Hookerween: Or, Fuck You Society!

When I was a kid, my mom made awesome costumes. I went as Superman in nursery school. I went as Kermit the Frog when I was 8, so my kid brother wouldn't be alone in his Cookie Monster costume. We went as Ewoks some time around there. She always took the time to sew together something good. 


Now, I've been accused of having borderline sociopathic tendencies, mainly due to my mouth and the things that come out of it. Be that as it may, I'm pretty sure I'm in the right when I say that the sick fucks making costumes for girls are way out of line. Maybe it's the dad in me talking, or maybe it's the voice in the back of my head that wants to watch the world burn, but I'd like to round these pedophile designers and manufacturers up and kick every single one of their asses. Before setting fire to them. Extreme? Maybe. But you do NOT dress little girls up as hookers. YOU HEARING ME OVER THERE 'TODDLERS IN TIARAS'?! 


Even as an adult, the hookerized costume selection for women did nothing for me. Don't get me wrong, I'm straight as an arrow, but anytime I see the "Naughty Nurse" or the "Sexy State Trooper" or the "Adulterous Anne Frank" costumes, all I hear is Chief Grady from Super Troopers saying "Desperation is a stinky cologne." I'm more impressed by an imagination. As a kid, Halloween is supposed to be about taking that one day to dress up as something fun or scary. It was a chance for you to be that superhero, or cartoon character, or movie star. As the years progressed, it seems to be that - for females anyway- everyone wants to be a stripper. That's all well and good if you're over 18, but an 8 year old definitely should NOT have that notion come Halloween. If your kid is coming up to you and saying "I want to be a witch for Halloween, but instead of a broom I want to ride a pole" you fucked up somewhere with your parenting and you need to put that kid in a foster home or give them to Brad and Angelina before your whole family winds up on Maury.


Parents - Let your kid be a kid. Don't push them into thinking appearance matters and that looking like an underage strumpet is going to get them any advantages in life. Jersey Shore's cast are certainly not role models. Teach them to use their imagination. Let them be silly and let them have fun. 


Ladies - This is to ACTUAL ladies. Do the same thing as the kids. Have fun with your outfit. Put some thought into it. Don't think you have to slut it up because it's the sure fire way to be the center of attention at whatever Halloween function your going to.


Whores - Quit slutting up my childhood memories.

This is just fucked up.

Fellas - If you're going to a party, and you're thinking about picking up one of the 'Hot Hogwart Students', remember there's a good chance that the creepy crawlies will last well past Halloween.


Thank you.

One Tequila...

I may have given the impression that I imbibe large quantities of alcohol. Alas, it is more wishful thinking than anything else. I'm not a teetotaler, I'm just cheap and good liquor is expensive. But last night, the moon was in Venus* and the stars were smiling upon me and so I drank. Kevin, my stepfather was kind enough to play bartender. I even made him brownies this morning as a thank you, although they never grew legs and made it next door.

Before you get your panties all in a knot, frothing about what an irresponsible parent I am, my mother and stepfather were both present and sober. The baby was already asleep for most of these shenanigans and they were available to step in should she require care.

One Tequila

The baby was awake, but it was close to bed time. We'd been having a rough day. My best friend offered me this bit of wisdom, "The more tired, sick, and cranky you are, the more they want to cling to you." How was that shit not translated on the Dead Sea Scrolls? If a woman had scribbled them, you can bet it would be in Proverbs somewhere. I've been nursing bronchitis for awhile now, and had hit the wall. The gremlin took this as a greenlight to want Mommy to hold her, all day long.

We escaped to Grammies for Mommy (that would be me, if you're keeping track) to get some breathing room. Grammies (that would be my mother) graciously fed the baby. Kevin had poured me a Tequila Sunrise and I'd finished it before the gremlin had knocked down her peas. Since the baby loves cloth, burping cloths, wash rags, etc. she's been a bit of a self-wiper. Thoroughly by accident, during meal time she will always wipe her own face. Now, if we could just get her to do that with her bum, we'd be in business.

