Interfaithfully Yours

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The Best Buy Barbie Buffoonery June 27, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jamietighe @ 7:11 pm

My 5-year old daughter has been up my rear end begging for “Barbie in a Mermaid Tale” for three weeks straight. She asks for it when she is eating. She asks when she is brushing her teeth. She asks when she is going to bed. Just the words “Barbie in a Mermaid Tale” are like fingernails on a chalkboard. I gave her props for her relentlessness pursuit of this ridiculousness and decided to give in to the whining (Parent of the friggin’ YEAR over here).

After work today I went to Best Buy to return the headphones I got Mr. Appreciative for Father’s Day and instead of giving him the credit towards something he wanted I figured, “Screw him, he made me return it, I’ll buy the Barbie movie here.”

I looked down the kids’ aisle and saw ONE last Barbie in a Mermaid Tale on the shelf. I grabbed it like Indiana Jones grabbing some lost jewel and clutched it to my chest, triumphant. It was a “reasonable” $14.99. Not even Blu Ray, but whatever. If it was able to be played in the minivan (which now has a rattle and sounds like a truck from Sanford & Son due to my spare tire loosening AGAIN but I digress…thanks Boch Honda for screwing it back on properly you buffoons) I was happy. Ashley would be happy. Sydney could zone out to her DS and I would have some semblance of peace while jamming to my ’80’s station on XM Radio.

I charged the movie and called Kevin as I was about halfway home. “Hey, I hope you didn’t get Barbie in a Mermaid Tale for Ash yet.”

“I was about to order it off Amazon. It’s on sale for $9.99. How much did you pay?”

“$14.99. Do you have to spend money on shipping for it?”

“No, I have to order Sydney’s Mario thing so I got the super shipper saving thing. Go return that one.”

Dammit!! Kevin and his “just go back to Best Buy” mentality. Screw him. I wanted to make Ash happy TODAY! Well, really, I just wanted to stop the freaking WHINING.  So I grabbed my receipt and called Best Buy.

“Best Buy, can I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you do price match with Amazon?”

“Well, it’s on a case by case basis.”  What the freaking hell does THAT mean?

“Um, well, I am a case right here.”  Truer words were never spoken. I then turn on the “sweet voice” . The “sweet voice” always works when I am trying to finagle a deal. Ask my friends. They will tell you how my “sweet voice” works.

“I just bought Barbie in a Mermaid Tale on DVD and my husband told me it’s $9.99 on Amazon and I just spent $14.99 at your store so I was wondering if you could do a price match for me. I would SO appreciate it since I wouldn’t have to come back to the store and I could give my sweet little daughter (cough) her DVD today instead of having to wait for it.”

Silence. “Hold on, ma’am.”

I am subjected to three minutes of ear-piercing hold music and finally Mr. Sensitive gets back on the phone. “My supervisor says no. Sorry.” I am STUNNED. I ALWAYS get what I want when talking in my sweet voice. Well, except with Kevin. He is immune to the sweet voice. That’s why my negotiating tactics with him always have to revert back to sexual favors. (See my blog about how I became a prostitute)

I call the store back and get the same dude. I disguise my voice in a British accent so I don’t get busted by same dude. I ask for the manager on duty. Same dude wants to know what this is in reference to. I cannot do the British accent and sweet voice at the same time. Also my fake British accent is now not working well because I am flustered. I deMAHND that I speak with the manager regarding an INCIDENT that RECENTLY OCCURRED. I am now starting to sound like I have had too many ales at the pub and have become belligerent.

The manager gets on the phone and I say, “Good day, good sir.”

REALLY? Well, there’s nothing I can do now. I have backed myself into a British corner. I am officially an idiot.  “I have spent many thousands of dollars at your store over the past several years and I cannot beLIEVE that you would lose my business over five dollars.”  I explain what just happened in my now less-convincing accent but he agreed to credit me the $5 if I brought the receipt in. I ask him if I can use his name to get the credit and he said that was fine if he wasn’t there. I asked for his schedule so that I could completely avoid him at all costs due to the fact that I would have to do the accent in the store this time.

Mission accomplished. HA! I am a LEGEND. I have successfully shaved $5 off the price and I have now discovered if “sweet voice” does not work then “drunk Brit” will have to come into play.

