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.

The Strange Life of Ted "Theodore" Logan.

I was talking to my buddy Frank at work about the up coming Bill and Ted 3 which is in development. My end of the conversation naturally progressed in the direction of The "Ted" theory on Keanu Reeves's movies: All characters portrayed by Keanu Reeves is a different stage of Ted "Theodore" Logan. Frank naturally showed skepticism, and I did not have time to go into details, so here it is: The Strange Life of Ted "Theodore" Logan.

Shortly after the end of their Excellent Adventure, Wyld Stallyns were in a financial slump, and dear Bill and Ted parted ways. At a particularly low point in Ted's life, he knocked up Martha Plimpton.
You may remember Martha from her adventures with the Goonies. Her sleeping with the potential rock star Ted was a way at lashing out at her parents. Suddenly finding himself hit with the responsibility of being a parent, Ted follows in his father's footsteps and decides to go into law enforcement. Martha Plimpton is against this, and the couple parts ways. The bright side of this point is that Ted finds he has a surprising acumen for law enforcement, testing extremely high on all tests. This catches the attention of the FBI, who recruit young Ted directly from the academy and puts him to work immediately, using his youthful appearance and grasp of surfing vernacular to assist in catching a gang of bank robbers. 

The emotional toll of an undercover operation proved too much for young Ted, but he felt that he could use this as fuel for his songwriting. Ted resigned from the FBI. Debts quickly caught up with our young hero. Falling behind on child support and the future looking bleak, Ted was brought in by his good friend Bill. They shared an apartment together and quickly picked up where they had left off, reforming Wyld Stalyns. They were a huge financial and musical success.
 
It wasn't long before the music world became too much for Ted. In his heart, he knew that he could do more for the world if he went back into law enforcement. Plus, with the advent of music piracy, the income from the band just wasn't enough to ensure that he could pay his child support and support his new family. Ted left the band, however he could not return to the FBI, so Ted signed on with the LAPD. The move did not sit well with the princess he married, however, as this decision came shortly after the beating of Rodney King. She left him. The loss of a second chance at a family drove Ted to excel at his job, thriving on the anger and resentment deep within. His excellence as an unshakable officer of the law drew the attention of a mad man. This individual planted a bomb on a city bus that would explode if it dropped under 50 mph. Driven to prove himself, Ted almost single handedly saved the citizens on the bus, winning the heart of Annie (the civilian who took over driving duties after the bus driver sustained a gunshot wound.) But relationships that start under intense circumstances, they never last. Annie left Ted shortly after the romance had begun.

 It wasn't long after that he met a young Charlize Theron. She inspired him to look beyond practicing law with a gun, and instead practice it in the courtroom. Ted studied hard and eventually graduated as a lawyer. To make a long story short - The encounter that Bill and Ted had with The Devil years ago on their second adventure came back and bit him in the ass. Hard. In the form of Al Pacino.

Devestated, Ted  resigned from law practice. He looked on the legal system now as the one thing that had driven everything he loved away. He went to a technical institute and earned his computer degree. He found that he had a second calling. Soon, however, this would prove to be more challenging than he thought. Through a series of odd situations, a threat from a seemingly super-powered agent, and an invitation from Lawrence Fishburne (it should be noted that Ted is easily swayed by dudes in trench coats with cool sunglasses), Ted adoped the name Neo. He borrowed heavily from the dress sense of his former mentor Rufus, and essentially saved the human race from being batteries.
 

Since even simple computer work proved to be too much, Ted decided to go into a specialized private practice. As he has had experience with fire arms, investigation, mystical powers, and has dealt with the Devil himself (twice), the natural progression was to investigate and terminate all demonic activity on the planet. 

Having succeeded at this, and there being no more demons left to destroy that weren't personal, Ted once again turned his hardened eyes at law enforcement. Unfortunately, this once again resulted in a huge downward spiral that lead to the death of his new-found friend, the discovered corruption of his entire unit, and he was only saved from the mouth of Perdition it's self by TV's irascible Dr. House disguised as an Internal Affairs investigator.