So my mom is feeding her, I'm nice and toasty, and everything is now hilarious. I told my mother, quite proudly, that the baby was a 'self-wiper'. My mom, totally sober, started laughing hysterically with me, and we then came up with the 'European Self-Wiping baby' schtick, which was even more funny. Euro-pee'n, get it? I realize it's not the most clever type of humor but I was feelin' good. The baby took several swipes with the cloth at her face, trying to eat it of course, but as she was tired, her aim was off. Which then mutated into the baby being 'Out of Order'. And because I'm me, I had to bang the table fiercely, uttering, "You're out of order! OUT OF ORDER!" Mom (totally sober) and I were laughing so hard, the baby was giving us the eyebrows. She didnt know if we were having heart attacks or laughing. She must have decided we were laughing, though, because she finally relaxed and gave a few tired giggles herself.

When feeding time was over, mom went to burp her. The bumbo stayed stuck to her butt as mom was trying to burp her, which set off another round of giggle fits. I know, even as I type this, that it was a 'you had to be there' kind of humor. But sharing is caring and all of that, right?

Two Tequilas

The baby was down to sleep for the night. I did not shirk my responsibilities here. After mom bathed her I took her home and got her snuggled into her sleeper sack, hair brushed, ears cleaned, story read and she finished off her own bottle (alcohol free). Then I came back to the house for more.

Everything was funny. I was funny, they were funny. It was all good. We even made attempts at serious, philosophical conversations but those all went out the window when my mom continually asked me to repeat myself as I was starting to slur my words a bit. The neighborhood kids were being loud and obnoxious as usual. I'm not sure why they don't have a bed time, or what they're doing outside that late at night instead of, you know, in bed, but they were out and shouting and screaming. Logically, I screamed back. "YOU DAMN KIDS ARE HARSHING MY BUZZ!" Did my mom stop me? No. She laughed, and encouraged me to yell more. God, I love my mom. She's the freaking best.

Confessions were made about lots of things and people. I'm a fairly honest person, but you know, in the interest of keeping civil relations there are a lot of things I just dont say out loud. My grandest confession being that I hadn't had a drink since after the baby was born. While it made complete sense to me, my mother gently pointed out that it 'just sounded really wrong'. What I meant was, this was the first time I'd really gotten my drink on since I was allowed too. I like to have fun as much as the next girl, and one of the best decisions I made since the ink was dry on my divorce papers was to have a little fun. One night I had a bit too much fun and woke up with piercings...uh... below the neckline. Then I slowed down a bit.

Poor Kevin, I think I embarrassed him a few times. Especially when the confession about the, "I don't like you, but I want a free meal so I will grace you with my company this evening" came out. He was mystified, and even more so when Mom started nodding her head along with me. To the best of my recollection, she said, "Yup and if you really don't like them, you order the lobster." Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. We learn early that free food is free food. Fellas, sorry if that hurts your feelings.

At one point Mom brought out a Horse Shoe brain teaser game, for her own amusement. I really didnt think I was that sloppy, but my mother did remind me this morning that it was at this time that I went in the house to use the elegant facilities that I became convinced that Kevin had moved the entire bathroom from it's original place in the house. While these might seem to be the ravings of a mad drunk woman (and kind of were) if you knew Kevin you would understand that it is completely plausible for him to have gotten a wild hair up his ass and outfitted a new bathroom in a different space.

Three Tequilas

In my defense, there was a time before the gremlin came along that I could hold my liquor better. I wasn't putting anyone under the table, but 3 was a good solid buzz for me. Nowadays, apparently thats when the room starts to move. I tried to stand up to illustrate a point to my parents, who were spellbound with glee, laughing at me, not with me and realized that things were moving. Stationary things, which shouldn't be moving, such as outside lights and stuff. Uh oh, but did that stop me? Hell no! "Bartender pour me another!"