I sweep grandly into the house with the movie behind my back. I tell Ashley I have the BEST surprise for her. She claps her hands together with glee and holds out her hands and I place the movie in them. Her face is blank. “What is this?”

“Sweetie, it’s what you wanted! Barbie in a Mermaid Tale!”

Kevin looks at me.  “Dude, she wanted the doll, not the movie. The doll was $9.99 on Amazon.”

Ashley can tell I am dumbfounded. “That’s okay mommy, the movie is good too. It probably has instructions on how to play with the doll!”

Kevin hands me the movie. “Looks like you’re going back to Best Buy.”


Holy crap, Hammacher Schlemmer is reading my blog! May 15, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jamietighe @ 6:05 pm

A few months back I wrote a blog slamming the Hammacher Schlemmer “dishwasher safe wallet”. I found it absolutely incredulous that this company full of useful gadgets and gizmos would demean themselves by inventing a wallet that could withstand a gale force wind and the poundings of a dishwasher because really, folks, who doesn’t throw their wallet in the dishwasher on a daily basis? (Sound of crickets chirping)

So today I figured I would peruse my favorite website  not only because they have cool stuff but I just like saying the words Hammacher Schlemmer. It always sounds like I’ve had a few too many whenever I say it. Father’s Day is coming up and I figured, hey, cool gadgets, perfect Father’s Day gifts, right? I could give the dishwasher safe wallet folks a chance to redeem themselves.

This was when I discovered the “golf bag alarm system”.

“This is the alarm system that alerts you when your golf bag is tampered with or moved. The system consists of a motion sensing radio transmitter disguised as a golf ball and a key fob radio receiver. The ball is placed into your golf bag and the key fob stays with you. The ball remains silent until it detects substantial movement, whereupon it emits a shrill alarm and sends a signal to the receiver, which beeps and vibrates. The alarm will also sound if the ball and key fob are separated by more than 30 yards (perhaps indicating a non-moving bag in a moving car, or that one of your foursome has mistakenly teed-off using the alarm).”

So…yeah. For only $49.95 (the magic price at Hammacher Schlemmer…the dishwasher safe wallet was $49.95 as well.  Remember folks, $50 is entirely too much to spend for this scientific miracle of leisure…$49.95 is just right.) you can purchase a device that looks like a golf ball that will tell you if someone is stealing your golf bag. I am sure to purchase this one because I just KNOW that so many people are after my rusty 1962 left-handed Sam Sneads. Those freaking ROCK. Don’t touch my Sneads.

Shall we break this down? How many theives are there on your typical golf course? Don’t you have to pay an exorbitant amount of money just to stand on the grass there? I would assume most that come do bring their own golf clubs and don’t go trolling around the course in a camouflage Izod shirt stealing unsuspecting golfer’s bags. In these trying economic times I highly doubt that these thieves are forking over $100 in greens fees to try to snag someone’s Big Bertha.

See here’s what I see happening if I purchase this gem for Kevin…he would mistakenly tee off with the alarm ball, therefore setting off the “shrill alarm” and causing a domino effect of heart attacks of the geriatrics on the green. It would totally clear the way for him to go straight through, in any event.

Well, there goes that idea down the drain. But while I was on the site I figured I would check in with my favorite wallet to see how it was doing and that’s when I saw that Hammacher Schlemmer had CHANGED THE NAME of the dishwasher safe wallet to the INDESTRUCTIBLE WALLET. How cool is that? I just know that one of my 107 blog readers (oh you KNOW who you are…DAD) tattled on me to Hammacher Schlemmer and now they have changed the name of the wallet.

I still think it’s pretty freaking awesome anyway. And by the way, my husband, who just told me I should be writing during the week and not on weekends and who also destroyed my Mother’s Day by telling me that “every day is a day off for me and I don’t deserve a break on Mother’s Day” WILL be getting a golf ball alarm system as a gift this Father’s Day. I just won’t tell him it’s an alarm system and perhaps he might just crap his pants when the alarm goes off.

Happy Father’s Day!


