The Circus has Come to Town

Didn’t Get The Memo

2012-01-26T11:41:00.001-08:00

It is my distinct impression there may have been a secret meeting last night while I was slumbering. In said meeting, participants decided that Thursday, January 26, 2012 everyone would band together and annoy the living fuck out of me.

True.

Story.

This morning, I woke up to the aftermath of a pee pee accident—or so we thought. We never really determined exactly what happened. Pajamas were wet. Bed was dry. Shower was needed. Incident woke up my other little one, and HERE. WE. GO.

While dressing Bukka, Fat Sucker became FURIOUS because his brother now has a head start on getting ready for the day. You did not misread that. Everything in my house has become a competition. I’m assuming it’s a boy thing. I’m also assuming I will eventually lose my goddamn mind during one of these competitions. So Pajama-wetter totally starts talking “I’m gonna be dressed first” smack to his brother, who is wailing with great sorrow as though someone’s died. I, of course, had to bring Pajama-wetter down several pegs with a, “You pissed on yourself. I would stop bragging.”

Both kids were irate, as though they pay the mortgage and therein have a voice in the goings on of our household. Let’s see who can get a damn job the fastest. How bout that? The boys were trying to push, hit, and kick every time I wasn’t looking. Why would I not be looking? Oh. I’m so glad you asked. The kitchen, which I left in a somewhat tidy state upon retiring for the evening, was DESTROYED. Apparently (completely unbeknownst to me) I am the only member of The Circus qualified to perform a load completion and start of the dishwasher. I am also the only dish rinser and counter wipe-offer. Silly me. I thought the last person to eat the delicious Italian Tortellini Soup (click link for recipe) would be somewhat responsible for the mess that followed, but we all know what happens when we assume. Anyway. Good thing he’s hot, right? Because the living room also looked like an F5 tornado had went right through it.

The sullen attitudes continued through our morning ritual. My oldest son, Chubba, left to ~~escape the madness~~ catch the school bus. This threw Fat Sucker into a deep mourning and sobbing spectacle as if Chubba, age 11, was leaving for war. I couldn’t even reason with the situation (same routine for 11 years—there are no surprises), so I did what any sane person would do, I went batshit crazy, which settled everyone the hell down immediately.

Parenting Tip 786: Make no mistake, I’m a firm believer kids have to think you’re a little crazy. People with 1-2 kids (especially if they’re girls), I don’t even want to hear your thoughts on this. Leave that little Parenting Book on your own nightstand. In my house, these boys outnumber me 3 to 1 on any given day of the week. At some point, they will all three be faster, stronger, and bigger than me. Think of basketball 3 on 1. Yeah. I can’t be everywhere (defensively) at once, so intimidation (yelling AIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRBALLLLLLLLL) is key.

While getting ready, I applied far too much Moroccan hair oil. It’s as though BP is maintaining my strands today.

Looking forward to the calmness of work, I entered the premise with such promise. Cue the Negative Nancy Buzzer. NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. And no.

I have a coworker that is just about the most irresponsible, lack of accountability, liar liar pants on fire, thinks he’s smarter than everyone else----- dummy I’ve ever dealt with in my life. I’m 34 yrs old so I’ve dealt with some doozies. Let’s be clear, I could care less about another person’s mess, but when your mess continually falls into my lap, Houston--- we have a fucking problem. Could you find this number for him? Can you look up this? Can you fill out this? Do you know how I do this? Could you do this for me? Can you mail this for me because I don’t have time? Time? Time? Follow me around for a day. A day. I’ll show you a lack of hours in the day. Blah. Blah. Fucking blah. These are all personal tasks, not pertaining to work at all. I put my foot down ages ago, but shit still keeps tumbling in my direction via my boss (dad). Might I mention this dude is over 40 yrs old. <------ This is what happens when people don’t take accountability for anything. This is what happens when your tickets, warrants, convictions, child support, garnishments, homelessness, etc… are always someone else’s fault. A 40 yr old annoyance.

I grow weary of having these conversations.

Moving on.

My day then moved into “take care of old folks” day. Old folks= parents. I’ve mentioned before, my mom has Meniere’s Disease and is having a horrible episode today. Extreme vertigo, nausea, and complete hearing loss. My dad, who currently has only one good ear, is experiencing blockage in that ear. He can’t hear shit. He’s never seen his new Primary Care Physician. He’s been talking to himself all day. I’m not sure what’s going on with that. I don’t know if he considers it thinking aloud if he can’t hear it. Who knows?

Point is, I’m knee deep in Dramamine and New Patient Pre-Appointment Paperwork. Oh, and it’s really loud trying to communicate with them both. CAN YOU HEAR ME, DAD? I SAID MOM’S IS FINALLY SLEEPING. NO NOT DRIVING. SLEEEEEEPPPPPIIIIIIIING. SHE’S SLEEPING. I SAID SHE’S SLEEPING. SLEEPING. Nevermind.

Please send me positive thoughts of tolerance and patience today.

Italian Tortellini Soup

2012-01-26T08:24:00.001-08:00

There will be two posts today, because I keep promising to share this very easy recipe with friends. So here it is. It’s basically bits and pieces of three recipes I’ve found online. This is what tasted best for my family. Feel free to tweak. I’m a tweaker (hahahaha, not really), and I rarely measure anything (got that from my Grandma Gladys). Also, we are a family of five, so we go big. If you are a small family and don’t want to eat Tortellini Soup for 3 weeks, I suggest cutting the ingredient portions.

Sorry for the poor quality photo. My camera is on the fritz, and I was keeping three boys at bay from the soup.

1/2 pound Italian pork sausage (may be substituted with Italian turkey sausage)

1 onion

2 tbsp garlic, minced

8 cups fat-free, reduced-sodium chicken broth

2 cans stewed tomatoes

1 large bag of frozen cheese tortellini

3 cups baby spinach

Italian seasonings to taste

Parmesan cheese, if desired

Crumble sausage into a Dutch oven, add onion, stir until no pink remains in sausage .
Add garlic- cook for 2-3 more minutes.
Add broth, tomatoes- bring to a boil
Add tortellini- bring to a boil then reduce heat- cook for 5-8 minutes (until pasta is tender)
Add spinach and seasoning, simmer until spinach has wilted.
Serve with parmesan cheese if desired

There you go. Very quick and easy dinner. Oh. And. Stop judging my ghetto-ass teapot. I love that thing.

Crawling Back On

2012-01-25T08:26:00.001-08:00

Last week, I took a six day sabbatical from Weight Watchers. Don’t even start. I know that’s not recommended. If I may be completely honest… at the time, I didn’t care. With all the baking for Tim’s birthday party, I could not sustain the willpower necessary for portion control and diligent recording. So I said HELL WITH IT, wanna come to a party in my TUMMY?

I started back on Monday. I liken this experience to a runaway teenager that has been unwillingly drug back home after a vandalism spree, only to maintain a serious attitude toward all positions of authority. If someone even looks at me while I’m eating a roll, I’m all “DUUUUUUDE, WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM? I HAVE POINTS PLUS VALUE POINTS EVERY WEEK FOR BREAD. GAAAAAH. GET OFF MY FUCKING BACK, CARB NAZI!”

That’s right, Everyone. I’m rebelling against Weight Watchers, a completely voluntary online weight loss organization. Yep. I’m paying them so I can lie on my daily water intake, shave off actual portion sizes, and perhaps even negate to record altogether that Heath bar I ate last night at 8:54 PM.

Also, I need Jennifer Hudson to go away. You have a personal chef, so I need you to gently shut your beautiful fucking mouth. I’m glad you were successful on your weight loss journey, but I can’t relate to someone with a personal trainer and chef. I CAN relate to complete chaos and not enough hours, nor extra hands available, in the day to possibly accomplish all I need to finish, while randomly shoving snacks in my pie hole.

If I had a chef, I’d be skinny too. <---- Who am I kidding? That’s an outright lie. In truth, I’d be like, “Bernie, fix us some cake and bring it to the pool on the good china. No, Robin and I won’t be swimming laps. We’ll be laying out. Thanks. Don’t forget the mimosas, Bernie.” Chef Bernie. That would be his name… like Adrienne Maloof’s chef on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Because when I’m filthy rich, I want my chef to be ridiculously sassy and roll his eyes at my guests, possibly even make quips behind my back at how drunk I get before noon. <---- I don’t drink before noon now, so stop the intervention plans. Howevercomma if I get really rich, I can’t make any promises on daytime sobriety. I’ll pay you until you get over it.

Don’t worry, it never escapes me how ridiculous and fat I can be on any given Wednesday morning. I’m getting it back together though. Today is the day. Neveryoumind, that beer bread in the office refrigerator that I whipped up last night. I’m sorry, but I found a beautiful cooking blog last week that really floats my boat. Shout out to Shugary Sweets. If you love to bake, go there now. Amazingly delicious recipes. The beer bread being among those delicious recipes.

Where was I? Oh. Yes. Weight Watchers. It’s a great program. It helped me lose all the weight and then some after I had Bukka. I don’t remember falling off the portion control wagon then, but I remember taking it very seriously. So I will be snapping out of it today, and recording everything that goes in my filthy mouth, and I will also stop avoiding Jillian Michaels like she has Herpes.

I just logged on and added the Heath bar and added the beer bread recipe should I decide to have half a serving of it. See. I’m trying.

Crazypants

2012-01-13T08:31:00.001-08:00

You can’t call an 11 year old girl a whore, even if she two times your fantastically handsome, smart, and funny 10 year old son. Apparently, it’s frowned upon. Society and their rules. *eye roll* So for the first time on this wild and wonderful journey of parenthood, I’ll zip my lips. I didn’t at first. You can imagine the plenty I had to say. It wasn’t well received. In fact, it’s a sad day when your fifth grader lets you know with one look, “get a hold of yourself, Mom.” Time to reel it back. I’m more upset than he is. His exact words were, “I was absolutely fine without a girlfriend, so if I don’t have one now… I’m sure it will be okay.”

So basically I gave birth to Jesus. Wise and forgiving. I’ll wait while your applause wash over me and my part of this wonderfully relaxed and genuinely cool character. Question is, where in the hell did Chubba come from? Where? I’m quite positive even my uterus has an enormous attitude problem laced with more than enough vindictive qualities to wipe out a small country. I’m all about smiting.

Bukka. Definitely my child. You slight Bukka in the least, and he raises his brow to say, “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Someday though. Someday you will feel the wrath of my burning fury.” Bukka doesn’t know what smiting is yet, but I’m sure he’ll approve one day.

I’m planning two parties this month. Chubba turns 11 years old next week. I know, I KNOW… Where did the time go?

I agreed to let him have a tween sleepover. Boy sleepovers include video games, weird smells (all boys stink, collectively they smell like the dump), candy, tackle football in the front yard, grass tracked in the house, etc… Do you catch my drift? Not stressful as in crying and girl shrieking, but stressful as in cleaning up after more boys for over 12 hours. I already have 5, 6 including the dog, to clean up after every day. Boys.

I’m keeping this one simple. Chili dogs and/or Frito chili pie. Homemade buttercream frosting cupcakes (pictures to follow). Piñata with candy. I hope other parents don’t expect me to be 100% sober. They won’t, right? Breakfast casserole the next morning. Thanks for coming AND GOODBYE. Done and Done. I will be (undoubtedly) exhausted Sunday morning, and my house will be sullied.

Moving right into finalized stages of my husband’s birthday. Big party. Big plans. Big spreadsheets.

This is what I do, Folks. I get a hair up my ass one morning over coffee, “Let’s invite 769 people over to celebrate something. Your birthday is coming up, and after last year’s fiasco, my birthday should be revoke for at least 5 years. Let’s have a birthday party for you”. Neveryoumind, we both have ridiculously large families, and we have tons of friends that don’t know one another. “EVERYONE will come. It will be fun. Ooooooo. I’ll start the menu.”

Two weeks before said event, I begin hyperventilating while mulling over the selfishness of those who forgo RSVP to just show up. My hands begin to shake as I update spreadsheets for guest lists, menu, menu timelines, grocery lists, serving tray arrangements, house cleaning goals, and recipe print offs.

Last night, I went over said details with birthday boy to hear these words, “we should probably just do turkey and dressing.” Okay. Spongebob. I have an hors d'oeuvres menu, which took me a week and a half to put together, ranging from elegant fruit trays to crab rolls to a goddamn carving station and your feedback is,

Turkey.

And.

Dressing.

No. No. Don’t worry, My Pretties. I didn’t stab him in his face. I didn’t. I stared at him for a really long time without saying a word. I’m fairly certain he was kidding. If he wasn’t, I don’t want to know.

Moving on.

Let’s be very clear… I’m crazy. I know I’m crazy. Everyone knows I’m crazy. It’s something known and not spoken about often. That crazy… well, it comes seeping from every crevice while in the throws of planning an event. I have a vision. I worked in catering for 5 years. Catering people are difficult. Any suggestion, help, or idea varying from that vision can turn into an episode of Snapped quickly.

Ummmm… noooo, we will not put seating in the garage. *nervous laugh, insincere smile* I told you about the twinkle lights and chiminea display on the front porch. How does a dirty, already stinky, unflattering halogen-lit hellhole compare to that? Ambience. Ambience. Ambience. I mean, really? Thanks for your input, but the mixture of beauty and pinion will keep them warm OR they can give up smoking 8 years ago like some of us did and remain inside.

Ummm…. nooo, a second fire display will not be necessary to warm the guests. A fire pit on the front porch? That. That. No. All that fire and heavy drinking just sounds like a bad idea waiting to come to fruition. *whispers* Why are you trying to ruin my party…err, I mean your party?

<------- Do you want this?

See. People offer to help, which is somewhat pointless because I’m a slight control freak. The vision. The only living souls, thus far, that have successfully talked me down?

My mom—she’s just as spazzy as me. In fact, I can’t compete with her spazzy. It’s a frightening level of spazzy that has been going since 1943. I let her help, because I’m afraid of her.

My best friend—she pours me a drink and paints my fingernails. Knowing 1. I will be still for this activity. Who wants botched nails while hosting a party? 2. I’ll get drunk and forget why silver tongs were so important earlier in the day.

I’m sure these details have made you think I’m horrible to party with----- not true. Two hours before the event the stress builds, and I crack open a bottle of red. I get hammered and become an absolute riot, or idiot depending upon your position. I forget to add dips with the appropriate foods and really don’t care at go time. Last year, I was cutting cheese and meats with the wrong side of the knife when my guests arrived.

Everything works out in the end. Two timing girls. Boy sleepover parties. Neurotic 34 year old women planning their husband’s birthday bash.

Summer’s Sundries

2012-01-04T13:54:00.001-08:00

Happy 2012, My Pretties. My resolution theme this year is Self Improvement- Inside & Out. This post will feature several new things I’m trying on this journey to make me better physically and mentally. The featured products may not be new, as in fresh on the market, but they’ll be new to me. I will try to do this once a week. Thank my friend Angela, as she suggested Summer’s Sundries. I’m a shopaholic, so there shouldn’t be a struggle for material. ****Also, if there is a beauty product, exercise, music, shoe, pair of jean, etc… that you want me to try and review--- shoot me an email.

On New Year’s Eve, I vowed to be nicer in 2012. My friends were mortified I would contemplate being anything other than the witchy-witch you all know and love, but my husband seemed happy about it. <---which made me a little more than annoyed. Obviously, my friends love me more. Noted.

Let’s not dwell though. I’ll give the nice thing a shot… or give up and go with a nice side swept bang instead ~~probably more rewarding anyhow.~~ I’m totally working on the bangs, and it’s going worse that the “trying to be nice” thing. I hate growing bangs out. It’s never a graceful process.

Anywhatthefuckisthatonherforehead, I stopped at the beauty store to pick up some hair candy to start switching up my game, and this is what Mama found.

Summer’s Side-eye Advice: Only ask people with great hair for opinions on hair products and tools. If your hair is outdated or jacked up, don’t come at me with “what you use.” I may want to know just so I can avoid it, but probably not. Shhhhhh, Darlin’. Just shhhhhhh. Being nice is a lot of work, isn’t it?

I’ve been using the Brazilian Tech Shampoo, Deep Penetrating Conditioner, and Lusterizer for about a week. I love the shampoo. The coconut scent is amazing. I would marry the Lusterizer if it were legal. The Lusterizer definitely performs what it promises on ant-frizz and bringing out shine in coifs. I appreciated the versatility in that it may be used when straightening or just leaving wavy/curly. On the other hand, the Brazilian Tech conditioner is okay. Meh. Just meh. Saying it’s Deep Penetrating would be a far fetch. It would probably work more effectively on shorter hair, but mine is past my bra strap and highlighted light blonde. My hair needs to be like spun silk after a Deep Conditioning Treatment, or it becomes a pile of dry tangles. Overall, I like this product, but will not waste my money on the conditioner again.

You want these curls? OMG--- I love the Braxtons, especially their sense of style.

Then you need a jumbo tapered curling iron, My Pretty.