This phase was when I got even more silly. I demanded ridiculous things, like a lampshade be put on my head. Even better, I came up with a bing-o Halloween costume idea to completely freak Chris out. I've decided to dress up like Peg Bundy. Genius, I know! It was worth the 3 Tequilas to get that one churned up from the recesses of my useless brain.

Floor

This is the part where things get a bit iffy. I'm going with my faulty memory and the instincts that tell me where I went awry. I didnt finish my fourth, only half of it but I had to make sure my mom knew how much I loved her, and how much I appreciated her. Kevin also got the same treatment, which further embarrassed him. "I love you so much! You're the best!" Drunken hugs all around. And then Chris came home.

Imagine, if you will, a long hard day at work. The only saving grace being that the Peruvian Dictator is on vacation. But it's the last day of the week in a job that he's not particularly fond of, dealing with people that often frustrated him and make him have to use words at them. By Friday night, just making basic sentences is beyond him. So here he comes and Mom says, "I'm going to go get your husband." I'm on the porch yelling, "HUSBAND! COME AND GET ME! I LO-OOOOVE YOU!"

Before he even steps into the doorway of the porch, his head hangs low and he takes a deep breath, trying to bolster himself against the fumes and my running mouth. Mom kindly offered him a beer and he knocked back the rest of my Tequila Sunrise. We sat on the porch for a bit. I'm not sure how long because time was a bit distorted but I do know he was doing his best to contribute to the conversation (unusual) while I was doing my best to talk over him (normal).

He walked me through the yard and into the back door, and that's when things got really embarrassing. I wont say much, just that he was sweetly trying to take care of me. Tylenol, cold compresses, and when things started coming up the wrong direction he sat on the bathroom tile with me and hugged me when I started crying. The man's a champ, I tell ya. Sorry ladies, he's off the market. Only I get to drunk cry on his big manly shoulder.

*I honestly have no idea what I'm talking about.

Tips for dealing with Technical Support

It's been a while since I've contributed, so I figure I'd throw a little something on here. This one's dedicated to my co-workers, the Inglourious Basterds on the front lines of the phone lines.


Ladies and gentlemen: Be kind to your tech support representatives on the phone. Know going in that they're not going to know everything about your computer. When they're asking you questions, answer them honestly because it helps them figure out what is going on. No, we will not replace your system just because you got a virus. We didn't install it. We can help you fix it, but we can't save every lolcat picture you downloaded. You should back up your files. If we tell you you need to reinstall your operating system, you NEED TO REINSTALL YOUR OPERATING SYSTEM. We're not saying this to get out of anything. It's a long process that requires us to stay on the phone longer than we want to and have to try to make small talk with you - an irritated and relatively anonymous stranger. No, we're not going to send a technician out to do that for you. You're big enough to look at porn, you're big enough to fix the problems that your porn caused.


Yelling at a tech support agent isn't going to get you anywhere. Asking for a manager is not going to get you what you want. In truth, most managers have forgotten most of what they know about computers and will not be able to help you anywhere near as much as the agent on the phone. This mess might fly with customer service, but it will only make fixing your computer take longer with technical support. 


Do not call the tech support agent stupid. You're the one calling because you can't figure out what's wrong with your computer. If we can't figure out what's wrong with your system based on "well the light's flashing," it's because we need more information than that.

Don't tell us that you weren't the one looking at the porn on your system. Unless you're a 85 year old grandmother, we know that isn't the case. 


Tech support is not here to fix aesthetic problems you have with your system. Telling us the system is ugly or not the color you want will usually result in about 20 seconds of silence and a confused "what?"


Here's a big tip: Being NICE to the tech agent is more likely to get your problems resolved quickly, correctly, and will usually get you more insight on how to keep your problems from happening in the future.


Thank you, and good night.