And now we are up to speed (get it?) on what's been going on with Ted. We'll have to wait until the next installment of Bill and Ted to find out what happens next.

Thank you.

Poking the Bear with a Stick

Sometimes it just doesnt pay to poke the bear with the stick. Other times, well, other times it's just fun.


Him: [Loud belch while exiting the bedroom]
Me: "WHAT! You just sounded like a LIVING ORGANISM."
Him: [Pokes head back into bedroom and quirks an eyebrow at me]

Yeah. I actually said that.



After a long ramble about all of the fun things we're going to teach the baby.


Me: "You do know how to change oil in a car, right?"
Him: "Yes." [Glare + Defensive Posture]
Me: "I know how to check the oil in my car."
Him: [Staring out the window in the vain hope that I'll shut up]
Me: "You just make a really sad face and look cute, and someone will do it for you."
Him: [Long sigh]

I'm pretty sure he's rethinking this whole him + me = procreation of the gremlin thing.



While waiting together at an office a woman walked in with a newborn. A brand new newborn. I got all gooey and melty and turned to Chris who was holding our at the time 3 month old.


Me: "AWWWW! Dont you want another one??"
Him: [I could hear his testicle shriveling on the spot] "I like this one just fine. We dont need another."
Me: [Big sad eyes]
Him: "Well if you really want another one, we could talk about it. But I really like the one we already have."

To clarify, I dont want another baby. I just like yanking his chain.

Worst. Tea Party. Ever.

I rarely wax political, but I'm feeling patriotic and want to vent a bit. I again came across this handy soapbox to stand on, but not for too long as this box will need to house a family of 5 in the coming months.

Debt deal. Right. So we're going to cut spending, raise the debt ceiling, create absolutely no new jobs, give the minority portion of the Republican Party an overly compromised plan that they still complain about, and solve pretty much nothing. The stock market plummets. Surely more people will lose jobs as companies have to make sure stock holders are appeased. Nothing in this debt deal allows for extended unemployment benefits, so people losing these jobs are doubly screwed. The International Union for the Conservation of Nature has put the middle class on the Endangered Species list. Pretty sure there's a refuge somewhere in Minnesota for them. The poor...well, business as usual on this end. It'd be nice if politicians actually checked on their constituents that can't afford the $1000 a plate fund raising dinners. 

I remember Obama running on the campaign of Hope and Change. Hope waved bye-bye a while back. The Change is sure covered. It consists of what I have left after every paycheck. The Office of the President has gone from being the most powerful man on the planet to Samson with a receding hairline. He's pretty much powerless to stop an overly vocal splinter cell of zealots that has their own party backing away slowly and heading to the fire escape. 


I'm not an economist or a politician, but it seems to me the quickest way to pull us out of financial hell would be to throw some regulations at the oil industry. You know...those guys recording record profits while you shell out $4.00 a gallon at the gas pump, paying a good chunk of your paycheck just to make sure you can get to work. You know...so you have gas money. So you don't have money to spend on other things. I'm pretty sure every industry we have is in some way tied down to needing oil. Save for maybe the Internet. But even then you need a device to get TO the internet, or to create things ON the internet, so there are parts and equipment that need shipped. Which requires gas and oil. So yeah, there goes that idea. 


"But Chris...there's a shortage of oil!" Yep. I'm sure there is. Still doesn't explain how oil companies are making huge profits. Only an exponential mark up on the product would do that. So why not regulate that mark up, bring it down to something reasonable - I mean, they still have to make profit and all - lowering the price at the pump, leaving Americans with more money available for spending elsewhere, boosting the economy all around, and making everyone happy? 


On a final note - Could you, our representatives in Washington - please stop taking money away from education and instead start putting money into it? I'd appreciate it if my offspring could get an education that ranks higher than Latvia. No offense to the good people of Latvia, but you are under the rule of Dr. Doom and I'm not a fan of the Doom-bots being smarter than our children.


T.I.A.


Silence Dogood.