A woman’s guide to a yardwork-free life May 2, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jamietighe @ 7:06 pm

I am convinced that my husband is secretly an amazing bed maker, laundry folder and cook but chooses to pretend to suck at all of them so that he will never have to do any of these tasks because every time he attempts to make the bed it looks like a rabid squirrel had a seizure underneath my comforter. My laundry comes out not-so-April-fresh. And don’t get me started on the cooking. The last time I came home from work  he had made the Martha Stewart-challenging grilled cheese on Wonder Bread.  The windows were open, the halls were filled with smoke and the kids were picking at what looked like the charred remains of an airplane black box.  I have since stopped asking him to help with any of these tasks.

I figured two can play at this game.

For the last several years, I have been mowing the lawn while Kevin is at work. Last summer it was so rainy that I would very quickly grab an hour of sun and get the lawn done but of course I would be trying to beat the rain so I would just wear whatever footwear I had on, which of course was usually high heels. I rationalized it by explaining to my aghast neighbors that I was multitasking…mowing AND aerating the lawn. In all honesty, I was truly sick of doing yard work. Gender roles be damned but I had just had enough. I also had two insane scares while mowing the lawn.

A couple of summers ago I was humming along when all of a sudden I saw something move quickly in the grass. My first instinct was, of course, to use a weapon to attack, which in this case was the lawnmower. I ran over the offender, a large snake, and sawed it in half. One of the halves flew up towards my head.  I don’t think the first scream stopped for over seven hours. Two years later, I am still screaming a little bit. I left the two halves of the snake and the lawnmower in the middle of the yard and did not return to that general area for several weeks.

The second incident, which was a lot more fun, involved me mowing the lawn in Kevin’s boots that he keeps in the garage. I refused to ruin my footwear anymore so I just tossed my feet into the nearest pair of shoes I could find. I began mowing and I was about an hour into the job when all of a sudden I quickly had to maneuver around a tree, causing my foot to jut forward in the large boot. It was at that point I felt the squish.

I stopped the mower, threw the boot off my foot and at the base of the boot was…a dead mouse. Now, I am going to assume that it was natural causes and NOT my foot odor that offed the rodent but one can never be sure. I left the mouse, both boots (yes, I had jumped sky-high straight out of the other one) and the lawnmower in the yard for Kevin when he came home. I decided enough was enough. I knew at that point what had to be done. I decided to pull a “Kevin” and botch the lawn job once and for all.

One day last July I started the mowing process and got about halfway through when I  hit a flat rock in the back yard. I was just hoping to graze the blade a bit but the blade hit the rock, snapped in half and ricocheted off a tree, where I think it decapitated a chipmunk. Sorry, Alvin.

The next day Kevin and I had to bring the lawnmower to the Lawn Doctor dude, who diagnosed stupidity on my part and my prescription was to never touch a lawnmower again.  He took one look at Kevin and said, “My GOD man, do not let your wife operate machinery ever again.”

So I sit now inside the nice cool house with a beverage while Kevin is out there sweating on this ridiculously humid day. Even though the dog just piddled on my foot I still feel I am the winner.

Now excuse me while I go fold some laundry.


Why I am aggravated April 27, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jamietighe @ 12:40 pm

This is something I wrote a few years ago to my darling husband. As a tribute to our anniversary this Thursday, April 29th, which will mark 10 years of wedded bliss, I will repost this loving note that I left for him one night. He was enjoying a lovely night out at a Celtics game when I penned this litte ditty. The dog referred to in the story was his 18-year-old dog that passed a few months ago. To celebrate his demise we decided to adopt another dog that pees and craps twice as much as this one ever did. Clearly, I am just as aggravated today as I was back then. Enjoy.