Parent of the Year

Having spent far too much time today trolling websites dedicated to outing bad parents, someone better give me a damn trophy. I've never claimed to be June Cleaver and my house will never grace the cover of Better Homes and Gardens but put me up against some of these freakshows I've seen today and I come out looking like Mother Theresa. Except, you know, minus the nun habit. I'm sure that she would have been a great parent if she hadnt been married to Jesus and all of that. Where was I? Anyway, nothing like a few pages of these websites to make me feel like a champ.

I've seen photos of kids being given lit cigarettes, guns, and beer bong hits. I've seen pictures of parents half clothed in provocative poses with their kids in tow. I've even seen mothers and daughters dressed in slutty clothes, posing together. It boggles the mind and makes me question the sanity of every damn parent on the planet. I'll never understand the compulsion of women, mothers, who want to put on slutty underwear and take pictures of themselves in the mirror while their kids are in the background. I'll shake it for Chris when the door is closed but God forbid I ever scar my child with the vision of my biscuits hanging out of my drawers, let alone post that shit up on Facebook. Even worse were multiple articles of parents convicted of trying to sell their kids for drug money, or had their 8 and 9 year old children drive them home because they were too intoxicated.

I'm not even going to lie, I wonder every day if I did the right thing bringing my kid into this world because people are crazy. I mean, I know we say that and laugh and all, but no, really, they're fucking crazy. One site I was perusing had a video clip from that show Toddlers and Tiaras on TLC. The parent had their little girl (around age 3-4) dressed up as Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman. And not after Richard Gere bought her the Town and Country Wardrobe, either. From the opening scene when they met while she was in her prostitute gear. Who in their right minds thinks, "Hey, wouldnt this be a great idea!" I mean, I thought I was being obsessive when I went to Walmart to buy her socks and didnt because their selection primarily had Dora the Explorer and Sponge Bob plastered all over them. Christ, she's not even watching TV yet. I dont need her looking like a billboard for cartoons she doesnt even know exist.

I know I want to dress my kid in cute outfits but I'll be damned if I let her wear age innapropriate clothes, either. We were graciously given a lot of second hand clothing for her (baby stuff is expensive!) but after sorting through the lot, I gave a fair portion of that away, too, because there was no way in hell I was going to let my infant wear a halter top sundress with a keyhole in the neckline. Jesus H. The shoes are just as bad, too. When I was a kid I wore ugly ass patent leather mary janes but now they have heels for toddlers. Is there any reason in the world that I can't find a way for her to just look like a little kid? Playing dress up is one thing, but I didnt bear crotchfruit to have a mini-me underfoot.

Man, this world is going straight into the pisser. If ever there was a solid argument for mandatory birth control until attending parenting classes, all one needs to do is look at Facebook. I bet you more than half of those photos were pulled from social networking sites. It's just a really sad illustration on the state of our society. If the worst I ever do is drop the F bomb in front of my daughter, we'll be all right. Sadly, she is going to be attending school with the offspring of these jackoffs and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

Birthday Swag

There once was a time when I measured the awesomeness of a birthday by the gifts I recieved. This really shouldnt come as a surprise, as I might have mentioned I was shallow a time or three. Tomorrow I turn 32 and aside from a few gray hairs I'm holding up okay. Much to my dismay, though Chris is older than me, he lacks the silver threads in his locks and when caught off guard has quite a boyish appearance, making him look much younger than myself. That's never a happy circumstance and I make sure to harp on it when the opportunity presents itself.

So this year I've decided to regress a bit and have come up with a birthday checklist for the gifts I've recieved. This is just so I can hand out report cards and let people know when they're failing.


My mother in law gifted me with this. More junk to collect dust, however she gets points for sentimentality. She also took us out to eat at Steak and Shake. In case you've never heard of the gloriousness that is Steak and Shake, let me be the first to educate you. In Florida, the people down here suffer from a serious lack of taste buds. Floridians also seriously lack in a lot of departments, but the food bit depresses me the most. It is nearly impossible to find a decent hole in the wall restaurant, which is the sort I enjoy. Steak and Shake, while a chain prevalent down here, is about the closest thing I can find to a decent greasy spoon. My favorite dish happens to be their Chili, with their cheese fries coming in a close second. We quite enjoyed the chance to get out of the house and I was happy to eat someone else's cooking for a change. Mother in law gets a B+.

