She walks, she talks, she crawls on her belly like a reptile. She's almost human. It's.....THE OPTO-MOM!!!

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Look Out,!

Signore Sexy Pants has to travel frequently due to his job. Our 9-year-old daughter, Miss Smarty Pants, is tired of her daddy traveling, because when he’s traveling it means he’s not here to properly spoil her. So, she has decided to find him a new job by making a questionnaire of twelve key items to determine a suitable new profession. I thought I would share these insightful questions with all of you, followed by his responses:

1. Are you afraid of touching other people’s spit? Yes.
2. Can you climb fast? Yes.
3. Are you a good builder? Yes.
4. Are you afraid of getting hurt? Yes. (He wanted to put, “Hell, yeah!” but I wouldn’t let him.)
5. Are you a good massues? Yes. (Not a bad attempt at spelling “masseuse.”)
6. Are you very good at math? No.
7. Are you a fast runner? No.
8. Are you okay with touching blood? Yes.
9. Are you afraid of talking on TV? No.
10. Are you good at drawing? No.
11. Are you good at controlling kids? Yes.
12. Are you a fast digger? Yes.

Based on these questions and the corresponding answers, Miss Smarty Pants has ruled out the following occupations:
Rocket scientist
Olympic sprinter

These are the ones she has determined to still be good possibilities:
Monkey catcher (Prior experience includes chasing a toddler.)
Welder/construction contractor (No experience needed, right?)
Masseuse (I’m vetoing this one. He does that rub-in-one-spot-until-it-bleeds thing.)
Doctor (Yeah, he’ll just start on that tomorrow…shouldn’t take long.)
Actor (He does kind of resemble Vin Diesel.)
Babysitter (Is it bad that his idea of controlling kids involves duct tape and razor wire?)
Grave digger (Perhaps a nice-paying job with the mob?)

So, if any of you are searching for a job or wanting a career change, don't pay for one of those online job search sites. Just let me know, and Miss Smarty Pants will design an appropriate questionnaire for your specific needs. Discounts will be given for regular Opto-Mom readers!

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Newsflash That Has NOTHING To Do With Anyone Protesting Anything

Kit at Blogging Dangerously asked me to guest post for her.  Go check it out here!  It's about porn.  Now I know you're all going to look.  PERVS!!!

Now back to your regularly scheduled program:

Since I’m tired of seeing people protest in foreign countries like Egypt, Libya, and Wisconsin, I thought I would start my own news program right here on the Opto-Mom Blog. Some of these issues are recent; a few are a little older, but I felt that they definitely required my attention.


Saudi Arabia recently held its “Most Beautiful Goat” contest in Riyadh. Miss Riyadh, clearly the hometown favorite, won the coveted title, along with a year’s supply of tin cans. Her owner won a year’s supply of K-Y Jelly.
"Help meeeeee!  He touches me in my no-no place!"
There was some controversy at the goat pageant when Miss Tabuk took the stage in a skimpy red two-piece swimsuit during the swimwear competition. It was a daring move on her part, but she handled the heckling with grace and strutted her stuff confidently. Her music of choice was “Supermodel.”

I'm too sexy for this cage!

Supermodel, work (cover girl!),
Work it, girl (give us a twirl!),
Do your thang,
On the runway.

Miss Jeddah won the titel of Miss Congeniality, which was voted on by her peers. She had recently overcome an eating disorder, and blew the audience and judges away with her speech entitled, “Fat Goats Give Better Lovin‘.” I tell you, there was not a dry eye in the place.
The Bulging Beauty from Jeddah

The whole pageant was udderly fantastic.


Studies show that individuals with dwarfism in a remote community of Ecuador rarely get diabetes or cancer. I knew those little guys were magical! Maybe it’s the rainbows that keep the diseases away.

I guess this proves the old adage that “bigger is not always better.”


Lana Lawless was a women’s long-drive champion. Before that, she was a 245-pound SWAT member…and a man. The Ladies Professional Golf Association (LPGA) denied her application to qualify for their tour, citing that participants must be born female to compete.

Now Mister Miss Lawless is suing because her rights have been violated. (After all, it says right there in the Constitution that playing pro golf is a right endowed by our creator. Seriously! Google it!)

There is a reason that the women have their own organization and don’t usually compete with the men. In general, men drive the ball harder and longer than women. Just because she got her weiner whacked off and added some boobs, it doesn’t mean that she has lost that advantage.