CAREFUL. They are NOT easy to use. I repeat, they are not easy to use. Don’t be afraid, but definitely do not drink alcohol then try to use this baby. I’m not playing! What? Not everyone drinks Cab-Sav while messing with their mane? Judgey bitch! Oh, and purchase a curling iron glove, or you may lose a finger. It would be worth it though. I may or may not have incurred third degree burn before putting on a wool glove from the winter box. As women, we have utilized curling irons finishing handle side down our whole lives, so the tapered curling iron blew my freakin’ mind. That’s right, you have to wind hair so that you finish with the small end down, handle side up. As I said, until you get the hang of it you may want to forgo any wine beforehand. My Pretties, I can not scream enough about how much I LOVE my new tapered curling iron. This bitch gets HOT as hell, which makes my hair hold the curl through the next day. TRUE story.

Meet my new Coach purse that Tim bought me for Christmas. I call her Big Red. She’s red, chained, and fierce as hell. Women have flagged me down in public to tell me how much they adore her. When I’m sad, I pick her up and gaze at her lovingly.

I’m on Weight Watchers. So the fat girl who loves sweets is on a diet. I see your meal reduction, and raise you 4 delicious cookie ice cream point.

Pale pink pumps make my heart sing. Surely you agree.

Go ahead and judge me, but I was sad when Amy Winehouse died. She was a hot mess, but an amazingly talented hot mess. Let’s face it all the great ones are. I’m currently listening to her Lioness: Hidden Treasures album. It’s beautifully sexy.

So begins the journey…

Spa Day Is Probably Needed

2011-12-27T12:38:00.001-08:00

Today we are at a Threat Level of Yellow, My Fancies. I have PMS, my house is a mess, Christmas is over, the kids have that bratty after-Christmas aura about them, I have stepped on 70 Nerf bullets in two days, I want the Christmas decorations down NOW, and Tim has ruined (yet another) pillowcase with his sleep cap.

Some of you are like, sleep cap?

I had to utilize Tim’s picture. He will, undoubtedly, not like that. BUT I tried to Google that shit, ending up with this.

Ethnic sleep cap

I know. What the hell? That’s horrible, and I need it. Immediately. I totally should have just went with it, making all the white people think my husband wears this to bed.

I digress to the point of institutionalization. Where was I? Oh, yes. The pillowcase. The brand new, beautiful, light blue, much sought after for the exact shade of blue in the drapes, incredibly luxurious, microfiber pillowcase that is NOW stained purplish-black. You can understand why my head exploded.
See. A 20 minute conversation prior to bedtime, rested my mind at ease my husband was taking the continued pillowcase debacle seriously. I should have known when he grabbed a hand towel to cover the beautiful, new linen… all would not end well. He flails and thrashes throughout the night, leaving linen damaged in his wake.

He’s a great person, just fucking hell on fancy pillowcases. Doesn’t give a rat’s ass about pillowcases, and their symbolic meaning regarding the state of my house.

Realization this morning? I will never have anything pretty around me for an extended period of time. I am surrounded by 4 (5 if you count the dog) males. My friend Amber’s home is sunshine and fucking rainbows, lined with pretty pink tulips. She has two daughters and is single.

My house is like Sierra Leone circa 2001. You can tell someone had good intentions (me), but the male species came along and fucked everything up, making it treacherous, filthy, and unpleasing to one’s eye… and there may be child soldiers involved. I hate to compare Tim to Charles Taylor, but he really doesn’t discourage the chaos until it affects him directly (i.e. flat screen smashed by toy car, candle wax clean up while I was out shopping).

There are mothers of boys that give up. Not me. No. I like pretty. It puts me in a better mood. I wear heels to the grocery store. If my household understood that fully, they would comply. I’d be much easier to deal with on a daily basis. Oh, My Little Fancies, I will have pretty linens and unmarred bathrooms with the toilet seats down, or I will tie up all four of those responsible and stuff them in the garage.

Some of the mothers out there are judging me. Homes are supposed to be relaxing and not showroom ready. People come to see you, not the state of your home. Blah, blah, blah. Listen to me very fucking carefully. I’m a much nicer person in unstained linens. I’m happier when Nerf bullets aren’t whizzing past my face and footballs aren’t knocking vases off countertops. You got that, Mama-Dirty-Floors? You got that? I’m happy for you that you can let it slide when your husband throws a white towel in with the black blouse you intended on wearing this weekend. I’m ecstatic for you, that you can let go of the fact every shoe owned is right in front of the door leading from the garage. I admire the fact, you don’t mind repeating yourself over and over and over and over to the point of sheer MADNESS. Dirty rugs, yay for you!

I am not that woman. I’m not. I like pretty. I like clean. I like organized. I like appreciated. I like it done after I say it once. I like everyone to just do what the fuck they are supposed to do when they are supposed to do it. The same routine for 10 years… you’d never know it. AND if that stupid dog barks at 2 AM again AT NOTHING. NOTHING---there is nothing there but moonlight-- I can’t be responsible for what happens.

Don’t give them anything, Santa, until that front door is pained white--- the same color as the trim. Jussaying…

#veryirritated

Love these guys, but they give me frown lines and grey hair some days.

Typical Circus

2011-12-09T10:38:00.001-08:00

It’s Friday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank the Powers That Be. That being said, I have five thousand things to do this weekend. Outside Christmas-Holiday-Kwanzaa lights, Chubba’s basketball game, Christmas photos, Christmas cards, Christmas cookies for teachers, and I’d like to schedule a time to sleep in. And the toilets need attention. So does the shower upstairs. And Bukka and Fat Sucker’s room needs to be organized before Christmas. Bukka has a birthday party to attend. I may need to do some Christmas shopping too. Something tells me--- sleeping in will not be an option.

I think we can all agree, my husband is an ass for taking this picture. Since this photo in October, I’ve been working out regularly. Jesus wept. Where did my body go? And yes, Fat Sucker is wearing his PJs in the middle of the afternoon. We were having a lazy day. STOP judging.

Fat Sucker’s new habit of telling me I’m pretty was so endearing at first. Every five seconds, “Mommy, you are so pwetty.” Thank you. “Mommy, you are so pwetty.” Thank you. “Mommy you’re pwetty.” Thanks, Honey. “You’re hair is pwetty.” Thanks. Why do you keep saying that? “I wike to tell you you pwetty.” Well thank you.

Then it becomes a competition between all three kids to tell me how beautiful I am today. That should make a mom feel great, right? Well, I’m starting to doubt the sincerity of it all.

Children giveth the compliment then quickly taketh away, like the very minute I say no. “You’re not pwetty.” Well at least I can say pretty---- so there. <------ not what I really said. Maybe.

Then when I’m back in good graces. “You really are pwetty. I didn’t mean it. You made me mad. You are pwetty.”

It’s starting to feel like I’m in an emotionally abusive relationship that I can’t escape.

Bukka wants to change his last name to Bacon. It’s a likeable last name. Who can blame him? Probably not gonna happen though.

This dude was told a few weeks ago (by a teacher) that he was overly confident. He took it as a great compliment and went about his day. I informed him that basically meant arrogant. He remained unfazed.

This fella broke into our house via the back door (kids left unlocked), set off the alarm system, ate some treats, knocked down several Santas, ran upstairs, climbed in Fat Sucker’s bed, and looked surprised when I showed up to the house with a baseball bat. We both jumped upon seeing each other. Not a burglar.

We’re All Just Assholes On Soapboxes, Me Included

2011-12-08T10:50:00.001-08:00

DISCLAIMER: If you require your season’s greetings in certain wording and love hate filled tirades and commentary bashing other belief systems, this post may be offensive. Because I’m hearing the word Christ come out of your mouth, but not hearing the love that your Christ embodied.

Happy Thanksgiving. Happy Kwanzaa. Merry Christmas. Happy Ashura. Happy Hanukkah. Happy Bodhi Day. Hope your Santa Lucia Day was great. Enjoy your Las Posadas. AND Happy New Year.

We all know my thoughts on the War Against Christmas. A War on Anything pretty much chaps my ass, due to the fact it’s an enormous waste of time, energy, and listening space. There are so many other topics and issues in this world that need attention.

Nobody is taking the Christ out of Christmas. So stop saying it. It they were taking the Christ out of Christmas, you would have stopped talking about it years ago. Because “they” <---- the imaginary Christ-less Christmas Gestapo would have made you stop.   Every year, this nonsense clogs up my news, my television, my Facebook, and more importantly--my breathing space--- so I write a post every year when the urge to scream becomes overwhelming.

I’m gonna need you need to get a hold of yourselves! Turn off the 24 hour News Source. They ran out of shit to talk about 20 hours ago, and are now feeding you hysterical propaganda. True fucking story. Go put up some Holiday Lights, make some hot chocolate, read a Dickens’ novel, create a scene for your Elf on a Shelf that the kids will remember for years to come, call an old friend, sit by a fire, write your greeting cards, etc... Find something constructive to do with your time.

I call it Christmas Tree. I call it a Christmas Parade. I don’t give fuck if others choose not to do the same. I also don’t give a fuck what the sign says, out of habit I will call it a Christmas Ornament every damn time. In not one single occasion has anyone corrected me about my overzealous use of the word Christmas.

Coincidentally, my mother still calls all gas stations U-tote-M. We are creatures of habit, you see.
It’s no big deal, until you make it one. So don’t. Unless someone walks up to you, yanks the Santa hat off your head, and says “I need you to stop saying Merry Christmas RIGHT NOW, or we are going to shoot you,” nobody has tried to stop the way you celebrate your Holiday.

Happy Holidays. Season’s Greetings. That sums up all those holidays that mean so much to so many different people in a freakin’ nutshell. Some professional environments would like you to say Holiday so that it includes every customer and vendor under one umbrella. It’s not a big deal. I don’t know everyone’s religious preference. Honestly, if I were to be 100% real with you, I don’t care! If I know you personally celebrate Christmas, I will probably say “Merry Christmas.” If I offer a “Happy Holidays,” you would be wise to just take it. Take it kindly. Hold it to your heart with glee, because it can easily be replace it with a “Fuck Off” in five seconds flat. Tis the Season.

This actually happened to a friend of mine. She said, “Happy Holidays.” This, apparently, warranted a hateful, informative “Taking the Christ out Christmas” tirade from an individual.

I have one thing to say about that, I wish--- really, really, really—WISH a motherfucker would. I do. An individual would rue the day I offered tidings of joy only to receive a hate speech in return.    Rue. The. Day.
There are people that continually have problems with everything, thus ensues the War Against… Everyone reach around behind yourself, pull that stick out of your ass----- and just enjoy the season. Simmer down. Stop worrying about what the White House calls their tree. Stop worrying about the Muslims next door. Enjoy. Your. Space. And. What’s happening in it right this moment. If you make statements like, “The Muslims and the Atheists are (insert random, mythical offense)” I doubt. Truly. Whole heartedly DOUBT…. the Muslims or Atheists are in your space enough to even affect your situation.

If it’s positivity, no matter the verbiage utilized, enjoy it. Most people say Happy Holidays because they want to include everyone. Most non-Christian religions are not offended by Merry Christmas—Thank GOD Ben Stein wrote that letter in 2005 or we’d never have know.. only not. Also I’d like to mention that the part about the White House was added in 2009 by someone other than Ben Stein.   I’ve worked with every religion under the sun, and never once have I witnessed any non-Christian individual make an enormous deal about this season and the words used. Howevercomma I’ve seen many a Christian get their panties in a bunch when seeing the words HAPPY HOLIDAYS.

Don’t get me wrong, I find it equally as irritating when non-religious groups infringe on the rights of religious groups. You can pray and celebrate wherever you want, whenever you want--- but understand that not every prays or celebrates the way you do, when you do. Respect everyone’s right to call a fucking tree whatever they want to call it. They aren’t trying to convert you, nor is it a godforsaken conspiracy to remove Christ from Christmas or Kwa from Kwanzaa. Get OVER it.

We are a hodge podge planet, which civilization has occupied for a really long time. Our holiday practices are borrowed and patched together from a slew of other places in time. So relax and enjoy life. It’s too short to demand everyone to think and speak the exact way you do. It shouldn’t diminish your belief system at all.

I don’t expect everyone to agree with my belief system or my way of ringing in the holiday. I do expect when I say “Happy Holidays,” for you to say “Thank You.” You can say “Merry Christmas” back or whatever greeting you choose. Then we will both smile. The meaning of this season is thankfulness, kindness, happiness, togetherness, and family--- Not Wars on Anything or freaking out in paranoia about Wars Against your beliefs. This is not the Crusades, the French Wars of Religion, Muslim conquests, the Reconquista, Second Sudanese Civil War, Lebanese Civil War, or the Thirty Years' War. Those were actual Wars on religion. People are killed. Shit got real, to say the least. The phrase “Happy Holidays” was the least of anyone’s problems. Bet if you spoke with the people oppressed in these Wars, they would say they wished Happy Holidays was said to them.

We live in a country that seems to be at odds right now, but we are still very fortunate to have the right to choose so much. So I implore you to research everything about this time of year, find kindness in it. This season has been coming around many, many years before this one. It’ll probably come around many, many years after it.

I’m Flipping This Week Off And 82.4% Of the People Participating In It

2011-12-01T14:04:00.001-08:00

I haven’t been fit for human consumption for over a week now.

Pity party for one, drinks will probably be included! Dress is casual. Bring your own Kleenex and/or violin!

Someone stole a Diaper Genie out of the back of my vehicle during a short stop at a grocery store yesterday.

Coincidentally, this sums up my week in a nutshell. Robbed. I feel needlessly, emotionally robbed. Like the vacant bed of a pickup truck.

I was bringing the used Diaper Genie to a co-worker that has a baby due in December. Imagine my surprise when I peered into the back of my truck to give it to him, only to see nothing. I think we can all agree, it really sucks when you anticipate something, only to find nothing. I will probably not leave anything in the back of my vehicle again, because people more or less suck.

Seriously, this week has sucked beyond measure… the Diaper Genie Heist being the least of my worries or inconveniences, BUT that incident set me off. I had thoughts of bashing the thief’s head with a baseball bat. Too much? It lead to the thought that everyone I come into contact with daily (with the exception of my close friends) are pretty much out for themselves and themselves only.

People suck.

^ See. I told you I’m not fit for human consumption. I’ll crawl back in my grumpy cave until the clouds have lifted ,or I’ve at least bought a damn umbrella.

I Thought Facebook Would Be The Ultimate Death Of My Soul, Cue Pinterest

2011-11-04T13:13:00.001-07:00

Hi. My name is Summer, and I am addicted to Pinterest. I would like to blame all of my former classmates, who carelessly spoke of this demon website continuously on Facebook. Then when I found there was a waiting list or you had to be invited, it made the need to be a part of it even more. <---- I don’t think blaming is 1 of the 12 steps, but I’m not ready to surrender to treatment yet.

I did that. Go ahead, be jealous!

I wander to and fro all. day. long. I make supply lists for DIY and crafting projects while transfixed by simple yet ingenious directions. If you pin it, I’ll bake it or make it. True fucking story. Now. That being said, I’m growing weary of the mason jars. CONFESSION: I’m hoarding glass because of Pinterest. Please don’t call A&E. Please.

My kitchen cabinets may or may not be looking a little like this. So many mason jar crafts, so little time.

You can roll them in Epsom salt, paint them, tint them, doily them and then throw a candle in that sucker!!

Every outfit I see, I need. I need it. I need those grey pumps with that navy cardigan, neveryoumind that cardigan costs $4,659. I NEED IT! But I know I can’t have it, so I log out---- unfulfilled.

The beauty ideas. Oh. the beauty ideas. I’m making lotion this weekend. I haven’t told anyone. I just decided 4 seconds ago while writing this post. Hmmm. Did I remember to pin those body butter recipes? Where does one procure organic beeswax of the African Honeybee? <----- these are the questions running my mind, as of late. I hear myself and know that it’s kooky, but I don’t care. I’m one craft project away from becoming the weird chic that hands out homemade honey lip balm and solid perfumes made out of patchouli essential oils for Christmas, People. BUT let’s be honest, you would love for me to give you homemade lip balm for Christmas, WHILE secretly hating me for being such a goddamn hippie.

Let’s talk about the sock bun curl though. Let’s talk about it. May I be frank? What the hell am I doing wrong, Pinterest Folks?

Is it because I don’t have an accent? Is that it? Because I SWEAR to Baby Jesus you don’t even want to know what my hair looked like. My youngest son put it into better words than I can. “Mommy, did you ruin your hair? Did you? Did you ruin it? It’s really funny, but it’s probably ruined.”

So that’s what I’ve been up to. Wasting time and money. Relentlessly.

If I Haven’t Been Driven Mad Yet, Please Standby

2011-10-26T12:15:00.001-07:00

Have a seat. I have so much to tell you.

My office

Why, yes… feel free to examine our office’s red 1970s Edition of Encyclopedia Britannica. The nude photos are delightful. Delightful. Can you say CONGO? That lamp does not have a genie in it. Been rubbing that motherfucker since 1983. Noth. ING.

Anyways, I’ve been terribly out of sync as of late. Example: I’ve been shopping at Warehouse Market to save cash lately, as the ~~locusts~~ babies that cometh from my womb can tear up some kitchen perishables. Anywhenthefuckarethesekidsgonnagetjobs, I dress up for grocery store trips, because I was born in 1921 and like to maintain that level of formality. No really, I just like for everyone to know that I’m better than them. Too much?

Anyway, I remarked , via text, to my homegirl Robin that Warehouse Market features some MAJOR weirdos. Weird. OOOOOzzzzz. I’m waltzing through there with my shopping list on my Smartphone, thumbing my nose at everyone I see. I’m all, “So So Fancy. So Important. So much better dressed that you-u-u-u.” Okay. You don’t even wanna know the boundaries of my fanciness, Friends! Cuz there’s not any.