  1. Ashley does not nap as you know. I try for an hour of “quiet time” but it usually does not work. My “eating bonbons” is a myth and if you say it one more time you will regret it. Trust me on that. You don’t want to push me. You and the other Tighe fools think you are funny when you say those things. I do not have a sense of humor about that. Period.
  2. Your dog sucks. Understand that I had to leave the house today at 3:30 to get the kids to Tara’s house so I could make it on time to work. NOT PLAY…LIKE GOING TO THE CELTICS…WORK. I let him out when Syd got off the bus. Don’t know what else you expect.
  3. I walked in the house with two kids THAT DON’T LISTEN WHEN I SAY IT IS TIME TO LEAVE at 7:10 in my work clothes to find a lump of shit waiting for me in the play room. I took the shit, threw it in the woods, let your stupid dog out to pee and sprayed where he crapped with Resolve. You can scrub it when you get home. I AM DONE CLEANING UP AFTER HIM. I will gladly clean up his ashes when you cremate him, but other than that, I am done. FOREVER. Find someone else to watch him when you are at these ridiculous games. I have HAD IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  4. After I cleaned up the poo I went over to the computer where I just figured to add to my miserable day, there just HAD to be work. Of course there was!!! Three reports!!!!!!!!!! I am just finishing up now!!!!! At 9:45!!!!!!!!! No down time for me!!!!!!!! At all!!!!!!!!!!
  5. After I realized I got the reports and my blood pressure was somewhere in the vicinity of 200/150, I went upstairs to tell your deaf children that listen to me so well that it was time for a fast bath. I then went into the kitchen and Ashley had dumped Sydney’s bean pot (that she worked on for months at school) onto the table and hid the dirt under a placemat. Which is now in the laundry with the other placemats that she used to try to clean it up before I could see it.  

IF YOU ARE NOT HOME BY 5:45 TOMORROW TO TAKE SYDNEY TO HER SOFTBALL GAME FIND A NEW HOME. I need to take these children to the first of their 9 (yes now 9) birthday parties that they will attend in the next month tomorrow at 3. I will make sure she is home at 5 to have dinner. You will be here at 5:30 to take her to the game. If I have to take her to the game after taking Psycho Child I and Psycho Child II to a bouncy castle birthday party and then get up early the next morning for work I will dismember your member in your sleep. Again, do not test me. My sanity is hanging by an extremely thin thread.
I am also getting my nails done on Saturday and going to the movies. If you say anything about it see the above statement about your member.  Have a lovely day.

 Your loving wife


Excuse me, but there’s a six-foot hose sticking out of my tush… April 21, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jamietighe @ 3:56 pm

Like anyone else in the thirtysomething age category, I assumed that colonoscopies were things you don’t have to worry about until your breasts are hanging somewhere around your kneecaps. Mine are currently holding steady somewhere just past the rib cage area but moving south steadily. Is it me, or does everything travel south as it ages? Perhaps that’s the reason why all Jews migrate to Florida after the age of 65.

In any event, I started having some stomach pain and things appearing in the toilet that I swear came from the set of Poltergeist. I knew it was time to consult a gastroenterologist when I couldn’t even plan a trip to the supermarket without making sure there was a bathroom stop along the way. On a positive note, though, it did save me from a traffic ticket once by screaming at the cop, “I am going to explosively crap my pants in about three seconds and I am going to need your help to get home. You have any towels in your cruiser?”  He quickly sent me on my way. Try this the next time you get pulled over. Just a friendly tip of the day for you.

I met with my doctor at New England Medical Center in Boston and my doctor was the head of the gastroenterology division. I felt my ass was in good hands.  I brought my younger brother with me to the appointment since he is a pharmaceutical genius (dudes, the kid is in MENSA) with a knowledge of every drug on the market. I told him he would have to decipher whatever the doctor was going to chat about in less technical terms for me later on.   

My brother and I waited for the doctor to come in, during which time Eric picked up a plastic colon on the desk. The doctor walked in at that moment and said to Eric, stone-faced, “Hey, you’re playing with my colon.”  That would be the first and the last time I ever heard those words uttered by anyone.

He began a series of questions about my symptoms and at one point began to ask me about my bowel movements. He then asked me if my stool was like a “log or a pebble”. I then had to describe the texture, smell and frequency of my pebbles. And thanks to that, I can no longer look at a box of Cocoa Pebbles in the supermarket. Thanks a lot, Dr. Weinstock.

Eric’s eyes began to water and I realized he was trying so hard not to laugh I thought his head might actually explode at that point. This was officially the most disgusting conversation I had ever had in my life.

We scheduled a colonoscopy and I left with a prescription for my colonoscopy prep jug of fun and Eric in full-out hysterics. I don’t think he stopped laughing for three days. Thanks for the help, Mr. MENSA. Glad my bowel movements are here to amuse you.