Christopher purchased a mobile phone for himself last month. I had an iPhone previously but disconnected service to it because the monthly bill was quite high. Once you have a cell phone that's smarter than you, it's really really hard to switch back. "What do you mean it only calls people?" Anyone who has a smart phone knows what I'm talking about, there. So for my birthday he purchased a similar phone for me. Lord help you all, not only am I on the interwebs, but I'm mobile. And, being the sweetest man I know, he conned a co-worker into baking me a cake for tomorrow. It was supposed to be a surprise but as my sister and I were digging through our combined kitchens trying to come up with enough ingredients to make a box cake, Chris let the cat out of the bag early. Since I'm pretty sure Chris got me the phone as an amends for not talking to me about getting his before he purchased it, and as the cake is not in my grubby little paws yet, I'm going to have to wait to grade him. Depending on how good this cake may be, I'm wavering somewhere around an A-.

Lastly, we have my mother who is currently in the lead. She joined us today for a trek through Eureka Springs, a location that I previously blogged about here. She was snapping off the camera like a demented papparazzi, uncaring of the odd looks being tossed our way. Despite Chris's permanent curmugeonly expression, she managed to get these gems, for which she has my undying gratitude.







That's right, he's smiling. And happy. And lovey dovey, and all of that crap. So for that, my mom gets an A++. Chris also gets points there, too, as he did not balk in the least at being asked to shave and wear a nice (but slightly rumpled) shirt.


We'll throw this one in there, lest I ruin his street cred with any co-workers that read this thing. I never saw the movie but the title, "Dont't Mess With the Zohan" comes to mind. Substitute "Papa" for "Zohan" and there you have it.


I might have to adjust my mom's grade, though, if one looks back over the years at birthdays past. It all started the year I turned 7. I hate coconut. Well, let me rephrase that. I love fresh coconut, especially the milk. I do not like the coconut flakes. I feel like it would be more edifying to eat the plastic bag they come in. So for my 7th birthday, knowing I hate coconut, my mother made me a coconut cake. She dressed it up real pretty, making a bunny rabbit out of 2 cake rounds and the coconut flakes were supposed to be its fur. It kind of went downhill from there but as we've gone this far into absolute silliness let's just add the year I didn't get the pony I wanted. I'm pretty sure that's where all of my angst came from. Then there was the year where I really really wanted a pair of Girbaud jeans. Luckily for us, we were poor so I dont have any of those embarrassing MC Hammer pants pictures that ear mark my generation. I could go into more detail but as my mother does have pictures of me wearing an NKOTB nightgown with curlers in my hair, I might already have said too much.

For the rest of you all, you have until midnight tomorrow night to give me an awesome birthday gift. If not I will be forced to give you a big, fat F and that will make me sad somewhere. I think.

**The above is complete silliness on my part. I'm thankful for all the gifts I've recieved, be they items or well wishes.

A Lazy Sunday

Mecha-Streisand is back and boy howdy. I thought the first one was a doozy but this time it's worse. All the creatures in the house are quivering in fear as I stomp around with unholy glee. I've even managed to drive the insects into hiding which is impressive considering it's breeding time down here in the tropics. I'd rather heal up from my cesarean than go through this every month. At least they gave me vicodins after the surgery. Pamprin, Midol, that shit is so weaksauce I might as well be eating candy. Oh, wait, I already am.

Christopher escaped to Walmart this morning under the guise of purchasing baby necessities. I gave him the short list and the option to go at any time during the day but he said, "I'll go now, while everyone is at church." When he came home, he laid a bag containing Motrin and Dove Chocolate on my altar and said to the baby, "I brought Mommy breakfast." Yes, yes he did. His offering proves that the survival instinct of man is alive and well.