Got out to my vehicle to load my cash saving sundries and edibles, like a pimp. ONLY to discover. My pants were unzipped. Possibly the whole grocery shopping experience. Nothing says, I’m better than y’all then lettin’ the flies out.

What. The Fuck?

Then. Then. Biggest story going on around The Circus. The clowns were fighting and smashed the upstairs flat screen. I wish that were a fucking joke, but alas it was a true occurrence. They are still alive, but grounded just a little more than the law allows. <----- sing that to the Dukes of Hazard.

So the clowns’ Halloween has been cancelled. This Ringmaster doesn’t fuck around, and frankly let’s just be honest---- they best be thanking the universe their dad didn’t kill them. I suspect the thought did initially cross his mind. He had the “scary dad” voice and lots of pacing going on (think caged Tiger). I’ve been working them relentlessly after school and on weekends. They started arguing yesterday for a minute, upon which reality came down upon their heads like a bad outbreak of Listeria.

We’re back on the same page. Today was Crazy Hair Day. I made my kids participate. We did not participate in Tuesday’s Tye-dye. When Chubba (age 10, pictured above) was questioned by his teacher about not participating, he chose that exact moment to quote me “We don’t own tye-dye, because my mom says tye-dye is tacky.” Yeah. He said that. To a woman WEARING TYE-DYE. Soooooo everyone got their hair painted whether they wanted that shit or not. Too bad Chubba didn’t choose to quote me with a “Mom says don’t throw SHIT in the house” when his brother threw the car at his head----- hitting the flat screen. My words escaped him at that moment, I guess.

Bukka, Fat Sucker, and Bunny the Bunny

Tim thinks Bukka (red shirt) looks like Jack LaLane. I have to agree. I’ve become my mother and nobody has had the good sense to alert me. Nagging at my kids last night I shouted, “If I see one more person put their sticky fingers underneath this glass table, leaving food all on the underside, MY HEAD WILL EXPLODE. My head will explode on your butts.” <--- I quite possibly said “ass”

Bukka and Fat Sucker looked were silently shaking with laughter. But seeeeeee. This is where I’m not like my mother, I quickly realized and offered, “Go ahead. Laugh. That was a ridiculously odd threat. Laugh. I’m adult enough to realize when I’m talking like an idiot.”

“Where were you going with that?” Chubba asked.

“As of late, where am I going with anything, for I am a fool,” I wanted to reply.

Great To Meh, All in One Day

2011-10-12T12:14:00.001-07:00

I started out the day in a fantastic mood. I’m wearing my red heels, and they make me insanely happy.

Then I drove to the Lady Doctor so she could take a gander at the Hey Nanny Nanny and give me some refills on the NOMOREDAMNBABIESPLEASE pills. The entire trip was annoying, from the stupid bitch holding up traffic while putting on eyeliner and brushing her hair to the 1 hour backlog going on with the doctor’s appointments. It was almost a waste of a red shoe day, really.

When I finally made it past the waiting room, we moved directly into the ~~cattle call~~ weight and height measurements. Yay. Only not. Am I the only one who starts shedding shoes, purses, and belts like I’m trying to make weight for a high school wrestling tournament? I’m like, “This sweater is bulky. May I get down to my bra and panties in the hallway here for a more accurate depiction?” And by accurate depiction, I mean grasping at straws. Big fat, chocolate lovin’ straws.

Why do they have to announce your weight? I see it. You see it. Shut your goddamn mouth, Princess, before I take it upon myself to just eat you! <------ not in a sexual way, but in a “get in my belly kind of way.” By the way, I like my nurses fat. Fat nurses don’t auction out your weight, says the woman who hides Halloween candy under her desk. Moo.

After feeling like a Red Angus at the county fair, I took a seat in the exam room. They had a new computer system, so I was told I’d have to go through my entire medical history. I’ve had the same doctor for 11 years, so you can imagine my annoyance with the guilt trip on the 5 year smoking addiction I gave up 11 years ago. How many packs a day did I smoke? Fuck if I remember. I can’t remember what I ate for lunch yesterday. I do remember that, as a smoker, I was thinner and less focused on food. Is that relevant? You should put that in the computer.

Good thing I’m healthy, because I had to go over EVERYTHING so this woman could log it into her system.

Then we moved right into frequency of alcohol consumption. I wanted to jump off the exam table and inform Princess Judgey Nurserson, “That’s in my file! The doctor knows I’m a lush. She thinks it’s funny. I think. Probably. I’m here for my Hoo Hoo, not my liver. So unless you’re planning on getting me drunk and taking off my panties, stop talking about my vices. I only have one vice! I’m not running for President. It’s fine.” Instead, I smiled and stretched the truth. “Oh, probably about 2 glasses of red wine a couple of nights a week. Never more than two.” Those of you who have seen me get sloppy and throw my shoes, you may laugh now.

My mood at that point was a little sour by the time my adorable doctor presented herself. Something about having a speculum shoved in your Hey-Nanny-Nanny then peeing in a cup just pushes the mood completely into a dark place.

I need a hamburger and glass of wine now. Maybe even a Kit Kat… from under my desk.

Things I Love Today

2011-10-11T13:44:00.001-07:00

I love this Cat right here. He cracks me the hell up every day. Every. Single. Day. It never fails. He makes me laugh. He takes off running through our house with a plate of freshly baked cookies to get the boys chasing after him, yelling at the top of their lungs, “DADDY SAYS HE’S GOING TO EAT ALL THE COOKIES!” Even though I roll my eyes and the commotion gives me a headache, it never gets old.
When Chubba was 3 years old, Tim told him that rollie pollies bite. You have never seen a kid drop ten rollie pollies in the middle of a driveway so fast. Tim tells me crazy stories, without cracking a smile, to get me in an absolute uproar- only to find out he was just yanking my chain. When crazy shit actually happens, he has a hard time convincing me.

I love my new NAKED by Urban Decay pallet. I love each shade more than sunshine, but the shimmer ones should be approached with caution. Last Tuesday, I looked as though I’d made out with a fairy. With tongue. Side note, if you take a dry cloth to wipe off shimmer, it goes all over your face like you rolled your face back and forth in a Kindergarten art project. I still love this eye makeup though. From it’s velvety case, to it’s fancy brush, to the fact it says NAKED in all capital letter when I open it. I love it. NAKED!

I love my new nightly skincare regimen. So much, in fact, I may marry it. In the past, I had read about the Oil Cleanse Method, and never really took it seriously. I thought it was just for you People of the Dry Skin Variety with zero skin issues--- definitely not me. Then my friend JenP started talking about it one night. She took it even further the next day by sharing this post The Oil-Cleansing Method. I researched it a little bit more. I mean, it’s your face—these things need to be mulled over a bit. So that night she began her oil cleanse journey, and I began mine. I still haven’t the foggiest why we had Castor oil in our medicine cabinet. Weird. Anypoop, I loved it from the word go. My skin felt fantastic and looked really healthy THAT NIGHT. It felt like a facial. The next morning, I noticed a great improvement in the texture of my skin. It just felt better and brighter.

Being the bully I am, I even forced it upon my husband and oldest son. They looked worried when I put the washcloths over their faces. Do I look like the kind of woman to smother someone? Don’t answer that. They only let me try it once (the washcloth thing), but they both said that it did, in fact, make their faces feel nice. I tried to take a break last week--- just to see if I was maybe making a bigger deal out of this new-to-me cleansing method. BUT. I could only forgo the Oil Cleanse one day, because my skin felt horrible the next day. Dull, oilier, and weird.

If you are interested in trying The Oil-Cleanse Method just follow the above link’s instructions. In addition, I found a few other sites that encouraged an occasional real steam, either with an actual facial steam machine or a pan of hot water, in lieu of the washcloth over the face. About once a week, I have been using the pan of hot water with a few herbs. I boil some water then add about one or two herb selections to that hot water. [Herbs such as sage, thyme, rosemary, mint, chamomile] After a five minute with my face over the pan and towel over my head to keep in the steam, I just wipe the oil off with a warm washcloth. AND DONE. It really does feel fantastic!

My Taliban Circa 2009

I love being the mother of all boys. Would not have it any other way! Not only would I emotionally traumatize a girl, but having all boys has honed my reflexes (think a ball’s whizzing at your head, duck anyway) and diving skills (saved many a boy that thought his swimming abilities were beyond what they were in reality). As a mother of all boys, I can ignore and listen at the same time. I can ignore the paper airplanes buzzing around my head, but still hear the silent dismount from the top bunk to the ceiling fan upstairs.

You cannot be uptight for it is not uncommon for a penis to be whipped out and grass made a bathroom right before your eyes… in a Florida condominium parking lot. If you freak out, you’ll end up with pee on your toes.

You cannot be easily offended. As in, “I love to lay my head on your fat tummy, Mommy.” Or “Your butt is very, very, very, very, very, very, very big, Mommy. Do you like your butt when it’s very, very, very, very, very, very big?” Or “Your hair looks like snakes. I like it. I like snakes.”

You have to be able to focus in many directions all at once. Boys’ games require a lot of scattering and running. At. All. Times.

I can always spot mothers of all girls, as their eyes grow wide in horror when they see a little boy reach into his pocket for a smashed worm, as if it were a prize to behold. A mother of all boys will stick her hand out, as if to say GIVE IT, while never even breaking her conversation with her friends. Walking to the trash can, “And so then I said to my boss… blah, blah, blah. Girl, you know that’s right.” Walk to the sink to wash hands. “OMG. I haven’t seen her in forever. How is she?” Then usher the boys back outside. “Stop smashing worms, Please.”

But put me in a room of all girls, and I nearly have an anxiety attack from their squeals and hurt feelings. True. Story. Now don't think that I don't love little girls. I do. They are adorable. I just don't know what to do with them. I think we gear ourselves for what we know. I will say that girls seem to be more helpful and task oriented than boys. I repeat myself no less than 5,000 times a day.

Dear Italy

2011-10-04T14:34:00.001-07:00

Get your shit together immediately! I know your landscape is beautiful and your buildings are fancy, but y’all is crazy!

First the Monster of Florence debacle <----- great book, by the way.

Then the Amanda Knox fiasco. Anyone who looks that much like Mariel Hemingway cannot, I repeat CANNOT be capable of such violence. Did you see Delirious? Hello! I mean, Ciao!

Then last night as I snuggled into bed, watching The ID Channel, I see 20/20 The Lost Boys. Two American fathers fighting to get their sons back. What. The. Fuck, Italy? What the fuck? Is it common there to just forgo all common sense and drag your feet while doing it?

Love,

Summer

I’ll sum this up in a grammatically incorrect nutshell, Folks:

Funnybunnies, enter one Brad Henry. Dated a girl. Took some fetching pictures with her. Called her his fiancé. Problem Numero Uno, Brad: Stephanie’s parents refuse to acknowledge you, and she’s hiding the fact she’s pregnant. So you are not engaged. You’re not. Stephanie takes a vacation to Italy (but says she’s in Mexico City), and comes back sans baby—also sans pregnancy.

Turns out. Crazy Stephanie McItalianCrazison had the baby in the hotel bathroom and limped to a Florence convent to dump the bundle of joy off- like a drive thru, but you receive no fries here. Brad Henry diligently tracks down his son. Provides DNA. Should be done AND DONE, right? No. Not the Italian way, apparently.

Enter one Michael McCarty. Married his Italian Jezebel, who by the way also looked crazy in the provided photos. I’m seeing a pattern of Italian crazy. They divorce, he’s still devoted to his son, she wants more money, and BAM she busts out the YOU’RE a pedophile accusation. He’s exonerated. He files for full custody, because donna is batshit crazy, and she proves everyone correct by taking their son to Italy (apparently a safe net for crazypants). She is in violation of U.S. laws by doing so. Italy does not care, and flips us off while drinking wine and eating pasta. Italy tries him for kid touching over there. I guess they didn’t trust the U.S. Courts, which is like Congress getting mad at the Insurance industry for being a bunch of goddamn thieves. Kettle meet pot. They exonerate him. They find the mom to be CRAZYPANTS. So they take the little boy, and place him in the care of…

-----------------wait for it-------------------------

An orphanage.

Oh. That makes sense, only not. The entire process these two men go through is a circle of endless crazy.

Italy = insanity.

Tim wanted to go to Italy in the next few years. During this episode, I pointed at the TV and screamed, “I’ll be convicted of murdering an exchange student and you’ll end up in an orphanage, Tim! AN ORPHANAGE! Orphans don’t get enough attention, Tim. They just don’t. You could wait for years until a couple adopts you.” He had on headphones and probably thought I was watching Giada. <----------who is also crazy! I can’t prove that…. but who smiles that much? Crazy people, that’s who! I would also mention, she reminds me of Skeletor.

So yeah. That’s why I be like, Fuck Italy.

Monday Random Musings Of A Crazypants

2011-10-03T12:12:00.001-07:00

If I had to be summed up in one word, there are probably 10 people that would say, “Brat.” Know that I am completely okay with that.

It was family weekend, meaning I spent entirely too much time with mine. Kidding. We took The Circus to The State Fair. $2,568,564.00 later… Christ almighty when did The Fair become so damn expensive? Maybe if I saved my money by sporting a mullet and camo throughout the year--- it wouldn’t astound me to pay $900 for one drink and 5 corndogs. I may be exaggerating. Maybe not.

My house is sticky. I clean and clean. And my house… is sticky. After deep investigation, I’ve discovered (as I suspected) BOYS ARE JUST FREAKIN’ GROSS, and I am surrounded by them. They are always running, jumping, sweating, peeing, and eating--- with their sticky hands all over the place. I am the only hoo-hoo in this motherfucker, and I am the only one not stickying (patent pending on that word) the house up. I just cleaned on Saturday, and my wood floors look like a Honky Tonk come Sunday morning. I want to move the boys and Tim outside with Lorek. I just have to find a way to convince them during the harsh winter months that it’s in their best interest.

Lorek says: Coooome. Coommmmme. Velcome to my umble abode!

Meh. I don’t let my dog in my house. Go ahead. Write PETA. I care not. Simmer down. I let him in the garage in the winter. I’m not physically able to sleep in the same structure as my dog, as he smells like a pig’s butthole. Even after a bath. Even after a rigorous anal expressing done by professionals. By the way, if I knew how to express his anal glands… I’d do it. I never shy from any task that makes the world smell prettier, especially when it saves me buttloads (ahahaha) of money.

Can’t motivate myself to workout. I easily slide right in to eating left over Fair Cotton Candy, but not yoga, Pilates, the elliptical, and Jillian Michaels is like ghosts---- if I don’t acknowledge, she isn’t real. Pink cotton candy is my favorite.

I want a warm, sweet, caffeinated beverage STAT, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. This makes me entirely more angry than it should. Refer back to musing #1.

Currently, kicking around the idea of starting a cult. A cult for sensible people, of course. There will be no mass suicides or matching uniforms. Sorry to disappoint. I hate Kool-Aid and the thought of 70 people dressing a like makes my brain hurt. Also, if your kids are fucking bad, you can’t join. Don’t even apply.

Speaking of parenting. Some of you are doing it wrong. I’m not judging you, it’s just an observation. I’ve also observed that some of you doing it wrong—of the overindulgence persuasion--- like to judge the stricter parents, like myself. I could give a rat’s ass. Truly.

I took my children to the park on Saturday and noticed the playground had more fucking adults than kids on it. Kids that were well old enough to explore the playground while mom and dad watched from a distance on the provided park benches. You people make me nervous! I don’t know if you’re there helping your 6 year old with the monkey bars, or if you are a pedophile. If your child is old enough, get out of the sand. Let them make temporary playground friends like we did as kids. You see them for 1-3 hours and never again, sometimes never even learning their names—Kid in blue. Kid with snot. The kid with the hair.

See I’m not a helicopter parent, but I’ll holler like a fishwife if one of my boys breaks a rule 10 feet from me. It is not uncommon for me to calmly holler one of my children’s entire name. Example: "Bukka -------- ---------, get back on the sand. You leave the area again, and we’ll pack it up, Sir. We. Will. Pack. It. Up.” I gave them middle names with the full intention on screaming it, just like my momma did and her mother before her. I lay the rules down when we come on scene. Break them, and Houston we will have a problem. I rarely get up unless someone’s hurt. If I get up because they are being bad, my kids know that the wrath of Satan is about to be leashed upon them. So that being said, Fat Sucker threw sand in the faces of the other children. Before I could say anything, my 10 year grabbed him and said, “Dude. Don’t throw sand! Are you trying to blind everyone?” It was over. Fat Sucker didn’t throw sand again. I didn’t have to holler. Helicopter mom following her 6 year old boy gasped at my 10 year old’s tone with his little brother. Gasped. I thought about throwing sand in her face. I really did. She was an overreactor that needed to pay more attention to her situation than mine. Her son kept running from her--- probably wanting her to get the fuck off the sand. See my 10 year old knew that if Fat Sucker threw sand again, we would all have to leave (we're like the Marines, no one gets left behind)- all have to leave because one person wanted to throw sand, which let’s face it… major Playground Faux Pas. Fat Sucker has to learn sometime, and Chubba and Bukka were not ready to go. I’m sure if I had been standing right next to Fat Sucker, as she was with her 6 year old, I’d been able to grab his chubby hand to prevent him from dusting the crowd. Let’s face it though, you have to let them throw the sand and piss everyone off, or there’s no lesson learned. Otherwise, he would have thrown sand the next time. There so. Bask. Bask in my infinite wisdom.