Her femininity is obvious.
As my grandma used to say, “You can butter my ass up, but it doesn’t make me a biscuit.”

On a related note, I was thinking about growing fur so I could be in that goat pageant next year. I would totally kick those bitches’ asses! Have you seen me in an evening gown? Baaaaaaaah!

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Is That a Toaster In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Valentine’s Day is coming up tomorrow. If you’re not aware of this, I would like to welcome you back from your coma. We‘ve missed you!

Since I’m all about public service, I thought I would attempt to gently guide you through all of the hoopla and advertisements with which you are constantly bombarded through TV, radio, billboards, etc. I will rate some of the products I’ve recently seen in ads so you don’t buy your loved one something idiotic. You’re welcome!

First, let's review my rating system.  I put it in picture form so everyone can understand.

Got it?  Ok, let's get started.
The Hoodie-Footie
I have seen at least a hundred commercials for this damn thing. Does anyone see anything remotely sexy about friggin' footie pajamas? Nothing says "HOT" to me more than looking like a pink wooly mammoth.

Ladies, there's even one for the man in your life...if you want your man to look like a pussy.


Pretty lingerie is always nice.  Just make sure to get something suitable for your relationship.  For example, if you are mostly a "missionary position" kind of couple, avoid leather thongs and bustiers.

If you combine it with a night or weekend at a nice hotel (no, the local Super 8 does not count as "nice"), your rating will be upgraded:


I always hear the argument that men don't like to buy flowers because they die after a few days.  What a crock of crapola...nothing lasts forever.  Let's take food for an example.  Just because I drop a deuce in the convenience store bathroom on the way home from a restaurant, it doesn't mean I didn't enjoy my meal or that I don't ever want to eat again.

Buy your woman flowers, and I guarantee she will melt into a puddle of Jell-O at your feet.  Unless she's allergic to flowers, and then she will melt into a puddle of snot.

Fast Food Coupons

No...just, NO.  I've actually heard of someone doing this.  If you are dumb enough to give this to your wife for Valentine's Day and she happens to have PMS, they may never find your body.


Vermont Teddy Bear

This is another item that you may be tempted to buy, because they have been advertised like crazy on TV lately.  It would be a great gift if you were dating a 5-year-old.  However, if your partner is an adult, don't buy these stupid things.  The advertisement says that "the Vermont Teddy Bear is unlike any other teddy bear."  No, it's exactly like all the other teddies, and will sit on a shelf and collect dust.  Yeah, just what I need!


Winner, winner, chicken dinner right here.  You can't go wrong with jewelry... earrings, necklace, bracelet, or the gold standard - the engagement ring.


Appliances of Any Kind

Do not, under any circumstances, buy your significant other an appliance or other kitchen-related item for Valentines Day.  This is the most unromantic thing I can think of, and is grounds for permanent dismissal or death.


Trip to a Tropical Island

If you're looking for major brownie points that will give you the upper hand in any argument for years to come, bust out a tropical vacation on her.  If your woman is bitching about you not taking out the garbage, just remind her of that luxury island that y'all visited last year, and she'll shut the hell up.  You can't lose, dude!


So, there ya go!  If you are contemplating a gift and are not sure whether it's a "touchdown" gift or a "dickhead" gift, feel free to e-mail me for an analysis of your specific choice.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Super Bowl XLV Breakdown

With all of the blogging, tweeting, facebooking, and texting going on, Superbowl XLV was one of the most talked about games in recent history. Since I’m so freakin’ hip (holla!), I thought it would be prudent for me to give you a breakdown of the events surrounding the big game.

First of all, I would like to say Happy Birthday to my husband, Signore Sexy Pants. Hey, guess what? You’re still older than me. Nanny nanny boo boo! Also, Happy 60th Birthday to my dad. We tried to have a big ole surprise party for my dad’s milestone b-day, but global warming decided to send us a snowstorm here in Texas, so the party was cancelled. Thanks a lot, Al Gore, you bastard!  Anyway, Happy Birthday to my two favorite guys!

So, are you ready for some FOOTBAAAALLLLL? Too bad, because the football portion seemed to be overshadowed by all of the bullshit engaging events going on throughout the whole fiasco extravaganza known as Super Sunday.