Staycation Vol 2

In the last blog post I mentioned that Chris was on vacation last week. The purpose was two fold. Aside from giving me a break, there were a few things that needed to be worked on outside the house. The list was short but the headache factor was long. Gutters, edging the weeds around the house and shed, and something else that escapes my feeble brain. However, I know it was 3 things because the list was nailed to our door by the HOA lady. The things that needed repair were things we knew about, but being a single income family with one person working full time to pay the bills and the other one staying at home full time to care for a small infant, it's all we can do to keep up with the regular stuff.

Frankly, that lady ought to keep her damn mouth shut. When we took over this house, there were massive repairs needed. Massive. Cosmetic, structural, and the in between. The people living here before us were terrible tenants. Wait, let me back up. When Chris and I found out we were pregnant, we were living in this little one bedroom house about 20min away from our current residence. The house was very small and was made of concrete. It used to be the orange grove manager's house back when the property was part of an orange grove. We loved the house and the landlady was excellent. The only blight on our happiness there were the neighbors, who had moved out several months prior to the pee stick showing up with two lines. Unfortunately, when we found out we were having a baby we knew we had to move. There simply wasnt enough room for the baby in that house.

Chris and I were looking at places to rent but couldnt find anything affordable. Things were looking a little grim, until my sister's father approached us. He had this home (a double wide trailer) and while he owned the trailer he couldnt afford the lot rent and the mortgage on his home so he asked us if we would like it. He told us up front that the house needed a lot of work, because his wife's kids (not my mother) had been living there and hadnt made any repairs. Being that they were his wife's kids, he was trying to be polite about it but the Gods honest truth is that they were fucking pigs, and destroyed this house. The kids (although they are well into their 20's with children of their own I cannot help but think of them as kids) werent being thrown out, they decided to move out on their own and knew Chris and I were taking over the house because I was pregnant yet when we came here to begin our repairs the place was a fucking pigsty. I could not believe it. I didnt leave our rental property that way for our landlady, yet here I am, psuedo-family and pregnant, and they left food out, trash on the floors, smegma on all of the doors and floors, empty cigarette packs all over, toys that were damaged/disgusting left to rot in the front yard.

Hold onto your hats, because it gets better. Or worse, depending on your point of view. The first order of business was to take everything in the front yard to the dump. This wasnt an overnight process, as in they moved out one night and the next day we took it all. There was about a month's time where they could have come and picked it up. Yet when we took it to the dump they were all kinds of pissed. My thought process is if you gave a damn about the items in question you wouldnt have left it in the front yard for anybody to steal during the interim of you moving out and us taking control of the property but I guess they were a little short on logic.

The rude awakenings continued. Some of them we were aware of, others were sort of sprang on us. The ones we were aware of: one functioning bathroom, thermostat and back door needing to be replaced, flooring laid, drywall hung, and repainting. The things we werent aware of: A mouse problem (from the food they left behind), a serious bug infestation, a mold problem (from where the gutter had fallen and the strategically placed window left open), no water because there was a leak in the one working bathroom and instead of capping it off or fixing it (God forbid) they CUT THE LINE and left it to ruin the SUBFLOOR which meant no working bathroom either and, one last item of note. This was the final thing lobbed our way that blew my mind.

Sister's Father: "Honey, you're going to need to paint the subfloor before you lay any carpet or tile."
Me: "Paint the subfloor?" Huh, why would I do that?
Sister's Father: "Yeah, just go to Home Depot or Walmart and pick up a can of Killz. Paint the subfloors with it."
Me: "I've never heard of that. Why do I need to do that?"
Sister's Father: "Well, they had this goat..."

What the BALLS? WHO WHAT I JUST DONT UNDERSTAND! The kids had gotten one of their children a pet goat and since this is a high class trailer park, you cant keep a goat outside. So what do the fucking geniuses do? KEPT. IT. INSIDE.