I still need that caffeinated beverage. Anyone. Anyone.

It’s Friday. You Ain’t Got No Job. You Ain’t Got Shit To Do.

2011-09-30T13:45:00.001-07:00

It’s all fun and games until you are victimized by a lazy fat chic specializing in Identity Theft and Uttering Forged Instruments. True story. Someone hacked one of my job’s checking accounts and created several fake company checks under fictitious company names. One such pretend name…

Pirkle and Dirkle Soulfood Restaurant. <-------- What the hell?

I’m just wondering the brainstorming session behind that one. I visualize Five Methie Trailer Trashers crowded around a PC in a wooden paneled run down trailer house, high as a kite. “Let’s call it the Pirkle and Dirkle…”

Clever.

Can you almost smell the broken down, stained, plush microfiber blue couch? Anycatpiss, know that I Googled one of these fine specimens that signed three checks. Fat. Poor. Greasy. In each of the 11 mugshots, the laziness oozed from her unwashed skin like a melted Braum’s chocolate malt . Princess Lazabout-thiefmuffin had a rap sheet a mile long for this sort of thing. In fact, she’d just been released a few years ago from her last of several stints in the pokey. At what point do you stop signing your real name, Shonna? AT. WHAT. POINT. Do you just go get a damn job. This incident reeked havoc on my entire week. Closing and opening company accounts is not easy. Is not fun. Is not quick. Not to mention the increased stress levels regarding how easy lazy butts can do this sort of thing. It also set a snowball effect in motion for the standard of my week. That which begins in bullshit and chaos, ends in bullshit and chaos.

We’ll move on after I say this last thing about that.

Bitch, I hope you at least bought some soap and shampoo in that $100 worth of shit you purchased at the Dollar Store!

Stay Classy…

Hot Stuff

2011-09-21T08:52:00.001-07:00

After two weeks of eating crap food, I started a cleanse this morning of the warm water, lemon juice, honey, and cayenne pepper variety.

Sounds easy, right? Yep. Easy like swallowing a gasoline soaked fire ball.

Doesn’t look so menacing here

Let’s go ahead and focus, for a minute, on that cayenne pepper. Pinch of cayenne pepper it said. Just a pinch. My hands must be large, because now my tongue is gone. Or was that part of the cleanse? I don’t know.

What I do know is that cayenne pepper was not meant to be drank. EVER. Write that shit down, take a picture, and put it in your pocket. And yes, I will be drinking that horrid concoction tomorrow morning. It’s just for 3 days, and I love punishing myself.

Hopefully, the cleanse will get my sugar addiction back in control. Two weeks ago, PMS took my love of sugar to a whole different level. Don’t You People start on me! AND I most certainly mean You People. Last time I tried to give up sugar, You People came at me with the, “You’re going feel so much better. I gave up all sugar 5 years ago. Don’t miss it at all. blah. blah. blah. I just eat blueberries when I want something sweet.”

That picture is to a fat chic… what Drano is to a Meth head! The possibilities are endless.

Blueberries. Shut the fuck up! I’m not positive or happy about giving up sugar. At. All. BECAUSE I’m not giving it up. Frankly, I’m fucking angry about just cutting back on sugar, but I know it’s necessary. I mean when you’ve consumed so much sugar (via coffee, pastries, afternoon cookies) that you are shaking at 3 pm, you may have an issue.

So I’ll begin by cutting it out for a few days. Try. I will try.

I said, I’LL TRY! I hate Splenda. I hate Truvia. I hate substituting strawberries for a cookie. It’s not the same, so stop saying it’s the same.

Told you that I was angry, and the cayenne pepper did nothing to stem the flow of negative feelings I have right now. My lunch will consist of an apple, cucumber, blueberry smoothie. That’s so fucking annoying, the thought of it makes me want to punch myself in the face right now. Right. In. The. Face.

OR better yet. I’d like to throw cayenne pepper in the face of the next bitch that says, “Oh. I don’t eat sugar. Not a sweets eater.” Well on any given day, I’d like to funnel white sugar, brown sugar, some butter, and a little Mexican vanilla straight down my GD throat. Not exactly straight down my throat, as my tongue would like to savor the granules delicately before swallowing.

See.

I have a problem.

Swollen

2011-09-13T12:20:00.001-07:00

I may be allergic to my Mentos Strawberry Chewing Gum, which is a fucking shame, as it is refreshingly yummy. And yes, I am partaking in the berry goodness while typing this. And yes, my lips are swelling up like Lisa Rinna during a maintenance visit as we speak. Some people immediately stop and forgo anymore contact with the antigen causing their throat to swell shut. Not me, I like to pop a Benadryl and say goodbye. A characteristic my husband believes will one day lead to coma, but whatever.

There are mixed feelings in my paunch. Although I am saddened by this last hooray with the flavorful harvest going on in my enlarging clam right now, I am relived it is not the Spirulina or Wheatgrass purchased on Saturday at the local Hippy Barn for the bargain price of $2,563,589,256.00 per ounce.

I purchased Spirulina and Wheatgrass after reading this post on Clear Skin Smoothies, from a new (to me) blog I’m stalking. Because I am a visual eater and doer, I was like, “Hell yeah!”

Ya know what we need here?

Smoothies.

Smoothies are what we need here.

And so there were smoothies.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn (lie), I became Little Miss Jamba Juice in my very own kitchen, less the hat and teenage awkwardness. My family loved my smoothies, yet I was missing the fancypants items like Spirulina and Wheatgrass. I am a fancybitch with fancybitch ways, so I clumsily ransacked the Hippy Barn for said items, while simultaneously fending off the Hipsters with their No-Bread- Bread Wrapped in Kelp with a Shot of Wheatgerm samples. “~~No Bitch. I just had some pancakes. Get that shit out of my fucking face~~. No thanks. No really. No thanks. No thank you. I bet they are very yummy. They smell delicious, ~~like cardboard on a campfire.~~ No thanks.”

After being molested by kids who brush their teeth green tea and kindling—and acquiring some much needed chewing gum from a normal grocery store with tacky dressed people on Rascals, I returned home with what I needed.

I mix it up everyday, but sticking to the basics--- I throw the following into a blender

1 cup of frozen spinach

1-2 Bananas

1 cup of frozen strawberries

1/4 cup of Greek yogurt

1 TBSP Coconut oil

1/2 a cup to 1 cup of juice

1 TBSP of honey

1 scoop of Wheatgrass

1 scoop of Spirulina

*if not utilizing frozen berries, add a little ice for a better consistency

These green smoothies are magic and create the closest feeling (legal) feeling to Zen. Thank you Crunchy Betty!!!! You guys should check her out!

Anyhowfarcanabitchgetsidetracked, after the second day of my new tree hugging breakfasts, ~~I almost parked my Dodge Hemi extended cab Ram for good~~ my lips began to swell. And third day, I felt my throat get really tight (told you—I don’t quit shit easily, I pressed on). Tim laughed. You did not misread that. He finds my potential for anaphylactic shock hilarious… only because he loves to say the word “Spirulina” over and over again like Pitbull’s Gasolina.

Turns out though, it’s the gum that I chewed each of those days, and even today when I went without a smoothie at all.

Dick move, Mentos. Dick move.

Sin City Scourge

2011-09-08T13:43:00.001-07:00

Come. Sit down.

I’ve prepared frosty mugs of crazy for everyone, and you’ll all drink it to the last drop.

Episode 9: Ballerinas to Showgirls—Las Vegas

Thank GAWD. We can legally just turn these kids into prostitutes. I mean, they’re already dressed for it, and dance costumes don’t pay for themselves. I kid.

Feathers. Sequins. Boas. and Headdresses. Oh my.

So we begin at a studio with the Board of Doom. I was so worried the Board didn’t travel, but there it is in Las Vegas. Eeeeek!!!!! Each girls’ picture was covered with red construction paper. I love how the pyramid order is never based on talent or awards, just strictly who Abby likes to doesn’t like or whose mom has pissed Abby off.

The first photo was unveiled, revealing a Red X going through Vivi’s face, like this. Going forward, I will be Red Xing faces when people displease me.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

Really though. Every six year old should see their picture with an enormous Red X through it. Builds character. I might have thought twice about quitting the Brownies had Miss Karen presented us with a Board of Doom. Just sayin… Although Vivi is a quitter by association, in the fact her mother quit for her, (Vivi just being six and all, oh and she technically drive herself to competitions) an example has to be made… with a large Red X. I’m currently in the market for a Board of Doom myself to rank everyone upon. Family. Friends. Neighbors.

We gradually made our way up the pyramid to Nia, not top row but very close. Abby curtly relays the following, “You won. Your mom better shut the fuck up now. I think we can all agree… Abby Lee Miller is a goddamn genius. Told ya so. ” (I may have paraphrased)

Up. Up. Up.

This is where it gets tricky. Chloe was at the top of the pyramid, because Maddie has been give the week off. But. But But. Abby’s body language and conversation indicated that the top of the pyramid may not be a good thing this week.

Oh. Abby. I love how you mix it up so a kid can have that continued knot in her belly.

That’s why they make Prevacid. Abby Lee Miller = Job Creator.

The group number acted out the Seven Deadly Sins, but there’s not seven girls. I was disappointed that Abby didn’t grab a 3 year old from another class to represent Lust. It’s just something I thought she would do, because she’s classy and whatnot. HOWEVERCOMMA Abby Lee did not disappoint. She assigned each girl with a sin associated with their mom’s offenses toward Abby. I’ve found the pattern! Everything begins and ends with Abby Lee Miller.

Guess who’s ENVY?

Didn’t see that coming, did you? Little Miss Top of The Pyramid. Each assignment was a dig at each girl and her mother. This kind of power could go to anyone’s head.

Abby brings a stripper friend of hers from way back. A showgirl actually who deems it appropriate to talk about how she worked topless with children around the age of 9. Classssssy.

So while the girls were slaving away in the studio, the moms take a limo to Drunkpants Lane. The venue was Minus 5. If one more punny was attempted in correlation to the temperature, my head was going to explode. You are not funny, you are bitchy. Proceed accordingly. As they enter the bar, each patron was given winter wear. Is this communal? Are we bleaching this in temperatures over 160 degrees? My high school boyfriend obtained a bad case of lice from Branson, MO in one of those sepia photos where the attire was communal. I’m certain he never looked a Daniel Boone raccoon cap the same after that. His mom hung the “lice photo” in her living room.

While the ~~whores~~ moms were getting schnockered, Abby took the girls for ice cream. I was surprised, only not. I’m a fat girl; therefore, I can make fat girl jokes! During ice cream, Abby tells the girls they are responsible for keeping their mothers out of her hair. I felt that was poor ice cream conversation. Don’t give me bad news when I’m shoveling in Neapolitan. OR We. Will. Have. A. Fucking. Problem.

We did actually see a softer side of Abby, joking and laughing with the girls. A large bowl of ice cream could save the world. It’s hard to be an asshole while eating such delicious goodness, unless you’re lactose intolerant… in which case, sucks to be you.

Camera pans to the next morning at the pool, about 7 am I suspect, the moms were drinking while being awkwardly hit on by The Jersey Shore. I had to wash my eyes out with bleach, and made a solemn vow to never dip into a public pool EVER again.

Kelly was so enraged her left eye is about to twitch out of her head. Her girls costumes suck a big fat toe. Kelly is tired of it. It’s always her girls. She is a victim. Her life is awful. Bad costumes mean the world is ending.

Paige’s costume was a little big. It probably could have been quickly pinned, but Kelly made Abby pull the number. Kelly went on to throw an enormous hissy fit in the hallway of a hotel. Yay. Abby essentially abjures both Paige and her mother, Kelly. (Sorry True Blood reference) I think we all know who will have the Red X through their face next week. Paige’s sister, Brooke will have one through her face and soon to be arthritic shoulder as well, as the sisters have both lived in the same womb at one point in time.

Pan to Crazy Cathy. After her falling out with Abby she returned to Candy Apple’s Dance Studio. Let us pause here and ponder why Apple is possessive and not plural.

I can only come up with… because Cathy is fucking crazy.

Guess who is headed to Hollywood to go head to head with Abby Lee Dance Studio. You better your candied ass it’s Cathy. She’s bring Danny Bonaduce.

You did not misread. Cathy somehow reversed Danny Bonaduce back to 1975 and made a dancer out of him. Rich people can do things like that. She’s also bringing Vivi as “ammunition.” Vivi has the inside scoop against Abby Lee. If by inside scoop, Cathy means look of utter confusion tinged with longing to escape back to the Guatemalan orphanage Cathy stole her from… why then yes. She’s their inside scoop. Americans are fucking crazy, Vivi. They are fucking CRAZY. Crazy Cathy is hatching out a diabolical plan, and I for one CANNOT wait to see it unfold.

I left out the fact there was an enormous argument between Abby and ~~Wanda Holloway~~ Christi. It’s getting a little old for me.

Dance Moms

2011-08-31T14:17:00.001-07:00

Let’s just lay all the cards on the table. Oh. Oh. Me. Me. Me. I’ll go first.

I may or may not have caught on to the phenomenon of Dance Moms. I may or may not love it more than Sour Patch Kids, and Mama loves some sour goodness upon her tongue.

I explained it to my family like this, “The instructor is batshit fucking crazy, the moms are insane bitches that allow their daughters to dress like whores. Say what you want, but I’ll tell ya--- That’s just good programming right there!”

CUE my favorite cast members!

Abby Lee Miller

If you did not catch her name the first 70 times, do not worry--- you’ll catch it when it comes around the 785 times after commercial break. Abby. Lee. Miller.

I’m working on a drinking game that goes a little something like this.

Abby Lee- take a shot
Abby Lee Miller Dance Studio (or Dance Company)- down your entire alcoholic beverage
Technique- run around the living room a Chinese Fire Drill-type fashion.

It’s still in the chalkboard phase. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Look back up there at that photo. Is that the face of a woman you want to fuck with? I’ll answer that for you… No. You. Do. Not. Don’t let the carefree way Abby Lee tosses those sexy curls fool you. Don’t let the embellishments or pleats on that simple, yet slimming shirt deceive you. in. ANY. way.

This bitch means biznezz!

We came here to DANCE! Well not all of us, per say… technically Abby’s not physically able to shake a leg. BUT she will verbally abuse the hell out of all around her until they prance around like graceful swans, mindful of pointed toes… unless Abby thinks you should be dancing more like LaQuifa. Upon which, you will booty pop the hellllll outta that 10 year old ass. I said, DROP IT LIKE IT’S FUCKING HOT.

When Abby Lee isn’t screeching intimidations like, “Imma take that hair around her neck AND CHOKE HER,” then she’s shouting at the moms living vicariously through their daughters to GO RUN ERRANDS OR GO BACK TO THEIR little glass lounge in the sky. Every time her voice cracks, I want to toss ~~Big Mama~~ Abby Lee a Ricola before her larynx shuts down completely. Is Abby’s voice hoarse from screaming, or Dear Reader, is she screaming because her voice is hoarse? I ask you. Egg? Chicken? We may never know the answers to life’s most mysterious questions..

If Abby doesn’t smoke, she should start, tomorrow. I would like to make a suggestion that she actually smoke in the dance studio, and blow it in the children’s faces like Cruella de Vil when they fuck up a dance number. REGIONALS, GIRLS. YOU EITHER WANT IT OR YOU DON’T *blow it in THE face of chorus girl not watching her TECHNIQUE* FROM THE TOP! FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!

Can we all agree this endearing soul only behaves like we would all (yes even you) behave if we were overweight, bipolar, middle aged women who were given the opportunity to verbally assault Stepford Wives every single day? Tell me you wouldn’t, and I’ll call you a liar! Abby, clearly, loathes children and moms, but has cleverly devised a plan to be in constant contact with both DAILY!

I hate kids. You should open a business that strictly deals with dramatic young girls and their hovering, spoiled mothers.. AND there’ll be SEQUINS!!! WIN- WIN… and WIN!

Oh. Cathy.

Candy-coated. Crazy as a loon. Cunt to your face with a smile upon hers. Creepy parenting style.

Cathy.

Cathy, donning furs and jewelry I suspect was recovered from the Titanic wreckage.

Cathy just wants Vivi to be famous, which is probably why she drags her 6 year old from her very own Cathy’s Candy Apple Dance Studio to Abby Lee Dance Studio. I mean, it makes sense-- there were already cameras at Abby’s. I can’t help but wince every time the production team interviews Vivi alone, and she mentions she has no desire to dance or be famous. Poor Vivi. When Cathy sees these tapes, Vivi will be holding side plank for three days straight. A strong core is very important.

Cathy wants to be fancy, but the hair is just throwing it all off for me. Oh, and the fact she’s a fucking haggard cunt that had the audacity to tell the other moms they need Botox. Really Cathy? Seriously? Are we handing out beauty tips. Let’s focus on that Cocker Spaniel that died on your head, and give Edith Russell back her closet of fur coats. Perhaps trade Edith for the hats. You need hats, Cathy! Or fix your goddamn fro.

Melissa

Never has someone so fucking irrelevant and boring intrigued me so. I would like to note that if one is donning an off the shoulders blouse, one should straighten and throw the shoulders back. Bitch, stop slouching!