Then came the dreaded PREP DAY. I was allowed to eat chicken broth and jello and told that I could have clear liquids all day long. Party, party, party! I was counting down the hours until I had to start the official prep. The jug sat ominously in my refrigerator, taunting me. It was the size of the gas can I use to fill the lawnmower and I was convinced its contents would taste just as delish. 

I was told that any clear liquid was fine and was toying with the idea of taking it with vodka but realized that passing out and having your colon emptied at the speed of light is NOT a good combination. My mother came over to watch the kids while I began my prep. I chugged it by holding my nose and pretending I was back at UMass drinking Black Label beer. It worked. I knew that college education was good for something.

And then…nothing. I looked at my mom and shrugged my shoulders when all of a sudden I felt a freight train start to fly out of my ass. And then it happened over and over again for the next seven hours nonstop. My only lucid thought was, “Wow, I am going to have a SPECTACULAR weigh in at Weight Watchers this week!” I had an excellent night’s sleep with my pillow propped against the towel bar in the bathroom, as I did not move from the hopper.

Once my husband and I got to the hospital I got all prepped up to go and I was so excited to get those drugs everyone talks about. I was told over and over again that the prep is the worst part and the colonoscopy itself is a breeze because you are drugged to the gills. I held out my arm happily and my liquid love began to flow.

All of a sudden, my doctor yelled for the nurse to stop. My blood pressure had dropped to 80/56. He gravely looked at me and said that I was not allowed to have any more drugs. “I’m sorry, WHAT???” I shrieked like a banshee. He shrugged, “Sorry, but this is all you can get. I’m going to have to proceed right now.”

And then he started. I felt all six feet of that rubber monster snaking up my hindquarters. However, I did get to watch the show, as my colon was the star of the new sitcom, “Excuse me, but there’s a six-foot hose sticking out of my tush”. That would be a knee-slapper for sure!

Once it was over and I felt as violated as a person can feel, my doctor told me I have a lovely colon for the most part. Aww…shucks. Never got an internal compliment before.

I left with a diagnosis of Crohn’s disease, a lifetime of speeding ticket excuses and a three-pound GAIN at Weight Watchers. Sonofabitch.

If anyone has a more horrific story I would love to hear it. I will supply one roll of Charmin for anyone that can top that one.


How I became a prostitute March 13, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jamietighe @ 4:37 pm

It all began one rainy afternoon when I was cleaning the house with the vacuum that my brother in law had given me, a piece of crap from the 1960’s. Freaking dinosaur vacuum that had belts and bags and all those other nightmarish things that required a screwdriver to fix. I am not a fan of a screwdriver unless it’s in the form of vodka and orange juice.

While attempting to suck up all the dog hair I heard a whirring sound and a loud bang coming from inside the depths of the beastly machine. Another belt had broken yet again while I was in the middle of sucking up what I think was the equivalent of a cat from my carpet. So now I had a mountain of nasty hair and nothing to get rid of it.

At that moment, like in a dream, came a commercial on TV of a mildly attractive gentleman (who suddenly became freaking HOT because of his British accent) stating that he had invented the world’s first bagless and beltless vacuum. My mouth dropped in insane disbelief and I knew…I knew then and there I needed this wonder of a vacuum. This was my quest…a quest to own a Dyson vacuum. No belts. No bags. No more clogging. My lord…it was a miracle. The miracle created by the hot British Dude, Sir Walter Dyson or something. Whatever. I just knew I had to have it.

And for a mere $400, I too could own this wondercraft. But…how to pitch this to Kevin? Especially since his father and brother own a cleaning supply company and we get vacuums at cost from them? But of course, not DYSON. Noooo…only commercial vacuums that weigh as much as a small Honda. And they truly did suck, but not literally. Completely useless machines designed with the sole purpose of making a lot of noise and scaring small children, much like “Jaws” in Mr. Mom.