When Chris and I realized the amount of work we'd bitten off for ourselves, I think we both had panic attacks. Let's face it, I cant figure out how to hook up the DVD player to the TV. Chris is better but not by much. Give me a sick person and give him a computer and we're both in our zone. Home repairs? Forget it.

We were leaning on friends and family, calling in favors, giving the BSE's and even tried to pay a few people to get work done on the house. For me, having my first baby on the way and the house in such a wreck, I was a mess. Chris tried his best but he was working full time and trying to do repairs on the weekend. There's nothing like being pregnant and having your home situation a giant question mark. Yeah, we had a house, but how could we move into it without water? I tried to spend my meager settlement wisely but the truth was we were carrying two houses for four months and were in way over our heads with the repairs. There wasnt enough zeros in our bank account to fix that mess.

As I look around the house I still see things undone but we've come so far from where we were. We had help from our friends and family. My mother's husband stepped up in a big way. He took his entire vacation to come down to our house and spent an entire week repairing everything he could. I am pleased to report that the major stuff was finished and with no time to spare. His vacation was in March and the baby came in April. Everything else that needs to be fixed just comes down to money. There just isnt enough spare change in the budget to buy the transition pieces need for the floors, we're out of paint, and out of patience. The baby is here, so the more important things are going to be baby proofing the house for when she gets mobile. We'll worry about pretty later.

So when the notice was tacked onto our door by the HOA lady it was a huge insult. I mean, we spent months cleaning up the mess of the previous tenants and she wants to bitch about little things like weeds and a gutter. That lady is dumb. Still, Chris did the work and repaired what was on the list plus a few things extra. She can die in a fire.

Staycation Vol 1

***Warning***
This post is about our daughter. If you dont like baby humor, turn back now. If you have children that have outgrown puking and pooping on you, be warned this post may cause violent flashbacks to your children's early years.

Chris was on vacation this week. One morning last week he woke up and realized I was one dirty diaper away from tottering over to the Skyway Bridge with a rum bottle in hand and taking a swan dive.** He decided to use his vacation time. You know what that means. Mommy was on vacation! Yes! I would love to report that I spent this time in a pill induced daze, washing all of them down with liquor but alas, our budget didnt reach that far.** I did, however, happily take advantage of him being home and he stepped up like a champ.

Which brings me to this blog post. This week, Chris and I decided to switch the baby's formula to one with a soy base, instead of milk. We were concerned that she might have a mild milk allergy so he made the trip to Walmart all by his onesie at O-dark-30, bringing home the new formula to give it a go. The change was almost immediate. She began napping easily during the day for longer stretches, where before she hardly napped at all. Her spit up changed in that it was not as prolific and it stopped looking like Rorschach blots. I'm glad, because it was really creeping me out how often I saw Elvis formed in the goob spots on her clothes.

The only downside to this was some constipation. We'd gone through this before with the change in her formula from the first time, so we figured it was just her little tummy getting used to the change. She finally had a bowel movement the second day after changing her formula (most babies go twice a day, she was only going once a day regularly). We talked it over. Actually, no we didnt. Discuss it, that is. All through my pregnancy I had this idea in my head that Chris was going to have to make some adjustments. I'm fairly laid back and so is he, but I was certain that when the baby came the more autocratic parts of my nature would shine. Well, it has. But Chris's are far, far worse and it's me who's had to do the adjusting. He absolutely hates for his precious little snowflake to be in discomfort of any kind. Not because she's fussy, or crying, but because she is his precious little snowflake who should not have to endure anything, ever.

Where was I? Ah, so we were at the part of our non discussion.

Him: "We should give her some prune juice to help her along."
Me: "If you're sure..."
Him: *Stare*

I went and fixed the bottle like the good baby mama I am and returned with it. He fed it to her and I sighed, certain of what was going to happen. We've had to do the prune juice routine before (everything at the pediatrician's recommendation) and it's been successful. In fact, there was one time when it was just a little too successful. This was months ago, when we first switched her formula over. It was a weekend day, and after feeding the gremlin prune juice I noticed that her diaper had turned an interesting shade of brown. As I had been changing the bulk of the diapers that day, I told Chris it was his turn. He stood up after taking the baby in his arms, and immediately we heard a squelching sound, then some interesting 'splats'. Her diaper had pretty much hit critical mass and with one final victorious fart, she sent shit shooting out the side. It landed mostly on Chris, and some on the floor. Where was I, you ask? Well, I was seated on my couch, laughing too hard to be of any use.