For all of that, today was a lazy Sunday. We managed to lather up with enough sunscreen to brave the overcast weather and headed out with the gremlin in tow. We oohed and aahed at the cows that were wisely separated from us by high tech fencing (see: broken down, dry rotted wood). We went to the neighborhood playground and played on the swings for a bit (see: Chris dodged a swarm of mosquitos and the swing was so low I couldnt kick my feet or else he would have gotten an eyeful of sand). Then, to reward ourselves for braving the bears outside, we headed over to the corner store to have an ice cream (see: spending too much money on crappy sticks of ice cream). But, the gremlin was in high spirits and so was I after devouring that Butterfinger bar.

I couldnt help but make a few observations on our travels and honestly, this might be the Mecha-Streisand talking but here goes. I have always thought those Croc shoes are fugly. I never understood why young, attractive women who werent avid gardeners or nurses wore them, and always out in public places while not tending the sick or growing jungles in their back yard. They. Are. Fugly. I dont give a damn how comfortable they are, you get a + 1 on the Troll scale every time I see you wearing them. And I thought they couldnt get any uglier. I was wrong. I suppose it's like Rule 34 of the Internet, only instead of porn, if it's already ugly, it could get worse. So as we were out on our Sunday stroll I couldnt help but stare aghast as this woman sported Crocs that had a wedge to them! WHAT?! Ok, correct me if I'm wrong but I thought women wore heels to make themselves look taller and more attractive. Putting ugly up higher is still ugly, only now we have a better view.

Then, as we were walking back from the corner store, this gaggle of children rolled up with one caretaker who was busily typing away on her cell phone. I know it's hard to sext and mind your children but I suppose some of us can master the skill. She had not. Now, the general rule about baby swings is if the kid can get his or herself into the baby swing, they are too big for it. So this kid completely ignores the other 4 empty big kid swings and climbs into the baby swing, then gets himself stuck, thus interrupting his mama's sexting and causing a ruckus in general. I kept waiting for the ghost of Darwin to make an appearance and do a Nelson-style "Ha-ha."

Lastly, we have the children's party. It was a big to-do. We noticed the multitude of grills fired up and cooking deliciousness on them as we were walking down to the swings. On the way back, they had set up one of those big moon bounce dealies and the kids were beside themselves with joy. Unfortunately I could not help but notice the strong smell of diesel fumes in the air. They were so strong that they blocked out the grilling food. If the parents werent serving liquor at the children's party, then obviously Carbon Monoxide was next on the list. Amirite?

Cold Feet

I bet you thought I forgot about this, huh? DIDNTJA?! Well I didnt. I just got an eensy bit busy. But I definitely had to find time to share this crap with you. Here goes.

In the course of any relationship there are always running arguments. Discussions that can never be solved and lack any real relevancy or rationality. Take us, for instance. Every night when we go to sleep we will read together in bed for a while. This usually sparks the argument about who left the bed in a disarray, much huffing and puffing over how much room the other person is occupying and who has more blankets. One evening Chris made the snide comment that "I guess it makes complete sense that a miniature tornado forms over the bed after you leave it in the morning." To which I agreed. It certainly does make sense that a small tornado destroys the bed after I get out of it. I would never hog the entire bed immediately after he exits it, twisting up blankets and sheets and pulling all 9 pillows over my head in an effort to shut out all sound and light. Clearly, it is the work of a bored whirlwind.


I am also a bit of a traditionalist. I realize I am a dying breed (I prefer to think of it as a dying breed rather than a dinosaur for obvious reasons) but in this house hold Chris does man stuff and I do woman stuff. I would much rather do dishes, laundry, and toilets than sweat my ass off outside in the heat mowing the lawn and changing oil. If I wanted to do all that noise I would be single, okay? Now, I absolutely have the intelligence to do what I deem 'man stuff' but I like to think of myself as the smarter for getting Chris to do it, instead of me, if you see what I mean. Not only that, but if I let Chris do anything in my kitchen, all manner of bad things happen. He never puts the stuff back the way I have it arranged. Whatever made him think that plastic containers for leftovers go on top of the refrigerator which is a good 6" taller than me, I'll never know. I expect one day he'll feel froggy enough to do dishes and somehow manage to unleash a swarm of locusts in there or something. So in the interest of keeping peace in our house, he stays the hell out of my kitchen and I let him take the garbage out twice a week. To some, it's sexist. To me, it's a fair deal.