I’m not sure why I like Melissa. Maybe it’s the continually confused look on Melissa’s face like an Alzheimer’s patient escaped from supervision. Maybe it’s her timid head jerking gestures that lead me to believe one day she will be on Snapped. Or it may be the fact her daughters are both insanely talented.

Melissa is timid. Unless, of course, you are Melissa’s 6 year old daughter, and you shyly decline a singing audition with a talent scout. Then HOLY SHIT you’ve never seen Miss Confused jump up a child’s ass sideways without a map or moment’s hesitation. I was half expecting, “ WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU SAID NO? I DON’T SUCK DICKS EVERY AFTERNOON TO PAY FOR THESE GODDAMN LESSONS SO YOU CAN POLITELY DECLINE. THERE’S NO WAY BUT UP, SWEETHEART. YOU BETTER GET YOUR LITTLE ASS OUT THERE WITH SOME SWING LOW, SWEET CHARIOT!” to fall from Melissa’s passive lips. She didn’t though. After her initial and somewhat shocking outburst, accompanied with the head jerking, Melissa conveyed her message with short, tight lips, and lots of slamming around. Hello. Passive Aggressive. Always good to see ya.

~~Wanda Holloway~~ Christi

You can take the girl out the trailer park, but you cannot, repeat CANNOT, take the trailer park out the girl.

True story.

Christi is bananas with a capital B. She’s obsessed with Melissa’s daughter Maddie. Not in a molesty kind of way, but in a Texas Cheerleader Mom kind of way. She seethes every time Abby Lee praises Maddie. My stomach tightens with anxiety right before the after performance pyramid that Abby puts together in “who Abby is please with most to least” order.

The intensity of Christi’s jealously scares the fuck out of me, and Maddie should definitely make sure the windows in her room are secure every night, and forgo any participation when it’s Christi’s Snack Night. Just saying. Check that Snack Schedule before every performance, Maddie. Howevercomma Christi’s daughter Chloe is the sweetest 10 year ever featured on a reality show. So I guess that counts for something.

Wednesdays are now delightfully entertaining. It’s like Toddlers & Tiaras meets The Nutcracker! Now that you are up to speed, I will be reviewing this show weekly.

Change of Pace

2011-08-29T13:48:00.001-07:00

I’ve been in a horrible rut of late. So after a short self diagnosis, I prescribed myself- more nature. I miss nature. At this point in my life, I haven’t made time for it. My boys have not ever camped. THAT. is. ridiculous. Oh, sure. They’ve fished and played in lakes. We are avid pool goers. BUT none of this is the same as being mono e mono with nature.

All kids can benefit from nature. SOOOOO I put my foot down and declared this weekend… Cram As Much Nature in Two Days As Possible Weekend.

My husband was thrilled. Only not. But he didn’t want us to be murdered by a “crazy” in the woods, or perhaps he just thought I’d lose one of the boys. SOoooooo he came along.

Day #1

Hiking

Spider Webs…. blahcccch.

Bukka leading the way with his hiking stick

During the middle of our hike.

Bukka is pissed off because Daddy accidently stepped on the tip of the hiking stick breaking a little off. Also note Fat Suckers head in his little hands, because…

Guess who hates hiking… Fat Sucker (who now wants us to call him Dr. Wilson- ??? Go figure.)

Chubba was in his element, he loves nature

Day #2

The Creek

My old stomping grounds, where my cousins and I would hunt crawdads, stab at fish, snorkel with sunburned backs, acquire leeches in awkward areas, trespass onto land shamelessly, chase bulls, and so forth.

It was a huge success with my boys. They loved every bit of it.

Fishin’ and Floaties

Chubba made friends upon arrival. You have a fishing net, you will make friends at a creek.

Someone borrowed his brother’s net

The “coveted net” passed through many hands

Except Dr. Wilson (formerly known as Fat Sucker), so he started throwing rocks at them. I should have stopped the Good Doctor, but I was the youngest child. I was a “no net” sympathizer.

Looking for crawdads.

I am posting this horrible photo, against my better judgment. The options for photos with me in it were this one, one of me slipping and falling, and one of me stuffing watermelon in my mouth. Thanks, Tim.

Walking Calamity In A Sports Bra

2011-08-24T14:09:00.001-07:00

You need to know these three things about me.

I am clumsy.

I am awkward when not looking my best.

I can be creepy when anxious or embarrassed.

Dollar Store.

I made the mistake of journeying to the Dollar Store for Comet, Bleach, and fabric softener immediately after my workout last night. My hair was greasily, slicked back in a fashion that can only convey “I hate when wispies tickle my face when I’m forcing my fat ass on the elliptical.” The back of my yoga pants were drenched in sweat. Classy. Stuff. I’m fairly certain the aroma of feet wafted off my tits as I walked by. What are you gonna do though? I needed stuff, and had to seize the opportunity while the kids were eating dinner and the husband was immersed in ESPN. The latter being a total shocker. Only not. Football season is upon us.

Cautiously. Embarrassingly. Enter. The. Store.

I’m tall so I don’t blend in to the background, no matter how I try. Unfortunately.

Tall, sweaty bitch, COMIN’ through, People.

So I grabbed a shopping cart, ducked down, and made my way into an aisle away from prying eyes. The store was freakin’ packed.

I awkwardly (told ya) tried to keep in aisles that were vacated. Long story short… I was lurking (creepy). Weirdly enough, down aisles that did not contain anything I needed. With the sudden realization of that fact, I became temporarily confused, and wandered down the oral hygiene aisle, and ran smack dab into some teenagers that did, in fact, look at me like I was dirty.

In their defense, I was dirty.

So I quickly and very awkwardly (there it is again) turned the small Dollar Store shopping cart around… only the cart would go no further then vertically positioned in the aisle. The aisle of floss, paste, brushes, mouthwash, and Neosporin (hello, random).

So I did what any tall, dirty, awkward person would do. I forced the basket toward me. Right into.

My fucking stomach. Knocking the breath from me.

However, I would not be deterred. I would not let the pain show. Of course not. Pssssht.

I began what could have possibly resembled (to bystanders) a knock-down, drag-out with my small Dollar Store shopping cart. I push it forward hitting the shelves and backwards only to find there was a basket in the floor preventing me from doing so.

If no one was looking, they are now. Metal to metal. Metal to plastic. Loud. I’ve single-handedly created a quite ruckus where others are shopping for bridge cleaners, and I don’t even need one fucking thing. in. this. aisle.

So I did what anyone who was creepily wandering around a Dollar Store would do. I gently kicked the obtrusive yellow basket on the floor. Kicked it ever so slightly. Only, I’m not small. I’m not meek. I kicked that sonofabitch, and it shot 5 feet from me slamming into a shelf at the end of the aisle (that I didn’t even need to be in). Clumsy.

Giggles from the teenagers could now be heard at the craziness before them. So why not take it further?

Don’t worry. I fully intend on it. I said, “Fucking Christ Almighty!” A. Little. Bit. Louder. Than. I. Had. Initially. Intended.

It was one of those moments when you let it slip from your lips, then your environment becomes unnaturally quiet.

More or less it sounded like, FUCKING CHRIST ALMIGHTY!!! to patrons 7 aisles over, possibly even to the back of the store..

So I ran. Not walked. With said cart to the fabric softener area, as the teenagers look at me. #crazybitchwithacart

At this point, I was blushing uncontrollable, maybe even shaking.

Fabric softener.

Let it go. Breathe, Summer. Breathe.

I picked up bottles of fabric softener to smell. Mountain rain. Yellow sunshine. Freshly picked bouquet.

A small beep to the left of me caused me to jump, and I don’t mean a small hop. I mean a “she’s gonna dunk it” jump. Sloshing blue liquid all over my face. AND scaring the hell out of the guy answering his phone standing to the left of me.

He and I just stood there staring. So I laughed and carefully turned my battered little cart in the opposite direction.

I rolled into a knickknack aisle for 20 minutes to gain composure. Then got the hell out of Dodge.

To recap. I am awkward, clumsy, AND creepy.

Signs

2011-08-16T14:19:00.001-07:00

I may be going through some things. Maybe.

Scene One

In route to Meet the Teacher Night—I was driving… into a packed parking lot that I like to refer to as the 9th Gate to Hell.

Let me preface, I never get road rage. On a normal day, that’s not me.

After last night, I can sympathize with those afflicted by the disorder. I could have easily shot another driver in the face, then enjoyed a chili cheese coney.

Me: Jesus Fucking Christ Almighty, Lady. Are you waiting for an invitation into the parking lot? OMG. I hate her.

Me: Are you kidding me? She just held up traffic in this parking lot for 2 minutes and then passively let the other car take the spot. She just laid down without so much of a gesture. OMG, PEOPLE, DRIVE like you mean it!!! Make a plan, and execute it. Kids, did you see? They were both driving Jeep Cherokees. Going forward, everyone driving a Jeep Cherokee will be known as a fucking idiot. Make a note of it!

All three boys, nodded their heads solemnly… basking in my infinite wisdom.

5 seconds later

Tim (giggling along with our oldest son): Um… that guy is yelling and pointing at you.

Me: I give a shit. Why does that concern me?

Tim: You splashed him.

Me: What the hell are you talking about, I splash him? I did not.

Tim (dying laughing): You drove through that puddle, and splashed him. Baaaaaaaa. You splashed him. hahahahahahaha.

Me: What fucking puddle? Well. If he doesn’t have enough GD sense to get away from a puddle, I can’t help him. Fuck him. God help that man, if he sees us and says something. If he’s going to cry over a GD puddle, imagine the tears he’ll spill went I kick him right in the head. I bet he won’t be pointing his finger and yelling then. He probably deserved to be splashed anyway. As an adult, if I were walking close to a puddle in this crazy ass parking lot and were splashed, I’d blame myself. I mean was I supposed to go head on with a Tahoe so Pretty Ricky doesn’t get mud on his arm. *mutters to self* I hate that guy.

Chubba, my oldest son: I didn’t know that could happen, except on TV.

Tim: Anything is possible when your mom is driving. Anything.

________________________________________

Scene Two

Pumping gas.

Hear Free Bird by Lynard Skynard blaring from the windows of a dirty monster truck at the pump in front of me. I was outraged and disgusted… because you know, it affects me on a day to day basis. Only not, but it makes sense when PMS has breeched hazardous levels.

I glared at the guy pumping his gas, who by the way was shirtless with one of those stupid tribal tats around his bicep. I swear to Little Baby Jesus he had a tiny rebel flag in the back window to match his obviously tiny penis. He looked up and smiled friendly, until my dark stare took him aback.

I could smell the fear and gasoline. Mainly, gasoline.

I glared and seethed like a psychopath, until he hastily turned down his Free Bird. There were too many clichés laid at my feet not to be upset. I mean, very upset.

I continued to glare, then cranked up Hole as I left.

You should learn when to go!

YOU SHOULD LEARN HOW TO SAY NO!

After leaving the gas station, I stopped to get a candy bar. Chocolate has the ability to solve all problems, even those of mental instability. It brings a balance.

I drove in silence shoving chocolate in my mouth wondering what in the fuck just happened at the gas station with the Free Bird Guy. What would ever possess me to become so affected by a stranger’s douchieness (word patent pending)?

_________________________________________

Scene Three

Noticed while in the bank drive through that one of the tellers is no longer there (4th time). The portly teller had a little bit of an attitude 85% of the time.

“Good,” I thought smugly, “I know that fat bitch talked about me on the other side of the window. Clearly, judging my hair after my lunchtime run. Guess what, Fatty, one of us exercises on an incline of 12 during their lunch break, AND by one of us—we both know it ain’t you. ”

Um… what. the. fuck? Who. Am. I? What the hell was that about?

Wow.

Scene Four

A friend of mine posted on Facebook that she had a horrific day. I concurred that the day was indeed stupid for me as well, but autocorrect changed “stupid” to “syphilis.” I almost left it. It pleased me greatly. I’ve never had syphilis, but I imagine it sucks really bad.

So from now on, “This day had syphilis all over it.”

So yeah… no PMS here. None. At. All.

Little Boys That Cry Wolf. Literally.

2011-08-11T14:21:00.001-07:00

I can be a grumpy son of a…

Bukka and the Fat Man were most of the night, starting at midnight until roughly the weeeeee hours of the morning.

“Meth binge?” you ask.

Nay.

Sickness?

Nope.

Culprit?

Alleged wolf behind their TV.

I know, right. If they weren’t 3 and 4 years of age, you would say, “Are you high? Go back back to fucking sleep, Crazypants. Some of us have jobs to attend in a few hours. Unfortunately, not the people seeing wolves! So you need to get a job, or get a hold of yourself.”

But alas, they are little so you have to do the softer, “There’s no wolf. You were dreaming then somehow convinced your brother of the impending danger. Then both your imaginations ran wild, thus concocting a fictitious story about a wolf in our house. Behind your TV. Go back to bed, Honey. Don’t make me come up here for the 90th time. It’s probably not going to be as compassionate as the 89 times before. I’m three screams away from waking your dad to handle this.”

A wolf? Yes, a wolf. AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! (99 times)

I would also like to mention that there isn’t any room for a spider to crawl between their TV and the wall, much less a goddamn wolf. Kids. Facts. Measurements. It matters not.

I just know before it was all said and done, Tim had his eerily calm, borderline psychotic voice bouncing in a near whisper off the hallway to our bedroom. He will argue about said voice, but when he’s right before the breaking point of the LOUD DAD YELL—he projects the scariest voice ever. It’s a calm melody with intense crazy eyes. Apparently, small children are not as affected by this voice as grown women and pre-teen boys. Tim does that voice with Chubba and I, and we shut the hell up. Well, Chubba does. I keep on… but inside I’m nervous and scared.

Bukka and the Fat Man were not giving up, until Tim and I both did our LOUD MOMMY AND DADDY voice. By then, it was after 3 AM.

The Circus is tired today. Two of us were able to sleep it off after lunch. Two of us were not able to sleep it off. All hands are not on deck today. If anyone mentions a wolf, my head may very well explode.

_______________________________________

I forgot to mention, I need your positive thoughts, prayers, etc…

Bukka starts Pre-K next week. I’m nervous. He’s very quirky and difficult and wonderful. Please God, let this woman get him.

Please let her enjoy boys that like frogs in their pockets and squashed bugs. Let her delight in Transformers, Spider Man, Power Rangers, pirates, heavy machinery, and stories about scary wolves who like to eat small children.

Bukka is a boy. A real boy. Not one with highlights in his hair that holds his teacher’s hand, picks daisies, and professes his love for pretty little girls.

Bukka runs, he jumps, he yells, he destroys,

with his imagination he creates boats, space craft, trucks, buses, storms, and oceans full of peril that require noise decibels beyond comprehension

he’s been known to tell you (in matter of fact manner) when you have gained weight or your hair looks like snakes,

sometimes he smiles so hard that his dimples take up his entire face, sometimes he glares

he’d rather give you a thumbs up than a hug,

he often sports a blackened eye, bruise, or cut lip from one of his various adventures that always involve giving me more gray hair,

he proudly sports a Mohawk and will gladly tell you that his Papa says “he and his brother look like an Indian War Party come to burn down some wagons”—they gladly clamor around with war screeches on pretend ponies,

he will never want your help—even when he so obviously needs it,

sometimes he says nothing at all- nothing- he’s typically sizing up the situation,

if he decides he doesn’t like you - ice cream is the only component to make him change his mind,

he will not bully but he will always up the ante of the situation about 10 notches when provoked

Are these traits that only a mom can love? Please God. Let her get him.

Vacation Reviews

2011-08-08T12:03:00.001-07:00

Too bad this blog can’t write itself, because I think we’d all be better off.

AnyIwillspareyoufromtheIambusyway, we returned from our Destin, Florida vacation. It was my first time in Florida. Hmmm. What can I say about Florida? It’s gorgeous, warm, humid. AND It’s very white, and I’m not just talking about the sand, People. There are a lot of white people. Many white tourists. Very few minority tourists. To the point when I saw someone of color aside from my small family, I pointed and said, “LOOK Black/Mexican/Asian people. Yay!” I kid. Sort of.

Speaking of which, let me get this short letter out of the way.

_________________________________________________

Dear Paranoid Old White Lady,

There’s no need to clutch your dirty, tapestry purse (definitely a garage sale find) every time my husband or sons pass. 1) We’re on a goddamn boat in the middle of the fucking ocean looking for dolphins. Where, pray tell, would a purse snatcher run? 2) I’m 99.9% sure you have nothing we want, including that fucking tacky ass purse that makes me want to scream CARPETBAGGER every fucking time you white knuckled past us.

Please get over yourself, and pay closer attention to the “get er done” dude sitting next to you. He looks like he would have absolutely no problems slapping an old woman, grabbing her purse, then floating to shore with the help of his enormous belly. I’m quite certain he might know someone interested in garage sale purses and their contents. Oh, that was your son? My bad.

Sincerely,

White Chic carrying the camera worth more than your fucking used car

__________________________________________________

I think we can all agree, she made be a bitch. Crusty whore. I envision her driving a used, run down Pontiac. There is no evidence to support my theory, but we’re going with it… because this is my blog.