You can see why I might have had some hesitation in offering prune juice again, but Chris had already won that round. This evening, a few hours after giving her the juice, Chris was looking pretty worn out. I took the baby from him to give him a break. After feeding her some of the soy formula I had her on my shoulder, burping her. She's been praticising her ninja moves, because she somehow managed to find a hole in the burp cloth and spit up an interesting mix of formula and prune juice down my side. While I was burping her I noticed she was pooping so I held her upright against my other side and let her finish. Not long after that I noticed a giant brown stain forming on the white tank top I was wearing. Yup, poop was coming out everywhere.

I was not thrilled about being shat upon. Who would be? These things certainly werent in any of the parenting brochures that were handed out with such abundance that we could have wall papered the entire house with them. They pointed out all of the positives of having a baby, about why babies cry, and everything else, but no one ever said, "They shit on you. A lot." In my opinion, this is the sort of thing they should warn you about. I suppose if someone is going to shit on me in my life, the baby is the least offensive option. I'm not admitting to any weird fetishes here, I'm just saying that if it has to be anybody, the baby is the most likely to survive the event.

Chris, being awesome, took her to the nursery and started to clean her up. I went to take a shower, making it clear to Chris not to hand her off until she was done. He assumed that because nothing was coming out of her ass while he was cleaning her up, that meant that she was done and handed her off to me. What happens next? Yeah, she shit on me some more. The only bright spot in this was that we were in the hot shower already with soap and a clear drain readily available.

I wish that it were over. I really do. But no. This morning, more of the same. She woke up with a dirty diaper (unusual) then she pooped again within an hour and when Chris handed her over to me to go run an errand, she let out some wet farts. I went through 7 diapers in about 10 minutes. Every time I changed her, she pooped, or peed, or both, or left skid marks. Any parent will tell you that 7 diapers in a row is excessive. To the Good People of Diaperland, you fought bravely, your sacrifice was noble. This mama appreciates the fight you put up but alas, my daughter's bowel movements proved too much for you.

She's laying down now. I pray she is finished. I have A&D up to my elbows and the last of my Diaper Soldiers are quivering in fear. Please Lord, let this be the end, for now.

**These might be slight exaggerations.

A Reminder that there are Bears "Outside"

Sometimes things from your past can be a good thing. Like last night, when Chris and I were returning from a dinner out with some friends and this came on:



Then there are other things, that turn out to be not so good. Like today, when we went out for a walk in a local park. Chris and I had both spent a lot of time there (separately) years ago, and it's the closest park to our current residence. It's also heavily shaded which we counted a plus, and it used to be free. When we made the decision to go today, there was a nice breeze blowing, the baby was awake and happy, and there were no storm clouds moving in (even though this is Florida's season for daily showers).

We got off to a good start.

Me: "Do we want the stroller or should we bring the baby carrier?"
Him: "Let's bring the baby carrier. She likes to sit up anyway."

A few minutes pass, filled with furious movement in order to capture the moment before it passed. Wardrobe changes all around (read: I put something other than my pajamas), bottle making, diaper bag filling, etc. We get everything all packed into the car including the baby when Chris asks:

Him: "Did you bring the baby carrier?"
Me: "Whoops."

He trotted back in and was out in a flash carrying the item in question. I'd really like to say in my defense that I've never actually forgotten the baby. I may have forgotten all matter of items from her vast array of baby paraphenalia but not the baby herself. It doesnt count until you leave the driveway, dammit.

Somewhere between the time I turned the ignition in the car to leave and our arrival to the park the breeze decided to take itself elsewhere. Then, as we rolled into the parking space we were confronted with this:


If we'd had an ounce of sense we would have taken it for the omen that it was. Alas, as only new parents can be, we were too excited by the prospect of taking our baby to a favorite spot from our youth.