Let’s start with the Red Carpet event. Yes, there was a Red Carpet event AT A GODDAMN FOOTBALL GAME! What? The pretty people don’t get to prance around on a plush scarlet floor covering in front of cameras enough in Hollywood?

Granted, they let the football greats walk the carpet too, but they got virtually no attention. “Look, here comes football great, Roger Staubach. Let’s go talk to him…..OMG, is that Catherine Zeta-Jones? Screw Staubach. We must talk to Cat about her outfit.”

Yeah, because that’s totally why we’re tuning in to watch the Super Bowl…on the off-chance that we might be able to discuss fashion.

And everyone seemed to get really excited when Keith Urban arrived. I personally didn’t give a rat’s ass if he was there. Keith Urban is the only man on the planet who could successfully challenge Justin Bieber for the title of “Stupidest Hair.”

Was the whole red carpet thing really necessary? YOU’RE GOING TO A FOOTBALL GAME, not a movie premiere. I guess movie stars and recording artists find it necessary to be the center of attention at all times. Go figure.

So, by the time the teams came onto the field, I was already burned out on seeing capped teeth and fake boobs (yes, I‘m looking at you, Adam Sandler). Then they brought in Christina Aguilera to sing the national anthem.

I must say that she’s a very talented young lady. If, by talented, you mean “can turn a one-syllable word into a short story.” I read half of Crime and Punishment before Christina even got to the part about the ramparts.

During her vocal gymnastics, my husband decided to get another bowl of chili (because it’s just not the Super Bowl unless you’ve consumed at least 3 bowls of fart soup before kick-off). He almost made it out of the room to avoid the howling of Christina when she jacked up the words. He stopped, and turned around to look at me.

  Husband: Did she just say……?
  Me: Yeppers, the dumb bitch sure did.

Most of us start learning the national anthem at around age 5. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve pretty much got that shit down by now.

Is there any possible way we could get someone to sing the national anthem who not only knows the words, but can also sing it without all the extra runs and oversinging? Christ on a crutch! Try to keep it under 10 minutes, honey.

Finally, the game started and we got to watch some actual football, though it was interspersed with promos of the “Bridgestone Halftime Show featuring the Black-Eyed Peas” about every 4 ½ seconds.

Now, I like the Black-Eyed Peas. They are a cool group, and their music is very vibrant and catchy. But listening to them live made me want to melt down some Bridgestone Tires to make a giant pair of earplugs. Perhaps that’s why Bridgestone sponsored them…

I didn’t even know it was possible to rap off-key, but proved me soooo wrong on Sunday night. Fergie has a great voice, but she and Will sounded like flaming shit together. If their sound had a smell, I would describe it as the fetid breath of a thousand syphilitic goats.

The BEP should stick to recording songs in the studio, so they can be edited to within an inch of their vocal cords.

I’ll probably get tons of hate mail, because I know a lot of people were impressed with the show. And, I have to admit that the production was fabulous.

With all of the glow-in-the-dark costumes and flashing lights, it was an ADD patient’s dream. “Hey, they’re playing horrible, horrible music……ooh, look! Shiny!”

I actually loved the costumes. The BEP costumes reminded me of KISS, except without the musical talent. In fact, I think it’s time to bring KISS back to the Super Bowl. They performed in 1999, and they always rock the house.

If you want to go really old school, try for Smokey Robinson, Stevie Wonder, or Aretha Franklin. They are all veteran entertainers with wonderful vocals. They’re all still alive, right?

Holy fuckin’ cow, I would rather see M.C. Hammer perform at next year’s halftime show. His dancing is a combination of all things awesome. Remember that typewriter move? Ok, get up and do it now. Go ahead…you know you wanna! [2 Legit, 2 Legit 2 quit, hey hey!]

Other awesome choices would be Bon Jovi or Journey. They both have frontmen that can sing their asses off, and the bands have some iconic songs that would have everyone in the stadium on their feet with lighters in hand.

Wait…what? I’ve just received some new information from my staff. Apparently, people no longer hold up lighters at concerts. They use their cell phones now. Thanks to my staff for helping me with my goal of keeping’ it real for my peeps. (holla!)

If you want more flash for the halftime show, go with Metallica, Motley Crue, or Def Leppard. These bands rock, and their music would be conducive to an accompanying elaborate laser and light show. (Oooh, sparkly!)

Does it even have to be a musical act? I think Criss Angel doing an illusion where he disappears and never comes back then reappears on top of the Jumbotron would be pretty damn sweet.
By the way, I really liked Criss a lot better before he had his makeover and started looking like Pat Benetar.