While we are on the subject of purses, can we all agree that just carrying a designer handbag does not mean your outfit is finished? Coach can work miracles, but not those kind of miracles. Brush your fucking hair, and wear the correct size.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The Redneck Rivera. Despite the lack of diversity or culture, I like it. Very quaint. Very busy. Not impressed with the algae that made its way to the shoreline the last few days, but I’m a roll with it kind of girl.

We kept to ourselves and had a grand time.

I may have dropped my phone in the ocean on the first day, but it’s all good.

See the algae. Doesn’t stop The Circus. Nothing stops us.

Do these look like faces of purse snatchers?

Now if you were packing some sand dollars, it would be a different story.

In my defense, my hair doesn’t work well in extreme humidity

I hate birds, especially sea gulls. They are needy and presumptuous.

My fellas

So that was that. I’m exhausted.

Summer’s Campaign To Just Say NO

2011-07-13T12:43:00.001-07:00

For the first time in my life, I said no to an incredibly persuasive cinnamon roll that was given to me by our well intended CPA. He’s such a nice man. That’s not entirely true… I nibbled the outer ring, then forced it upon a younger, much thinner body—my oldest son. I believe my last words were, “TAKE THE DAMN CINNAMON ROLL, CHUBBA. GET IT AWAY FROM ME. WAIT. JUST ONE MORE NIBBLE. NO. TAKE IT OFF MY DESK. NOW. Run, My Child. Run swift like the wind.”

I wanted to thrust my face in said baked good, then rub the icing all over my body, as I licked the Styrofoam container that housed it’s delicious goodness. Restraint is never pretty or easy.

Through desire of bikini body, all things are possible. Not really… but it does help motivate one to walk away from 5,645 calories by visualizing one’s cellulite poking out from all corners of one’s swimsuit on a beach in Florida.

Finally, five pounds has come off. After working out like a fucking idiot for months, five measly pounds are no longer on my body. I have also lost several inches all over. When I can see the results, it’s easier to push on when I’m this exhausted, and for the record I AM SOOOOO EXHAUSTED. However, I feel great.

Doesn’t make one damn bit of sense. I know.

20 Important Lessons Discover ID Has Taught Me

2011-07-08T13:08:00.001-07:00

1. Lifeguarding is a hazardous job. Not the risk of drowning, mind you, but the unreasonably high probability of abduction, murder, stalking obsessions, and/or rape. Make a note of it, none of my children while ever take it up as a summer job. Creepy people like lifeguards. I can’t say I blame them. They are the focal point of the swimming facility most of the day.

2. A man with thick mustache should never be trusted. Pair a healthy stache with feathered hair, and Bitch--- you had better run. If you marry and/or sleep with him, you will end up in an ice chest floating somewhere in the Atlantic. A fisherman will find you, and somehow not appear traumatized AT ALL during the entire interview. Nor will he dress up for a television appearance…. odd. Nerves of steel, I guess.

3. If your husband owns a bar, he will start diddling a cocktail waitress, and they will eventually plot your demise--- then dispose of you in shrubbery of some sorts. I hate box hedges, so if Tim opens a bar--- I’m filing for divorce the next day.

4. ALWAYS be aware of any insurance policies taken out on you. I cannot stress enough the importance of this. Oh, and to you murders who keep jockin’ the life insurance company ‘bout when that check is coming, CALM down, Greedypants. At least pretend to grieve. GEEEZUS.

5. Experts say crazy always finds crazy, and then they do unfathomably batshit crazy, bizarre, and horrific things to other people. Supposedly neither would have ever attempted these atrocities had they never met. I’m not sold on that theory yet. If you’re normal and your spouse says, “let’s go chop up some teenagers,” your answer should be a solid “NO, what the fuck did you just say” on that.

6. The more you keep your business to yourself, the more likely you will easily disappear. If I disappear, ask Amber, Brooke, Robin, or Billy… one or more will know my last known whereabouts.

7. Always scratch or bite your assailant. At least the detectives will be able to find your killer… IF your killer is already in the database. If not, it may take 15 years for your parents to see justice play out, but we can only work with the hand we are dealt (especially in a murder investigation).

8. If someone tells you that they are taking you on a secret vacation getaway, will not tell you the name of the destination, and need you to get in the back of their truck under the Tonneau cover--- HELLS BELLS, DUMMY--- say NO. Your affair with the married man is now over, and he’s fixin’ to tie up some loose ends and pour a back patio all in one weekend. Brings a whole new meaning to Weekend Warrior.

No thanks, I’m good

9. The above leads us to, piss off a man who knows his way around heavy equipment and concrete, and search teams will never find your body. You should always end those relationships on good terms.

10. If you buy a stripper an engagement ring, you will meet your end very shortly, not by her hands--- but by the other guy she’s stringing along. Snoop said it best, “But we don’t love them hoes.” Tip for titties and keep it moving.

11. When there are too many questions, it’s an inside job.

12. Policemen make the best murderers, not because they aren’t sloppy. It’s always who you know, not what you know.

13. Anytime you are considered an “estranged” spouse, you are Probable Suspect #1. Get a damn divorce already, or be prepared to do 20 to Life. Either way, get your affairs in order.

14. When a religious group relocates and builds their own town… do I really have to finish that sentence? This is about as close to a utopia as you are going to see on this planet. Get over it.

15. If you are a criminal on the lam, don’t make any friends or start a new family. You. You. You can’t do that.

16. If a 4 year old says you killed his momma, you did that shit… or have really pissed off the wrong 4 year old.

That being said, always double check Bukka’s testimony—

he’s been known to hold grudges for long periods of time

17. Women do not pop some Orville Redenbacher Smartpop before shooting themselves or cleaning their husband’s gun. This may be considered circumstantial, but come the fuck on! No brainer especially if the husband is a policeman with a thick mustache and feathered hair who just took out an insurance policy on his wife.

18. People who move shit around, contaminating the crime scene, created that crime scene. Oh. Look I accidentally spilled bleach all over the weapon, so I wiped it off. Then knocked over some muriatic acid on the victim’s fingernails.

19. There are two kinds of crazy. Fun and entertaining, perhaps life of the party kind of crazy, and then throws lamps and pushes people out of windows kind of crazy. Learn to identify what you are dealing with upon first impression.

20. Detectives who highlight their work in theater during a crime show, always live in California. WHAT THE HELL is up with that?

On The Lookout For Creepy Conversion Vans

2011-06-30T14:49:00.001-07:00

Let me begin by saying I awoke from a horrible dream this morning. In this dream, I had been human trafficked. I add the “human” in there just in case my mom reads this and is like, “You dreamed you were in traffic?”

Why is her voice always in my head?

Anyway.

So yeah. I was kidnapped and handcuffed to a bed, a really dirty bed I might add, in a sleazy motel room or ghetto studio apartment. I find amusement in the fact my dreams entail men wanting me so bad they’d kidnap me. Riiiight.

Picture if you will someone so perverse that they have a 34 year old, tall, 20 pounds overweight, 3 time c-sectioned, mouthy, bitchy, blonde woman fetish.

Yikes. If you pictured a really small and creepy Asian man with Jeffrey Dahmer thick glasses as the perp in this nightmare, then you need to get out of my fucking dreams. So creepy and very dainty Asian man kidnaps me for his weird fetishes, and in the dream I wasn’t scared. I mean, he was very small. Tiny, in fact. It was hard to be frightened. Creeped out? Yes. Scared? No. I won’t go into great detail.

If you wake up after a fucked up dream like that, know that your day will be fucking horrible.

That’s right. Hor. ri. ble.

I felt skinny this morning (clearly still messed up from the bad dream), so I wore a club shirt to work. True story. I mean, I’m not sure what the kids are wearing to da club these days, but this shirt would pass. Probably. Who knows? It's what I envision.

So point is, I felt awesome. Then I got to work, drank too much coffee, ate calzone for lunch (I know... how will I ever be trafficked, if I keep eating these carbs), and now I feel gross. Somewhat whorey. Like a club whore that stayed up all night and just rolled into work donning her club shirt and tired eyes.

So it's been a day.

Have you had a day where everyone took the “crazy pill” and they forgot to give you that same pill? I mean… it’s only fair. So I’ve been MMA fighting with insanity all day. From the time I opened my eyes, until five minutes ago when Hurricane CRAZYDAY subsided. I typed in ALL CAPS today, because I was pissed. I never use ALL CAPS, but the stupid lady was not listening to what I was saying. I’m so wise, why won’t they listen?

I discovered an important lesson after an installment I like to call, “Bitch, Spell Out What The Fuck You Want the Insurance To SAY And I'll Make It Happen!” The lesson being most people go into professional conversations with the understanding the other person is a complete fucking moron.

Half the time, they are right.

We resolved the issue. Then I brought immediate attention to her overzealous use of arrows, circles, and underlines. Horrible habit, especially if what she’s drawing cartoons around isn’t what she wants everyone to pay attention to. I know, right? Didn’t make sense to me either. You didn't get the crazy pill today either, did you? Who over the age of 10 puts more than 12 arrows on a professional document on company letterhead? I don't lie when I say... it looked like she was grading her own letter. She should be a preschool teacher, not an insurance manager. Or at the very least, go away from my life.

I call them how I see them. Also, it's worth mentioning... I have a paper cut in the webbing between my thumb and pointer finger. WTF universe?

So anyway. I need a drink.

Sugar Muffin

2011-06-20T11:37:00.001-07:00

We can go ahead and catalog this one in “more information than you ever wanted.”

My bikini line and I are probably going to have to part ways. I wish I were kidding. The older I get, the more dramatic my bikini line becomes regarding hair removal. It has become a freaking diva, not to be confused with a freaky diva.

In my early twenties, I could shave with a dollop of cheap conditioner with disposable razor I found in an alley. The entire process taking a whole two seconds to shave, smear a little Bikini Zone or Neosporin, and run out the door with my towel in hand.

These days, not so much.

It’s like I’m dating my bikini line. I woo her with steam and a hot soak. I lather her with the finest creams available (men’s aisle—go figure, Patriarchy). I gently shave with a triple blade razor. Then I leap out of the bath and quickly glob Bikini Zone, Aloe Vera, Neosporin, a Z-Pac, some hydrocortisone, and a little morphine, AND the stupid bitch nearly has to be hospitalized.

I’m not kidding.

I even mention, “Oh, I need to go shave” and the bikini line arms herself with razor burn that could only find relief at the local burn center.

I offhandedly say, “Hmmm. I should wax,” and the bikini line rips her her own skin off, and says “Sure, hop in some chlorine now! Good luck with that.”

I tell you this to give you the bikini line’s previous two year history.

Over the weekend while Stumbling, I found a recipe for a homemade sugar wax. Weeeeellll, being the thrifty, natural beauty product lovin’ gal I am, I dove head first into this project. I meticulously boiled the sugar, water, lemon juice mixture--- texting my good friend Robin the entire time.

“I’ll need updates every 10 minutes or so,” said Robin.

Open door to over share? Don’t mind if I do.

Robin dubbed me Sugar Muffin, and we dove (textedly into the process together).

I’ll just go ahead and admit right now, I burned the hell out of my tongue tasting the sugar wax, and I don’t regret that decision at ALL… it was yummy despite the raging 498 degree temperature.

So while sucking on an ice cube, I cut up my cloth strips, cooled my wax and headed to the bedroom to watch a much too drawn out scissoring scene with Romi and Kelsey on this season’s Real L Word (am I the only one that thinks these two are a GD train wreck about to derail any episode now) and wax my Hey-Nanny-Nanny.

1. Looking back, one cannot afford any distractions during any DIY beauty project, and troubled, drunk lesbians are very distracting.

2. I realized one minute into this project, I needed a helper. This is when I really got pissed off that I don’t have a sister. I mean I know that Kourtney burned Khloe’s woo, but she was at least there, right?

To say that the process did not work in my favor, would be a gross understatement.

To say that my decision to utilize a depilatory cream afterward to remove the hair the remaining hair was by FAR the WORST decision I’ve ever made in my entire life (aside from that night with that Italian guy from Baha Beach club circa 1999--- how was I supposed to know he had a girlfriend--- Captain Morgan assured me he was single), would be right on the money. Oh, sweet baby Tom Petty…

Oh, sweet baby Tom Petty in a Bethlehem manger ….

AND look at that… it warned me in the CAUTION notes on the little tube of cream. DO NOT USE AFTER SHAVING, WAXING, OR OTHER MEANS OF HAIR REMOVAL. Psssssht. Hell with your directions and warnings and such.

Aside from the three hairs the sugar wax actually did remove, the irritated follicles due the intense tugging (repeated tugging—I don’t give up easily), the skin the depilatory cream BURNED away from my body like unstable battery acid doused onto a newborn baby, and the scratches from my vigorous scrubbing with a quite abrasive wash cloth in an attempt to rid my skin from this entire situation------ everything is as it was… (i.e. the motherfudging HAIR IS STILL THERE! ).

Bikini line- 4, Me-0 (if you don’t count the three hairs I did remove without incident).

You’ve won the battle(s) Bikini Line, but not the war. Because my mother and father failed to give me a sister, Tim is helping next time. After everything returns to normal—of course- AND he doesn’t give up easily either.

When I mentioned that maybe, just maybe, I should go to a professional, my dedicated husband scoffed and said, “No. I’ll do it.”

I have to share this video. Sorry. The bikini line in this How-To video disturbs me on seven different levels…. and I need your very core to be shaken like mine.

Wine, Cookies, and a Pool Floatie STAT

2011-06-17T14:13:00.001-07:00

Lord Have Mercy. I’ve been swamped in just about every nook and cranny of my life. My hairstyle has suffered greatly. My hair hasn’t seen the warm belly of a flat iron in over a week, and me and Scunchie are like this // . That represents exactly how close we are.

Things have died down on June 17 at 3:18 PM Central Standard Time.   I’m sure my hair and soul look like they’ve been in a wind tunnel or a sexual assault of some sort, but I thought I’d write to say hello to a few of you that are still following this random and poorly looked after blog.

FYI.

The older I get, the worse my PMS becomes. Two nights ago,Tim told me that I blink a lot. ?????Who says that???????? In my defense he had the ceiling fan on 60 mph, and my eyes were drying. Rude and RUDE. Howevercomma it was no big deal. Right?

Wrong.

WWII broken out around bedtime at The Circus. My sensitivity came from the fact that only crazy people blink too much. And. I’m. Not. Crazy. WHICH I clearly proved in that argument. Only not.
We’re finally on speaking terms, and I think we can both agree he was wrong. I was right. And I don’t blink a lot.

Moving on.

Is it just me or are kids becoming more racist? Both sides of the spectrum. You have your lil’ Glenn Beckers running around with their rebel flags, and your miniature Angry Black Men running around talking nine different kinds of crazy when they need to be figuring out more important things- like which is their ass and which is the hole in the ground. They should all just get together. In a banquet room. At the Radisson. Perhaps the Alexandre Hogue room. Cram those sonofbitches all in there to debate it out in banquet or theatre seating—giving the rest of us NORMAL people a moments rest from their nonsense. Shout out to my Radisson banquet hall peeps!

Anywhatthefuckisshetalkingabout

I saw a young black man make a comment on FB the other day about interracial couples that made we want to say, “Ring. Ring. Hello, 1957 called and they want their segregation, broad generalizations about a group of peoples, and racist ideals back. Also, thanks for enlightening us all… you know… with all the worldly wisdom of a 20ish year old. Changing the world with one misspelled word and grammatically incorrect sentence at a time. Thanks for that kiddo.”   Of course, I refrained… because I detest when people get ignorant on my page, and I love the person who started the thread. She was nicely trying to put him in his place—so I just walked away. So there’s that. I showed restraint, someone give me a goddamn cookie.

No really. Give me cookie. I have PMS, and could really use one.

My four year old, Bukka has been trying me all week long. A higher power is testing me. Has to be it. It’s been that goddamn ridiculous. You have no idea. None. Well some of you probably do. I have a permanent headache due to Bukka’s behavior at daycare. He doesn’t act this way at home, but the minute he’s dropped off--- havoc begins. His pediatrician says Bukka is a middle child through and through. AND she laughs. The woman chuckles. He doesn’t have ADD he has a bad case of ornery, which he will eventually grow out of.   However this week, after phone call number 956,563,452 this week, I’m may or may not be trying to take him back. Some kind of exchange. I’m sure I have my receipt. Somewhere.

Note the new Mohawk. I’m sure the hair has really driven home his jerk behavior this week. Poor daycare teachers. I should get them flowers. Cookies. Something.

I kid. I love this kid more than sunshine. When he’s not locking the director’s office door and laughing at their inability to open said door (true-ridiculous-fucking-story), until they say “How ‘bout we call mom,”   he’s telling his mommy how much he loves her and about the really bad dream he had about yogurt the other night. Cute. I know. He will probably just be grounded until he’s 46, but we got it under control.

I need wine, and a swimming pool—sans children. Sans children. Oh, it’s Father’s Day, you say. A family weekend. Well pick up another bottle of wine then, and perhaps some champagne for mimosas. Oh, and some bread to sop up the alcohol.   I’ll let you know when I’m ready to deal.

If You Don’t Find Them Something To Do, They’ll Find Someone To Do

2011-06-10T13:19:00.001-07:00

This post may make some of you mad, and I’m pretty sure you know by now… I don’t care. I really don’t. This shit is in my line of vision 6 hours out of the day. So I’m going talk about it.