It had been many years since Chris and I had actually been there. It's a tiny park near a local airport and if you dont know it's there you would probably miss it. As luck would have it, we found it on the first pass and were a bit disappointed to see the sign above. The park used to have a voluntary donation box and when I had the money I would always drop a few bucks in. Because I didnt have any cash on me, I spent the entire walk half paranoid that we would get arrested and the car would be towed because we werent able to pay. As a single income family we embrace little things like 'Free' when going out of the house.

The park itself is still in pretty good condition but there used to be shell gravel on the ground through all of the pathways. There was still shell gravel but it was mostly towards the front and I found out rather early that I had worn the wrong shoes. They were getting stuck in the mud. Oh the humanity. As we got a little farther down one of the paths a smell assaulted my nose. I can only describe it as sour, like rotting apples. If you've ever been around an untended apple orchard you know what I speak of. Then, we had a cloud of mosquitos escorting us. When I say it was a cloud, I do not exaggerate. They were buzzing around us, ready to carry us off to their lair and steal all of our blood. If I didnt have mad skills with the burping cloth I brought, it's likely we would have been a sad tale on the 6 o'clock news.

But we soldiered on, with one goal in mind, getting to the archway. There used to be this beautiful little archway that was covered with the prettiest flowers. It was probably one of the few redeeming qualities this Godforsaken state offers. My mouth hung open in disappointment. The flowers had been cleared away and the top of the arch taken off, and painted white. Disappointment does not fully encompass what I felt.

This is just a friendly reminder that there are Bears Outside, that you can never go home again, that change sucks, and all of those other adages that apply.

Updates, Rants, and Widgets

I'm eating Charleston Chews for dinner, so this post could be really good or really bad. We'll know by the end. The painful, bitter end.

Thursday night I told Chris I had some good news. He asked me if Nila (the cat we pseudo rescued) ran away. Well, no, but we found someone that was traveling to North Carolina on Friday and was willing to take her with him. I met with the nice man the next day. I am pleased to announce he was not a serial killer or creeper. He was a very handsome Army soldier who was 'not a cat person' but was very concerned for Nila's comfort and well being. Proving that no good deed goes unpunished, Nila promptly got the runs on Friday night. The poor guy had to give the cat a bath and then couldnt put her back in the carrier. So the second leg of the trip Nila was curled up on the soldier's lap. As if that wasnt bad enough, she refused to eat unless she was hand fed. So here is this buff, tough Army man, with a kitty curled in between his legs, hand feeding her for the second half of the trek to North Carolina. The next time you see military personnel, give them your thanks. They put up with some crazy shit on foreign and domestic soil.

Oh, it just got serious. I opened up the Swedish fish. Actually I need to fortify myself for this next bit.

The War of the Stinky Roses has been won. I was holding my own but then Chris struck a bargain with the Gremlin and the two of them ganged up on me. First, the Gremlin farted on me, twice, bare assed. Then, one evening Chris and I were laying in bed, when he ripped a horrid fart. The fan in our bedroom made sure to blow it directly on me and I had the bad timing to be inhaling when this event happened. I am not sure what crawled up his ass and died, I just know something did. It brought tears of pain to my eyes. Gah!

The Reading Rainbow is going well. I havent finished Abe Lincoln, Vampire Hunter yet. I got to part three and I actually like it. The problem I have with a book like that is separating fact from fiction but Chris says that basically everything but the vampire parts really happened. So, I know more than I ever thought possible about Abe Lincoln. Unfortunately, Chris brought his Pirates! books home from work the other night and I picked one up when I wanted some lighter reading. I'm reading the Pirates! In an Adventure with Ahab and I'm not sure if I like it or not. I get that it's a book of ridiculous gibberish (and he mocks my romance novels) but the author will have little notations at the bottom of the page that appear to be facts. I expect them to be facts with the way they are worded and they are just good enough to be believeable. Well, that and I am gullible. But then some of the notations are a little too wild and I get mad, because I feel like the author is just trying to screw with me. Chris hasnt started the romance novel yet, but that's because I've been lazy and havent picked one. I guess I'm waiting til I get to the end of ALVH before I decide how painful I'm going to make it for him.