So, there you have my breakdown of the Super Sunday events. Oh yeah, and the Packers won. (holla!)

Saturday, February 5, 2011

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Be Just As F*cking Stupid

Gini over at The Big Fat Gini Blog wrote a post the other day about people getting her name wrong. Apparently, someone has decided that her name should be “Gina.” So, just to piss her off, hop on over there and call her “Gina,” or perhaps “Vagina.” She just loves that shit!

Anyway, I started thinking about names and how they often confuse me. For example, I have an acquaintance named Amy who has a daughter named Ashley. Ok, wait; I think that’s ass-backward. The mom is Ashley and the daughter is Amy. Or is one of them Abby?

Oh, Hell’s bells! I don’t know! And to really throw me off, both of them use the daughter’s picture as their profile pic on facebook. WTF, people? Just W-T-F??

For the love of Moses, please use your own picture on face book, because you people are confusing the pee-pee out of me. Another current trend is to use a picture of your pet as your profile pic. I find myself thinking, “Gee, Aunt Karen really needs a facial waxing…ohhhh, that’s her cat, Pumpkin.”

I actually have one relative that sent me a friend suggestion on facebook, and the profile pic was a cute little doggy. I was trying to figure out who the Hell “Rosie” was. A distant aunt? A long-lost cousin? Nope! Turns out, Rosie IS the dog in the pic, and she has her own facebook page. By the way, Rosie plays the shit out of Farmville. (Hey, Rosie - if you’re reading this…please send me some nails for my farm. And no, I don’t want to be your friend on Cityville. And stop scooching your butt on the carpet.)

I do understand how Gini feels, though. My name is Shelia, but I’ve been called Shelly, Sha-lie-ah, Stephanie and lots of other things that start with an “s.”

And sometimes things that don’t start with an “s.” But that’s another story.

All you need to know is that my name rhymes with tequila. And that, my friends, is why I’m so awesome. (And you thought it was because of my blogging…)

I have a nutty aunt who re-names all of the baby girls born in our family. She likes to give them old lady names like Bertha, Ethyl, and Sybil. Then the whole family starts calling them by their senior citizen moniker. This is totally confusing for the children at family reunions. “Mommy, why is everyone calling me ‘Gertrude?’”

I also have a nutty uncle (anyone seeing a trend here?) who gives everyone a ghetto name. Mine is Shaquilla. I have to admit that I’m a little disappointed that my ghetto name doesn’t have an apostrophe or an asterisk or anything cool like that. I may change it to Sha’Quilla, or maybe Sha*Quil’La.

Your input and/or further suggestions are certainly welcome. Oh, and Ny*Quilla is already taken (dammit!), so scratch that one off your list.

Speaking of ghetto names, do any of you watch The First 48? The husband and I love watching this show, which is a reality series about police trying to track down the people responsible for murders in their jurisdictions. The majority of the cases are drug-related, so most of the people on the show have “street names.” Here is how the interviews usually go:

Detective: Were you at Roger’s house when he was murdered?
Witness: Who is Roger?
Detective: I think they call him Poolu.
Witness: Oh yeah. Naw. I was at my auntie’s house.
Detective: Well, I’ve got a witness that says you were at Roger’s, ummm Poolu’s.
Witness: Who tole you dat?
Detective: Fellatio told me.
Witness: Oh, well, I mighta been there.
Detective: Did you see anyone with a gun?
Witness: Naw, but Poolu’s brother was there.
Detective: Who is his brother?
Witness: His name Hot Boy.
Detective: So his street name is “Hot Boy.” What’s his real name?
Witness: Dunno, e’erbody just call him “Hot Boy.”
Detective: Ok, was anyone else there?
Witness: I din’t see nobody, but Coco said Cousin been mad at Poolu.
Detective: Poolu’s cousin was mad at him?
Witness: Naw, not his cousin. Dude’s NAME is “Cousin.”
Detective: What were Cousin and Poolu arguing about.
Witness: Mighta been about some weed. Cousin was mad that Poolu sold some weed to Barber.
Detective: He sold weed to Cousin’s barber?
Witness: Naw, man. E'erbody just call him “Barber.”

Holy shitballs! How do these detectives keep a straight face through all of this? I guarantee you they all go home with massive migraines every night!