If you are a mother of a pre-teen and/or teen daughters and pride yourself in being their very best friend or if pay them little mind at all… this may sting a little. The red X at the top right is there for a reason.

I’m tired, so very sick and tired, of looking at child whores.   I’m not talking about Sudanese girls who are trafficked into sexual slavery.   You know who I’m referring to.

You may say, “Summer, you are a mother of all boys. You have a gaggle of nephews and only one niece on your side and a handful on your husband’s side. What the fuck do you know about teen girls?”

Umm, well.. for starters-- I was one.

I still remember being one. Vividly.

I recall what a fucktard I would have turned out to be if my mother would have given ONE shit what I thought about her. She didn’t care.

I was what’s referred to as a “boundary tester.”

My mother was what’s referred to as a “reality checker.”

So here I am today. Driving through the neighborhood, stopping by my kids’ school, or shopping at the local grocer, I can’t help but have that feeling.

You know. That feeling.

You know. The one where you get to the door of a strip club and realize that you didn’t bust up your big bills for some fucking ones. I hate when that happens. Umm…. can I get a fucking lap dance?

Yeah. I said it. Someone needs to. We’re all thinking it, but not many people are saying it as loud as they should.

Some of you are letting your young girls look and behave like a gaggle of stripper whores juiced up on heroin on their way to a bachelor or lacrosse team party, and it needs to stop. I have no issues with strippers. Bitch got to make her money!   Bitch is grown though, and that stripper started out somewhere, as someone’s little girl… with hopes and dreams pinned on her chest… only to have the world rip those dreams away. So she takes her clothes off for money, and tells everyone--- she’s in college.

These little girls aren’t making money though. They are showing it for free. They are taking the food right out of the mouths of all the strippers across our land, People. AND it’s wrong. For just pennies a day, you can save a stripper in need.

These little girls are bold. They are scantily clad. They are mouthy. They are presumptuous. They are flexible. AND they are on Facebook and/or Myspace with their sex face profile pics taken in grimy bathroom mirrors, and faux lesbian photos with their BFFs while parents look on. Why are your bare stomachs pressed together? I have to assume they are either sexually active or well on their way. AND parents stand by like they can’t stop them.

You just don’t understand. Kids today are different.

No.

We had a situation arise that prompted me to do some digging on a certain three local girls, ages 12-15. Oh. My. Fucking. Gawd. Some photos went as such.

1. Chocolate sauce, short shorts, two 12 year old girls licking each other’s faces in a kitchen that, I felt, really needed a good mopping.

2. Three pre-teens washing an SUV in a front drive soaping each other’s small busts. That soap will dry on that Suburban and fuck that paint job all to hell. Quit soaping each other’s tits and get to the task at hand.

3. Oh, and blurry, stray pictures of grown men’s behinds (taken without the men’s knowledge).

4. Then a picture of a reptile they saw in a pond while they were playing, which might I add is quite fucking normal and leads me to believe all with said girls is not lost.

5. Dirty mirror bathroom pics in outfits that I swear were bought at the Fredrick’s of Hollywood.

Nice. Way to police your kid’s Facebook. Note that the profiles were public, not private. Skeet. Skeet.

The whole time I was perusing (A) I felt like a pedophile (B) I’m wondered if these were feral children that were fending for themselves—I could make an extra casserole on Wednesday and (C) If more cleaning chores were implemented less raunchy photo shoot opportunities would arise (arouse), and I wouldn’t be losing sleep over the state of kitchens three blocks over.

Idle Hands. Devil’s Workshop.

I’m not happy. It’s infuriating. Where the fuck are your parents, Little Girl? I had half the mind to go three blocks over and jerk a little bitch by her ponytail and give her some sound advice of where lives go when virginities are lost at 12. Aaaaaand don’t you give me that purity ring bullshit. You’re best friend was photographed licking chocolate sauce off that band. I don’t buy it. At. All. Many a pre-teen boy was happy May 30, 5:36 PM when that fucking photo was posted. Everyone check the family Jergen’s bottle.

Where was I? Oh. Yeah.

Talk to any woman who has lost her virginity taken at 12 and see what she would have done differently.
Nearly all pre-teen/teenage girls try and dress like a Hooker on Colfax (shout out to my Denver peeps) at one point or another. It’s not a new development. I tried it. Let me share how that usually went for me.

Rat. Rat. Rat. Hair.

Snip. Snip. Snip. Jean shorts.

Grab shirt that fit 4 years ago. Yep. Good to go.

Bound down the stairs in the tallest platforms sold at Journey’s, only to come to SCREECHING halt at these words,

“What the hell do you have on Young Lady? OH. OH. Oh. My. Gawd. I think not. What? You know what? It doesn’t even matter why you thought you would………..cuz you’re not. Your grandpa would roll over in his grave. Take it off and bring it back down for my rag pile. RIGHT! NOW!”

These threats were never idle. I guess they weren’t threats as much as detailed instructions to the next steps of our transaction. She’d take the scissors to that shit right then and there and gently toss the scraps into the rag pile to polish furniture or for my dad to wipe grease off his hands. I knew better than to try and plead my case… sometimes. On the occasion I had forgotten myself and my mother, I was drug back up the stairs by my hair---- and forced to remain at home all weekend… cleaning with rags I had once bound down the stairs in. The irony was never lost on me.

Idle Hands. Devil’s Workshop.

This entire situation took no more than 15 minutes either way it played out. True story. Then I was privy to the following information: If you dress like a tramp, they will always look. Even if they don’t necessarily know why. They will look. It doesn’t matter what you look like. Your ass could be lumpy or as smooth as a 12 year olds… doesn’t matter. They’ll still look. So don’t see it as a compliment when they look at your whore clothes. It’s a compliment when you don’t dress like a hooker and they look, stop, and talk.   The life of a whore is a sad and damaged one. One day you will understand why.

Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be whorey.

Tell them to put on a little bit longer pair of shorts, and ask them why they are making the sex face.
I guess the entire point of this post is don’t let your kids on networking sites, unless you are policing the hell out of their page. Their friends’ pages. AND you may want to really go through that digital camera or camera phone. It’s so dangerous how easily pedophiles can get to these girls. It scares me.

Could be that I watch too much ID Channel.

You had these kids though. Please start raising them, because I learned a long time ago, Captain Save-A-Ho is just as emotionally damaged as the ho he’s saving.

*Steps down from soap box. Ducks head from the flying size 2 stiletto.*

If We’re Ever Stranded, You Should Be Worried

2011-06-01T13:12:00.001-07:00

Memorial Day was ridiculously windy. I’m still brushing tangles out weave from that shit! The only good thing about that day was the Milky Way Cake I made. I highly recommend this recipe… just plan on feeling the pounds pack on with each delicious bite. I may or may not have licked the bottom of the sauce pan in which said candy bar/ butter mixture was melted. I think we can all agree that EVERY recipe on that woman’s blog is fantastic.

Which brings me to…

After gorging and not purging on Monday, I began a low carb diet Tuesday. I didn’t say NO CARB, I said LOW. So get out of my face, Mom, with the “they’ve proven that’s not healthy” bullshit. AND no Mother, I do not drink Red Bull everyday. The timing of my energy drink consumption with your arrival has been purely coincidental.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Anyfatass, something has to give. Somewhere. I work out continuously- I don’t even hate Jillian Michaels anymore. I kinda like her. I’m all, “Good workout, Jill! Woo hoo!”

I tried Akilah’s no eating diet, which wasn’t really a diet. Just a whole lot of not eating. I thought at one point I might murder someone then, of course, eat them--like a plane crash in the mountains during a blizzard with no chance of survival, minus the plane and the mountains… and the blizzard and eminent danger.

I’ve lost inches, my abs look great---BUT I WEIGH THE SAME I DID BEFORE I STARTED. When I say my abs look great, I mean I don’t have a muffin top anymore. I’m beginning to think the weight is shifting into my hair, my ass, my head, and possibly even my feet.

Look, I’m not asking to look like a waif (there’s waaaaay too much tits and ass going on over here for that), but I want at least 10 pounds off by tomorrow… or Friday… or fuck me, at least by the end of this month. BTW a guy friend actually did say, “Remember you have big tits now, so that could be why.”

Number 1- I’m not likely to forget my tits anymore than you will forget your penis. Thanks for trying to console/reassure/confuse though.

Number 2- I don’t have 20 pounds worth of boobs. That would have been a not-completely-thought-out purchase.

Number 3- Look at my ass and my thighs. Ding. Ding. Ding.

You cannot talk to men about weight loss. It’s like sticking your head in an oven. Never stuck my head in an oven, just assuming.

I guess it’s better than, “you need more cardio.” Thanks for confirming I am indeed FAT and now believed to be lazy. Wash your own fucking socks, I’ll be on the elliptical. Dick. Doesn’t matter those weren’t your exact words. I know what you meant.

Where was I? Oh.

So Tim (Mr. Clap Push Up Cardio Suggester, himself) and I decided to go Low Carb, until desired goals are met. I never asked him what his desired goal entailed, probably to be able to do a backflip push up. Just know the goal will never involve housework. Who knows? Who cares? Who’s bitter? Focus on me. At least he won’t be in my way and shit, making me trip over sour dough rolls, French bread and what not --with his metabolism of a Praying Mantis.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Best Broiled Tilapia Recipe EVER.

Hindsight. Useless.

2011-05-26T07:28:00.001-07:00

My tonsils are permanently damaged, and it’s not what you think. This is a rated G story, which began with a hair-brained snap decision to allow my two year old to brush my teeth.

“Can I bwussss you teef, Mommy?”

“Sure.”

This potential teaching experience… I say teaching because my thought process was running the lines of what better way for Fat Sucker to see the importance of opening your mouth all the way and to not squirm on the countertop like a chimpanzee when Mommy or Daddy brushes his teeth. Makes sense, right?

There was so much that could not be foreseen. The entire event took no more than ten seconds.

“Say eeeee, Mommy.” Brush brush.

“Say aaaah, Mommy.” Vigorous brush and RAMMMMM.

Rammed three quarters of the toothbrush right down my throat. Where. There. Are. No. Teeth.

I jumped. Probably would have screamed if a toothbrush HAD NOT BEEN PROTRUDING from my esophagus. The coughing started. Then the gagging. The gagging reflex actually lasted for about 15 minutes. I might mention that I had taken three vitamins about 5 minutes before this mishap. Fat Sucker was concerned… with finishing his brushing job. Neveryoumind, Mommy is nearly dying.

I will never let anyone who cannot pronounce “r” or “s” correctly, anywhere near my face with a toothbrush ever again.

It cannot be disputed. This kid is adorable, but I don’t see a dental career in his future. Perhaps, a surgeon specializing in the removal of tonsils, thyroid glands, or larynx.

Suggestion Box

2011-05-20T09:10:00.001-07:00

Dear SHAPE Magazine,

I am an avid reader, and thoroughly enjoy your new ideas on food and workout programs monthly. I’ve been known to indulge even when not in workout mode, as amusement can always be had in eating ice cream while perusing pictures of skinny bitches who wouldn’t know a “trouble zone” if it landed on them, squashing them into the pavement. Ya know, because they’re so fucking skinny. At times, waif-like.

June 2011 Issue--- I have a bone to pick. A couple of bones.

Bone One

Kourtney Kardashian is going to share her post-baby body secrets. REALLY? First of all, am I the only one that saw her breakdown after having Baby Mason? Her weight loss plan included no food, and working out 5 hours a day. Surprisingly (only not), she passed out. I’m not saying I can’t relate to her on some level with her unfortunate incident that episode (I’ve been known to starve and over-cardio myself for fast results), but how is she going to help new moms? “Look at me riding away in the ambulance! I’m fine. Really. Look at these abs.”

It does not escape me that I accidentally just divulged the fact I may have a guilty pleasure involving certain reality stars with beautiful brown hair and juicy booties. Shhhhh. Don’t tell anyone.

Okay. Let’s assume it was isolated situation that day, and now she is back on track. I still don’t want to hear what she has to say about baby weight.

A) She only has one kid. Come back with your wisdom when you’ve had three. Via c-section. Then I’ll want to know every fucking thing you have to say about post baby body.

B) Come back when you don’t have the conveniences of a lax schedule--- and a husband with a lax schedule, so many sets of helping hands, and use of personal trainer. You’re gorgeous Kourtney… I just don’t need your weight loss advice. THANK YOU!

Bone Two

Redo You Rear View workout. Looks like a great ass workout. Howevercomma the workout model has no ass at all. None. My skinny four year old has more of ass then this girl. If we were to measure it out to gain a better perspective, I have about 9 asses more than her. You are not motivating me to attempt this workout. I probably will, but all and all--I have no desire to have the ass of a skinny, underdeveloped 11 year old Ethiopian boy, who barely survived four famines.

Bone Three

I hate the sandal pic on page 100. I don’t know if it’s the feet in the photo, the yellow toenail polish paired with the red sandals, the fact the legs are dangling in the middle of the page like a corpse, or the fact the legs are tanned and you just told me how bad tanning was a few pages before. I just didn’t care for it, and feel a retraction is in order.

I liked everything else in the magazine though. Yay. You.

Definitely will utilize the Bikini Ready Workout. Enjoyed the bathing suit pages, but please make a note that I will be forgoing any reptile prints this season, lest I meet a horrid end on Swamp People. We got a tree shaka’!!!

Warmest Regards,

Summer

Everything Else And Then Some

2011-05-10T12:43:00.001-07:00

Random. This happens when you only post once every two weeks.

I’ve been ear deep in the A Song of Ice and Fire series, and working on my debut as a tavern wench. I will not apologize, as I have read many forums that say readers find apologetic blog posts annoying. So fuck you! I post random shit every two weeks and dream of whoring, wenching and praying to Seven Gods in a forest or something along those lines! Deal!

I kid. Please don’t leave me. Also, whoring and wenching are two different activities. Don’t argue. I don’t have time to explain it.

I would like to address a few matters today. First things first.

You are a douchebag if you double park. We see you do it, and there’s no way around the fact you are an ass. Don’t care what you drive. Don’t care if someone told you it was okay. If you double park anything, anywhere, anytime you are a douche. If your car is that damn fancy, you should hire a driver to remain with the car while you do your biznez.

Double parking this is considerably less douchey than double parking a Suburban. I don’t make the rules. It just is.

I’m telling you this as ~~your friend~~ not your friend. Honestly, I would not remain your friend if I saw you double parked, UNLESS you double parked a kid toucher van. That would be tops in my book, unless parking was sketchy, then I would be at a crossroads of delight and major annoyance. Side note: If there were an airbrushed religious mural on said double parked conversion van, I would remain happily by your side forever and always.

Sorry. I digress.

I’m telling you this, because your friends will not come clean.   Whereas you are douchey, they are probably fake. Making broad generalizations and assumptions all the way around today.   As they walk away from the parking lot, they are saying to themselves, “What a fucking ass!” I would bet money they probably talk amongst themselves about your self absorption and grandiose ego.

No need to thank me. You’re welcome for detouring you from a path that will eventually leave you to die alone or die by a gun shot wound to the head by someone with parking lot anger issues.
Point is, I’m here to help.

Other ways I’m available to help?

I’m gonna help you stop irritating everyone on Facebook, namely me.

Think your status update all the way through. Make me laugh, fascinate me, entertain me, or shut up. Nobody cares about how much you like Gordetto’s… unless you cracked a tooth on a rye chip, in which case your status update should then read--

“Currently lobbying for the segregation of rye chips . They are not equal.”

Or just, “That’s why I be like fuck rye chips.”

Do you see how I made that better? Here’s another.

“Eating an orange.” I’m sorry. I fell asleep. What did you say?

“Eating an orange while having my toes sucked on by a strange man on a park bench!” Now we can discuss.

It’s not that I don’t care about what you are eating. I do. I’m inherently nosy, so (of course) I want to know what you made for breakfast. You just need to jazz it up a bit with pictures and/or descriptive… possibly even fabricated words. You can’t make an orange, so I don’t care if you are eating one that doesn’t have an insane background story.

Also, stop posting about the same shit over and over. You’re clogging my thread, Dude. Stop. I don’t need 17 updates per 4 hours about your kid’s soccer game, your Scentsy candles, or your plantar wart. Just one update, if any. I’m too lazy to scroll down to see what you were talking about 5 hours ago, so sequel posts about your dog’s hemorrhoid surgery weird me the hell out. Unless I scroll down, I’m not going to know that Roy is your German Sheppard and not your husband. I will then make assumptions and carry on as thus.

This goes for the 15 country music videos you posted from YouTube in an 3 hour period. I have half a mind to post NWA videos on your or your children’s page every 15 minutes just to prove a goddamn point. I don’t know who Kenny Chesney is and I don’t care. I just know… he sucks and his hat is too big for his head.

Enough of the forlorn and woes me updates. Every. Single. Day. I can hear your pitiful sighs and the tears falling upon your keyboard through my PC. You should not have friended me in the first place if you thought I cared or would sympathize (AND I have no problem making your problems all about me and how they affect/irritate me). Vague forlorn (love that word) updates do not intrigue people, they generate eye rolls. “Another sad day.” Why is it sad? The only sad part of this day is that I will never get those 2 seconds of my life back.