Yesterday we attended a baby shower. It was the best damn baby shower because it had beer. Listen, you might find this hard to believe, but any social situation where you have to be around people you barely know (or dont at all) besides the host/hostess is bound to be a snooze fest. Alcohol can save the day. Trust me on this. The gremlin was very well behaved. Even when she puked on two people she was at least polite about it, and made sure to give them big slobbery grins to make up for her faux pas. I can see we have some work to do on her manners. I can only say that she gets this from Chris.

Today, Chris and I were working hard on the house. And by 'Chris and I' I really mean Chris. 2pm rolled around and Chris made some noises about 'being tired' but I made my escape anyway. I'd like to say that I went to Margaritaville but actually it was just Steak n Shake. I consider it the same thing though because the chili there makes me euphoric. And hopefully I'll be able to fire a few return shots tonight. I was having a grand time until Chris messaged me that his knee blew out while he was helping our neighbors move a refrigerator. Good times, good times. On the way home I was ranting to my mother about the situation waiting for me at home and dropped the 'C' word. You know, I've got a new respect for my mom, because she wasnt even phased. There was a delicate pause, then she said, "Oooh. I guess she is mad." Fuckin A. I love my mom.


I also want to touch on something that happened last night. I was on Facebook, minding my own business (See: Playing as many of the free apps as the gremlin would let me) when a message came through on my inbox. It was one of those forwarded things about 'Breast Cancer Awareness'. According to the message, this year we're supposed to put our shoe size in our status as inches with a little frowny face. I guess I had hit my bullshit limit for the day and fired back a Reply to All with some fairly salty language about the lack of sincerity and if they're actually interested in raising awareness they should look into doing the 3 Day walk or a couple of other charities I listed. I got a nastygram for my offensive language (I guess that's the risk you run when being included in a chain letter nobody wants to fucking read anyway) and the original poster stated that she was only forwarding from a teen who'd asked her too.

Look, I wont even get into a debate about the appropriateness of a teen putting 'inches' into her status update but I will say I checked online and I'm pretty sure breast cancer awareness month is October. So why are we doing this shit now? Secondly, I dont care about your copy/pasted status update. If you dont have the passion for something to at least make a sincere, honest post about a cause, dont waste my fucking time. I dont give a damn what color your underwear are, what fruit, or what shoe size. I dont care about your Jesus Loves You and the Soldiers are saving babies in the Middle East but 90% wont repost horseshit. Chris found an awesome update about Pandas. It goes like this:

"PLEASE put this as your status if you know someone (or are related to someone) who has been eaten by pandas. Pandas are nearly unstoppable, and when hungry, also breathe fire. 71% of people won't copy this into their status because they have already been eaten by pandas, 28% are hiding in their showers with fire extinguishers awaiting the coming pandocalypse, and the remaining 1% are awesome and will re-post."

I loved it! But couldnt repost on general principle. Besides, the people who it's directed at probably wouldnt get it anyway. I hope that the person either unfriended me or has the common sense not to include me in a chain letter again. I'm probably wrong about that.

In closing, I will say quite sincerely that a good friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 27. She likely would not have discovered anything was wrong had she not found the lump when breast feeding her son. She fought the good fight and is still with us. Her experience tells us that early self breast exams are a good idea. Save the ta-ta's!

Planet of the Cats

Warning: As I am incredibly "grumpy" at the moment, this blog will more than likely be loaded with expletives.


That being said....FUCK. 