Which brings about this latest bout of verbal diarrhea. One evening, a week or so ago, we were snug under the covers when I had a tingling sensation in my feet. I realized that the blankets were starting the thawing process on them and decided to help things along by sticking them on Chris's thigh. After flinching and letting out a very unmanly hiss, he turned to me and this is what happened.

Him: "Is there something I can help you with?"
Me: "Nope, I'm good."
Him: "Your feet are really really cold."
Me: "I know but they're warming up quite nicely."
At this point in the conversation things were getting a bit testy. His thigh was undergoing the same process I imagine peas do when they're frozen into a bag and he was interrupting my very rare but precious reading time.
Him: "Would you please take your feet off my leg. Your feet are freezing."
Well now I had to put the book down and address the situation. (See: Retrain)Me: "Who does all the cooking and cleaning and stuff? I do. So you can warm up my feet when they are cold. It's a man's job and you're the man so suck it up and deal."
Which then sparked an argument about what a man's job consisted off. I'll spare you that and get straight to the insults which lasted long after my feet were nice and toasty and well into the next morning.
I believe he stated that my feet were harkening the ghost of the Titanic, that they kept cheese cold, and I think he threw something about the North Pole in there for good measure. I'll let him weigh in on that.


If you look closely, the shape of the glacier is very similar to my foot. Okay, so it doesnt look like my foot at all, which must mean that Chris was just whining.

In other news, my mother moved in behind me which has been great for me. Between her and my sister, they've given me loads more free time to get important stuff done like organizing my nail polishes by color and playing internet drinking games.

Unfortunately for her, my mother's pets have decided to try to kill her. The dog pulled her out of the house and down the back steps where she landed quite unceremoniously on the ground. The only saving grace was she didnt hit a landmine while lolling about in the grass but is now sporting road rash on various limbs. Both of the cats have bitten her, one for my mother daring to put on a shoe he had been sleeping on, and the other actually bit her hard enough to leave a wicked puncture wound in her right arm complete with swelling and bruising.

My sister's father came to visit my sister after they got moved in and promptly locked his keys in his vehicle. I walked out the back step and slipped, falling on my ass and seriously damaging my street cred. A couple of weeks ago, someone driving a black Honda Civic with factory rims and shitty band stickers tried to run down Chris while he was walking with the baby in the carrier on his chest. They were headed to the neighborhood park when the car gunned the engine over a speed bump and aimed it toward him. He had to jump in the grass to avoid being hit. He sprained his ankle and left some of his skin on the sidewalk. The best part? The cop taking the report didnt even do a drive through of the neighborhood to try and find the driver.

As of this writing no one has been gravely injured but I feel that may change in the near future as some sort of ominous convergence has opened up over our two residences.

The baby and I have been having lots of conversations. I'm not entirely sure what we're saying to each other. Most of what's going on is a lot of "AAAAHHHHHHEEEEEEEEHHHHLLLLLLLLOOURURURUAH's" and the like. I'm either promising her a pony for her 8th birthday or to blow her college fund on margarita mix for my nerves. I'm pretty sure it's the latter. I have the best kid, ever.

The other night Double Indemnity was on and Chris and I got into a discussion about film noir. I told him it was a terrible genre because the women (except for Casablanca - which had a terrible ending by the way) are always backstabbing hoes and that he had no romance in his soul. He's seriously reconsidering his decision to put a ring on my finger. Too late for him, I already popped out his kid. HA!

P.S. This post is dedicated to Catherine. Her shoe collection is better than mine. I hope she wills it to me.