Here’s a little request for you parents out there. If your child has a “street name,” please immediately chain them up in your basement. If not, they only have 3 options for their future: murder victim, murderer, or witness to a murder.

And celebrities - you are not off the hook on the whole name thing. What the fuck are some of you people thinking when you name your children?

Here is my hypothesis on how some of these morons come up with the names: The celebs have spent so much time cruising around on their personal jets or in their monster SUVs to protest pollution, that they just haven’t had time to come up with a name for their little spawn. After all, they are busy and important people, just trying to save the environment! Then it comes time to give birth, and they realize they still don’t have a name for the kid. So, they name him or her the first thing they see after the kid is born.

Examples supporting this hypothesis:

1. Gwyneth Paltrow has a daughter named Apple. Seriously, Gwynnie, did you just look around the room after you gave birth and see an apple on your hospital tray, and thing, “Goddamn, I love apples. They are so sweet and delicious. Oh! I think I’ll name my new daughter after this fine fruit!”

2. Arthur Ashe named his daughter Camera. Was this his thought process? “Gosh, what are we going to name this child? Perhaps if I take some pictures of her, I could come up with some ideas. I’m so glad I brought my camera. Cameras are so handy at special times like this. I think cameras are about the best things in the world…just like…ohmygod! We can name her after my favorite invention!” Brilliant! No, really.

3. Toni Braxton is a brilliant singer, but her child-naming skillz are not so much with the being brilliant thing. Her son is named Denim. I think she was talking to her husband and said: “Whew! That baby is finally out. Now hand me my jeans and let me see if they fit. Boy, I have missed denim. It really is a wonderful fabric…and…hey…we could name our kid after my favorite pair of pants!” I’m just glad she wasn’t wearing Capri pants that day. Or linen. Or paisley. Or corduroy. Or stretch pants. Or khakis. My Gawd! She could name a whole family after her britches!

[This topic totally reminded me of one of my favorite jokes: An American Indian boy asked his father how Indian children got their names. The father explained that the parents name the child after the first thing they see after the child is born. “We saw a beautiful brook in the distance after your sister was born, so she is Running Brook. And a deer dashed out of the woods at the time your brother was born, so he is Running Deer. Why do you ask, Two Dogs Fucking?"]

I think other celebrities are just crackheads. No, I don’t need actual evidence to say that. This is all the explanation that is required:

1. Erykah Badu named her daughter Puma. {Excuse me, did you say, “Puma?”} Why yes, I did! Maybe when she hits age 40, she will change her name to Cougar. Rawwwr!

2. Nicholas Cage’s son is named Kal-el. And no, it’s not some religious name. Kal-el is Superman’s birth name. Why not just name him Peter Parker or Bruce Wayne?

3. Singer/songwriter Bob Geldof has 3 daughters named Fifi Trixibelle, Peaches Honeyblossom, and Little Pixie. I’m sorry, but drugs are the only explanation for those names. I’m betting on either marijuana or Quaaludes.

4. Magician Penn Jillette is a genius at illusions and trickery, but I just have to wonder how many brain cells he had to lose before he decided to name his daughter Moxie CrimeFighter. This is obviously the result of black tar heroin.

5. It is possible that Sylvester Stallone took too many punches to the head when he decided to name his daughter Sage Moonblood. On the other hand, maybe he just smoked a lot of “sage.”

6. Another celeb who has, perhaps, smoked a few too many herbs is Isaiah Washington. After all, he named his son Thyme. Uhhhh, okay.

7. I think the award has to go to Frank Zappa, though. His sons are named Dweezil and Ahmet Emuukha Rodan. His daughters are named Moon Unit and Diva Muffin. WTF? Can you imagine calling these children to dinner? However, I think I’ll give Mr. Zappa a pass because of this quote from him: "You can't be a Real Country unless you have a beer and an airline - it helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a beer." Is that not the most awesome analysis of foreign policy, EVER? He’s a funny dude, but perhaps he should have quelled his humorous tendencies when it came to naming his kids.

Is anyone still reading this? Lawd have mercy, I rambled on much longer than intended with this post. I guess I was trying to make up for being a slack-ass and not posting anything for the past two weeks. I’ll try to do better from now on. I plan on doing a matchmaking post, just in time for Valentine’s Day, so watch for it! Now I’m off to tell my daughter, Sunshine Maroon Salt, goodnight.