While it is all well and good that Christine wants to rescue every fucking cat on the planet, one at a time, it has hit the point where I am about to lose my mind. I was completely against getting the first two, and only after a solid 2 weeks of cajoling, begging, whining, sob stories, etc., I finally caved. We now have 2 furry pains in the ass that run around the house chasing what I assume are ghosts because there's fuck all I've ever seen them pounce at. They usually choose the precise moment the baby has gone to sleep to start stampeding around the house. If I didn't know they were cats, or if I were blind and working solely off the sounds involved, I would assume that a small heard of deranged buffalo had somehow entered the home and, since the home can in no way be mistaken for the Great Plains, are rushing back and forth fighting over a stray piece of whatever it is that a deranged buffalo would find appetizing. The curtains have claw marks in them. The table cloth looks as though a miniaturized Freddy Krueger found access to the table cloths dream world and has been trying desperately to kill it. 

Now we are baby sitting a third one of these monumentally useless animals until it can get packed off and sent to her friend Melissa. It should be noted that none of this was discussed with me, and she has made several posts claiming that I most certainly would not want a 3rd cat in the house. But lo', it's here, occupying the bathroom whose door we cannot open lest the other 2 cats get in and attack it. But that's fine. We have another bathroom. Which currently houses the litter box for the original 2 cats in the shower. So, apparently, until this 3rd beast is on its way to North Carolina, I am going to have to pray for rain and rush outside to get a shower. We're going to have to clean the baby in the sink until this happens because we can't bring her anywhere near either shower until they have both been scoured by a full HAZMAT team to prevent illness. So, essentially, the baby and I will just remain filthy until the massive inconvenience caused by a 5 lb feline has been removed. Pain in my left arm means I'm happy, right? My chest is getting tight with love.

Here's a hint, people. I don't give a flying fuck how "cute" you think an animal is...DON'T FUCKING FEED IT! You're doing more harm than good, because NOW this creature has lost its natural instincts for hunting food and just assume that some big dumb biped is going to pour crunchy vittles out for it, and will wander around borderline starving until this happens. You want to help them? Call a shelter or Animal Control or something. I'm sure a casual browsing of the Yellow Pages would produce local phone numbers for some Humane Society endorsed animal retrieval squad or something. 

So, in closing, when the new one ships out, I'm putting the other 2 in with it. Get your damn paws off me you damn dirty cats.

FML.

War of the Stinky Roses

When Chris came home from work this evening, I was in a foul mood. I didnt feel well, and neither did the Gremlin. I was also giving serious thought to burning down my neighbor's house. Before you get your busy little fingers dialing 9-1-1 I've cooled down (marginally) and have decided against lighting their house on fire (for now). Unfortunately, Chris got the brunt of my ranting upon hitting the door step. I was telling him all about it like some sort of angry woodpecker and I was going to keep poking at him until eventually he fell over, assuring my victory. Victory of what, I dont know. It was imperative that I win something, though.


We laid down in bed, him to read, and me to continue sharing my rage (as if he needs any extra) when all of a sudden, it happened.








Him: "Baby!"
Me: "What?"
Him: "I'm so glad you shared." (That's sarcasm, by the way)
Me: "Well yes, I'm so glad you were listening. I know I was talking a lot..."
Him: "Yeah, talking out your ass."
Me: (I roll over in bed, giggling.)

A few minutes later, 'it' happened again. I peek over my shoulder to test his reaction. He has set his book aside and is giving me a very stern look.

Me: "What! I'm sorry. GOSH. I told you I wasnt feeling well." (I might have tried to slide the blame onto Monty at this point as well.)
Him: (His reply was to pull the covers aside, lift up his knee and let out a big stinky fart.)
Me: "What the hell! Yours stink. Mine smell like roses."
Him: "Yeah, if roses smell like ass."
Me: "I guess this means we're comfortable with each other."
Him: "I'm not feeling real comfortable right now. All it would take is one tiny spark to set this room ablaze."

I have admitted to nothing, not even in this blog, because I can still try to say the cat did it.

He shuts out the light, and turns over with his back to me. I'm feeling much better, until he farts again.

This means war.

If one of us doesnt make it out alive, chances are it was a. death by methane or b. death by pillow smothering.