I waited for Kevin to come home from work and told him that I wanted the vacuum. He said no. I said I had a coupon for the store that sold the vacuum. He said no. I told him I would prove to him that it was a long-term investment where we didn’t have to get any more bags or belts ever again and we would never have to replace anything and it was the best invention ever based on the science of the cone mechanism (got that from the commercial…thanks hot British dude). He said no. He said his brother told him the Dyson was one of the worst vacuums ever invented. I told him his brother was insane and I just KNEW this British dude on TV was a genius and I believed in the science of the cone. He said no.

Racking my brain, I decided to try one more option. “Well, Kevin, in the spirit of the vacuum and what it does…you know…suck things…may I offer to you a trade? Perhaps fifty ‘favors’ that involve sucking?” There was dead silence for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. “DEAL!”

Crap. Should have started with a lower number. I was always bad at negotiations.

So now, three years later, I still owe him twenty-two favors. And my vacuum has not lived up to its potential…I find myself picking up a piece of lint manually and putting it in the path of the Dyson about five times to “give it another chance”. It is painful to watch the vacuum in all of its failed attempts to pick up the lint.  But I would NEVER tell Kevin that. Heaven forbid I admit he was right and I was wrong and then I would somehow end up with another 1960’s vacuum and STILL owe twenty-two blow jobs.

Now THAT would suck.


The Monday from HELL February 1, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jamietighe @ 7:03 pm

I guess I should say it really began last night.  Sydney was pale as a ghost and said, “Mommy, my head hurts so bad. I feel like it’s splitting in two. Oh, and I think I’m going to throw up.” Yep, 8-year-old with a migraine. I am confident that’s what it was because I suffered from them when I was a kid.

So I gave the Tylenol with a “breathe through your mouth” instruction warning, as I did NOT want her to throw up the medicine because how long do you have to wait after Tylenol has been puked up before you can give the next dose? And do you measure the puke back in the little cup to see how much stayed down? See, this is NOT in the parenting manual. Bastards. Why not give some advice you can use, Dr. Spock? HUH?

I took her to bed and attempted to do reflexology on her feet to get rid of her headache. I took a class last year and the teacher told me I could cure a headache by massaging the feet. Only problem was, I had no recollection of which pressure point it was. So I kept rubbing and Sydney kept saying, “Nope. Nope. Yep, still hurts. Uh, I think you broke a bone in my foot. Nope. Nope.”

After three hours, we were both exhausted and passed out. About five minutes after that, Ashley woke up with a soaking wet pullup and wanted me to put her music back on. Her “music” is a Christmas CD sung by the most annoying children on the face of the Earth. No dice, kid. Not at 1:00 a.m. I left her room, only for her to scream for Kevin, who always does whatever she wants him to do. Daddy’s Little Girl and all. Freaking sucker.

Deck The Halls is now resounding throughout the house and I am now unable to sleep whatsoever. Kevin proceeds to pass out completely, oblivious to the caroling going on in the next room. Bah Humbug.

This morning all seemed to be going well until Sydney decided to fa-la-la around the house and completely missed the bus. She has NEVER missed the bus. I went INSANE. DO NOT mess with a woman with bed head and no makeup that was planning on only sticking her head through the door to make sure Sydney walked up the steps of the bus and was not abducted. This woman had NO intention of being seen in public. Ruh roh.

I had to throw on some clothes, toss both kids in the car and drive to school with no makeup and hair looking like a confused compass…pointing north, south east AND west. In all honesty I looked like Michael Myers in the Halloween movies. Ghost face with wild hair. I was waiting for Dr. Loomis to be standing at the front of the drop off line saying, “The evil is here! It escaped but we found it!”

Once I got Sydney to school and I went home to put enough makeup on so as not to scare the general public, I got a phone call from my contractor that I use to do pretty much everything around my house. Again, I love my husband but he has the building skills of a toothless beaver.

As a surprise for my husband’s upcoming birthday, I was planning on getting a storage shed for the backyard. I asked Jeff which kind to get, low maintenance, low cost, etc. He told me he was at Lowe’s at the moment and said there was a great 10×10 metal shed for only $400 and he could put it together for me.

I said, “Metal? Don’t the doors always stick on those?”  He said, “Well, yeah, they can but only if they’re installed incorrectly. I am really careful about doors, I am totally an ANAL DOOR MAN.”

Um…hmm. Perhaps this is my way to get a discount? Never mind.