby can decant a bottle of wine, serve you a glass and bring it to you with a cheese plate” DVD. Now THAT would be the shiznit.