Don’t come to my page to argue if we are not BFFs. It’s tacky. To me, it’s the equivalent of someone I haven’t seen in 5 years showing up at my house, opening up my front door without knocking, and screaming “HEY SUGAR TITS, I FUCKING HATE OBAMA AND THE GAYS ARE DESTROYING THE INSTITUTION OF MARRIAGE!”. It may be a little comical five days from now, but in the moment it’s pointless, unwarranted, incredibly ignorant, startling, chaotic, and you had no idea when you busted through that door what you would find- so I worry for your sanity. It’s all so very Intoxicated Mel Gibson-Gary Buseyish.

Although arguing is kind of a hobby of mine (ask my husband), I don’t want to get all confrontational on Facebook. In person, I would verbally rip you into a thousand pieces for being such a dick.

Howevercomma a wise soul once told me that if you argue with an idiot long enough, people watching have a hard time distinguishing which one is the idiot.   There’s a lot of people watching on Facebook, so keep it light. Oh, and do not argue with other people on my page if you don’t know them very well. You could be arguing with my Father-In-Law, Best Friend, or Gynecologist.    You’ve created a situation where I can’t invite you both to my house at the same time. Then I have to make a pros and cons list when making the next guest list.

Ask yourself, what have I done for Summer lately? Not a damn thing?   Then you should never be an asshole on my page, unless you plan on buying her something spectacular.

That would be great. I think I’d done here. I’ve eaten 20 Dove chocolate minis while writing this. Fattyfatfat.

Happenings

2011-04-26T09:34:00.001-07:00

It’s been quite while. The Circus has been running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Rather than bore you with the daily intricacies of our life with three very active boys in Spring, it’s photo time.

We’ve been doing this

With this guy.

Ah… baseball. What can I say about baseball, other than it consumes the entire family when just one kid plays… Chubba has played since he was a wee lad.   Next year, Bukka and Fat Sucker have decided to join the ranks.

Sigh.

That really made it sound like I don’t like baseball. I do. I like baseball. Not as much as basketball, mind you, but I like it. I get it. Carry on.

AND I’ve been prepping my flower beds. Do you see my chocolate mint? It’s out of control. I made a foot scrub with it last weekend. I’ll wait while you jealously seethe.

We started a vegetable/fruit garden this year. We planted tomatoes (Yes, Mom--- I know I need to stake them, I’m on it), banana peppers, summer squash, spinach, watermelons, and strawberries. Dude, my kids go balls to the wall on everything they do.

Most beginners start out with tomatoes and wait to see how it goes. Tim is a master gardener (he will roll his eyes at that). He gardened with his Granny when he was Timmy, before The Circus was even thought of.

When I said “garden,” each one of our kids started screaming out vegetables and fruit. I narrowed it down (one day you shall have your banana tree, Fat Sucker), but Bukka refused to budge on the whole watermelon thing. The seeds came with a gardening bag I bought him last year. Tim and I mounded the dirt and chuckled, because… as if--- watermelons will actually grow from a Cookie Monster gardening bag. Um…

So we stand corrected. Since this picture, we’ve had an insane amount of rain. The watermelon sprouts are out of control. So The Circus will be expanding their garden size, promptly discontinuing any further mocking of Sesame Street products, and possibly eating a helluva lot of watermelon this summer. After seeing our garden, my brother said that he can visualize us standing on the side of the road selling produce this summer.

I may be scoping out spots under overpasses. I said “may be.”

In addition to flexing our green thumbs, we did the bunny thing. Easter is huge at our house. I love pastels. I love candy. I love dyeing shit in old coffee mugs, and my family humors me once a year.

Dear Chubba, Can you even see through all the cheese?

It was awsome--- we don’t need no stinkin’ “e” here

I may have glued an egg to my hand. I said, “may have.”



Fat Sucker (who isn’t fat at all anymore—boo) was stealing ALL the eggs and lightly coloring them. The process is a short dip and quickly throw the lightly dipped egg back in the carton before anyone sees.

Bukka insisted he was turning into the Incredible Hulk



Coloring Easter eggs with three boys and a grown man is rarely creative, nor will the the end result be pretty and perfect. Most of the eggs might be cracked, because there will be at least one egg thrown, which may cause belly laughs from all three of these small barbarians. There will probably be more glitter, beads, and dye on the table and on faces then on the egg creation. When it’s over, they could careless what’s what and couldn’t tell you which are Bukka’s eggs or which are Chubba’s eggs.   BUT I wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s beautiful. Now if I could only get them to share Power Rangers like they do Easter eggs.

Hmm.

How Very European Of Us

2011-04-15T12:35:00.001-07:00

Only not.

Why are we getting the babies drunk?

Someone, please, ‘splain it to me.

It never occurred to me to check my kids’ cups at restaurants to make sure the waiter isn’t getting them soused. Noted and applied though since the Applebee's fiasco and the Olive Garden mess.

Am I the only one tired of apology statements being issued? Stop saying you’re sorry and just stop being a moron! Okay?

I’ve bartended before, and I’m just wondering how this happens. How do you pour an alcoholic beverage into a kids cup, slap the lid on, then say “IT’S READY?”

Is it? Is it ready?

One of these THINGS does not beeeeeeelong, one of these THINGS does not match the others.

I’ve always thought it wasn’t a good idea to have all the juices, milks, and such behind the bar only, because those bartenders are usually really busy and don’t have time to be pouring chilled milk--- Uncle Frank wants a daiquiri. It takes longer to get your juices and such, because the waiter (typically) is having to put in a request like they would for a glass of wine. I never dreamed there was a chance for complete idiocy to run amuck. I still can’t imagine being so busy that a cup with dancing olives wearing cowboy hats on the side would resemble a vessel used for an adult beverage.

Proof we are becoming more incompetent by the minute.

So We Meet Again Jillian, So We Meet Again

2011-04-14T09:30:00.001-07:00

After stepping on the scales last week and noticing that I’ve gained ten pounds back, I decided to get my ass in gear this week.

Wine. Parting is such sweet sorrow. It isn’t goodbye forever. We just can’t see each other as often.

In the last month, every time I came home-- I half expected to see all my friends in my living room with their “will you go to treatment today” letters. My bestie, Billy said that he would never participate in that. He would sit in my driveway holding a sign that says FREE WINE IF YOUR NAME IS SUMMER. I know… he’s pretty much the best thing ever.

There was a lot of alcohol left over from my birthday party. Was I supposed to hold onto the wine for the next party? No. My husband says there will be no next time 80 ppl party. So I had to make my way through it so it didn’t go bad. Don’t you dare argue with me about the shelf life of wine or vodka! This post isn’t even about drunkbitches, it’s about fat asses. More specifically, my fat ass.

I digress.

In lieu of my current findings, I have been extreme fitnessing this week.

MONDAY Elliptical for 1 hour instead of the previous 45 minute workout, along with weights before hopping on.

TUESDAY Kickboxing to the point of throwing out my left knee. Am I the only one that feels 90 years old when holding a jinga prep? I would blame Patricia Moreno, but that would be unfair. The blame actually falls upon the shoulders of a fairly large (6’, 300 lbs) woman, named Tequilla (note she spelled her name with two Ls instead of one) from Broken Bow, Oklahoma, who fell on my knee during a basketball tournament. The knee hyper extended. I think I passed out, or Tequilla knocked me out—I’m not sure. I might add, although she was 15 or 16 too, she had two children in the stands. I couldn’t make that story up if I tried.

Not this woman’s fault, she didn’t know

Tequilla, but not really Tequilla—Tequilla was much taller, but I envision her prom picture being very similar to this situation. Now ask yourself if you want that on your knee.

WEDNESDAY Pressed through injury with Jillian Michaels No More Trouble Zones. Yikes. Just Yikes. There is a move called “The Surrender” that is placed immediately after a set of plie squats. If I’m ever taken hostage, I will probably be shot first if we’ve done a thousandy plie squats. I don’t surrender well. At. All. I pressed through this incredible workout, the whole time praying (and I ain’t a prayin’ woman) for the next circuit of ab training. Ya know, so I could flop down on my mat. I don’t know that it ever provided the break I needed, but I just wanted to stop squatting and lifting.

There is never a squat low enough for Jillian

Also, her workout pants are too low. It bothers me. She doesn’t have a muffin top, but I’m afraid that the pants will roll down revealing her gentleman greeter during the old school mat work in the last circuit. AND don’t tell me how great great your back up ladies look either. We know. Can I get a show of hands on how many of us have had three c-sections? Yeah… I didn’t think so.

I kid. I love Jillian’s workouts, and I often want to make out with her entourage. I’m more partial to the black chic, but the white one is pretty fetching as well. BUT she kinda looks like one of my cousins, so probably not. That would be weird. Eeew.

I’m not a lesbian so I’m not sure where I’m going with this.

Wednesday night, I couldn’t walk. My left knee was hurting so bad, I almost cried. I think I did cry. When I’m injured, my husband always wants to diagnose and start rehabilitation. Note that none of those activities involve empathy. I just want to be petted like a baby kitty. I wanted my mommy.

THURSDAY The plan is Billy Blank’s Boot Camp Abs and Elliptical. Billy’s the real deal yo. His outfit are ridiculously fantastic. Howevercomma all the counting and shouting brings attention to my workout area like Sesame Street. The Babies get right in my fucking way. Shouting and counting and jumping around. They love punching and kicking and counting--- so Billy Blanks is like prophet to them.

I accidentally kicked Bukka in the head about a year ago during the Billy Blanks Kickboxing workout. Bukka jumped in front of my side kick. Darted out there like a squirrel into oncoming traffic. He wasn’t hurt, but he went around saying, “Mommy kicked me in the head!” for about a week. Sigh. That was fun. Explaining every five seconds to strangers what the hell Bukka was trying to convey.

I’ll let you know how it goes tonight.

The Possession

2011-04-01T09:06:00.001-07:00

I am the walking dead today, but my quads look great. I really hate to point the finger, but it’s Tim’s fault and GNC. I would not make a good spokesperson for GNC and here is my story.

*cue the Law & Order –duh duhn.*

5:30 PM Fed Fat Sucker and Bukka then started the promised Tres Leches Cake.

6:00 PM Hmmmm. I decided to do my boot camp work out. I had some time to soak my cake in the milky goodness. Boot camp is an insane cardio/weights work out. I thought about my husband’s strawberry steroid shake stuff—I’d heard him say you have to wait 30 minutes to work out after drinking it. It really helps you lift more.

I wanna try it.

6:30 PM I called Tim (at baseball practice). Any time there are explicit instructions regarding chemicals, I need reassurance.

After hanging up the phone, I shook my head. Scoop of this, scoop of that. “That’s too much Tim. You know how sensitive I am to stuff. I think I’ll just do this strawberry stuff.”

Mixed it up. Took nine great big juice head gulps and began reading the back of this container.

Warning: Do Not Take Less Than Four Hours Before Bedtime.

Oh. Noes.

7:00 PM I was still wrapping up the cake process when my head began pounding. Pound! ING! It was almost like my body instinctively knew… it had to work out. HARD. Now.

The minute I picked up the weights and started jumping around, I was as light as a feather. I (literally) completed this insane work out while simultaneously holding a conversation with my husband.

8:30 PM Work out was over. I needed to keep going. I put the kids to bed. Cleaned the entire kitchen. Started more laundry. I had so much energy coursing through my veins, I felt like Ronnie. Not my brother’s best friend Ronnie who drinks a lot and drives a golf cart around in a very jovial, yet reckless manner, because that would have been pretty chill. No, I was like Ronnie from the Jersey Shore, and there was no Sammy Sweetheart to take my rage upon. I would have totally smashed that bitch’s glasses and destroyed her Rubbermaid shelving systems.

9:30 PM So I hopped on the elliptical and went until I couldn’t feel my legs. I finally made myself stop working out for fear of major injury.

I text Robin to let her know I was amped up. She made a snark about Roid Rage, and I busted out a few more hammer curls while discussing Teen Mom 2 with her.

10:30 PM After looking into my methy little eyes, Tim told me to take two Benadryl. What the fuck is this an over the counter speedball? What if I die? He assured me that’s what the GNC representative told him to do when he bought it. That would have really been fantastic information to have before I drank the shit. Sudafed winds me up for days--- and so you give me strawberry meth and tell me to bust out a few more reps. That’s nice!

I ate a very small piece of cake, and automatically felt obligated to do 459 crunches.

11:00 PM I was sleepy, but I wasn’t sleepy. At the same time. I wondered inwardly if Tim would have objections to me digging out the boxing gloves to spare.

I felt rode hard and put away kind of dry.

12:00 AM I dozed, then woke, then dozed.

1:00 AM I woke up feeling like my head was about to come up on one side like the Canadians on South Park.

*cue the barking basset*

That’s what we needed. A dog barking at absolutely nothing. I wondered inwardly if the dog would be opposed to wrestling. I needed to wrestle something besides my inner demons.

2:00 AM Woke up to Tim rummaging around the room for something. Flipping on lights. I wondered inwardly if he’d like to do some plyometrics. I decided to say nothing. I did make a decision that he’s (hands down) the loudest person EVER.

4:00 AM Dog barked for 15 minutes. Then I dozed.

5:00 AM Confusion with Tim’s alarm. Is it going off? Is it not? Why is it an hour off from the other clocks in the house? He wants answers that I just don’t have. I think he fondled it in his sleep and changed the time. I didn’t say anything. I hate when he touches things. In fact, at that moment in time—I hated everything.

6: 00 AM Fell asleep

6:40 AM Alarm went off. The strawberry steroid demon had left my body but allowed a cat to shit in my mouth on it’s way out.

My mind feels like it just came out of a blender, but my abs feel very firm.

Not A Good Time, EVER

2011-03-22T13:24:00.001-07:00

Sales people that call after 8 PM, get ready to feel the full force of any frustrations, irritations, or even hallucinations that I may have right in your face. I know you have a job to do, but when your job infringes on my job (mommy) we have a big mother of a problem.

I have three kids, two of which are very hard to get to bed. Yes. It’s a routine they’ve been forced to participate in for 2 and 4 yrs. Yet every night, bedtime warrants feelings of surprise, regret, and sadness. Then we’re on the cusp of mutiny. I always end the process by stepping on a Hot Wheel, which really puts me in the best mood. Only not.

I can holler with the best of fishwives and kick small objects far. Promise.

So when the phone rings at 8:30 PM on a Tuesday, I completely lose my shit. Last call of this nature, went something like this.

“Don’t EVER call my house this late! I just put two toddlers to bed, and if you have stirred them back up… so help me GAWD—I will track you down. I will then track your mother down. And then your father. And your children.”

What? I didn’t say what I’d do once I tracked them.

Most rational people would have just hung up with the knowledge they were speaking to a karazee bitch. Not this salesperson, she wanted to justify, rationalize, argue, then try to sell me something.

Do I want to buy a what? Bitch. Did. I. Stutter?

After going nine different kinds of psycho, I hung up in her face. I don’t care about your time zone. I care about mine. I’m not changing my phone service or consolidating student loans at 9 o’clock at night.

I've just put two chil’rens down, have one chil’ren preparing for bed, and I’m either on the elliptical, drinking Cab, or mopping. I will not break from any of the three activities to listen to your spiel.

Feel free to throw me on that no call list. I know you have one. I had a General Manager that would sexually harass salespeople that called past 7 PM. Said GM also drank like a fish in the evenings. Anydrunkbosses, companies only called his house once.

I believe he said the salesperson would tell him that they would file a complaint on him. Does that mean you won’t call here again? Good, now how big is your penis? And what color are your panties?

Enough Already

2011-03-18T09:19:00.001-07:00

Dear Children's Clothing Production and/or Distributing Companies,

Why is it that the Boys Section in every store makes up two racks? Two racks ,WHEREAS the Girls Section is half the damn store? A sea of pink, yellow, and sparkly shit.

Spoiled Bitches are getting all the creative designers and best mass production factories. I imagine the boys clothes being produced on machines in a dark corner of a run down factory that should have been replaced during the Vietnam War. Just WD-10 that conveyer belt, Sam, they’re just boys clothes. The girls clothes are being hand crafted by elves and fucking unicorns sprinkling glitter all over the work benches.

Don’t argue with me, I’m on to your blatant favoritism!

The two racks in the Boys’ Section are typically occupied by the ugliest and cheaply made clothes ever produced in the history of America. Case and point, my four year old has gone through three pairs of tennis shoes in the last four months. Shoe quality ranging from Nike ($50)to OP ($12) have all met their end in complete sole separation or unstitching. There isn’t enough Shoe Goo on this planet to mend these fucking things. I scoff a little right now, because mothers of girls are asking themselves, “What’s Shoe Goo?”
I might add that it’s not even summertime yet, and he’s only four. An active four year old but not that DAMN active of a four year old. Oh, and I’m not a fucking shoe cobbler. So why am I performing shoe surgery two weeks after purchase? In addition, I hate waiting in the return lines too. Where’s my receipt?

Okay, let’s talk variety.

Sometimes it looks like I’ve dressed all three of my boys the same. Oh, how cute. No. It’s not. My ten year old does not want to even remotely look like he’s dressing similar to his two year old brother. Do you get that?

Last night, while searching for some brown/neutral tone shoes for my two youngest sons, I glanced over at the Girls Section. SHOES as far as the eye could see. Pink shoes, blue shoes, running shoes, little girl stripper shoes, Mary Janes, canvas, sandals, patent leather, blah fucking blah. I looked back to the meager Boys Section. My section. It’s where you find me. Target, Wal-Mart, Dillards, Children’s Place, Old Navy, Ross, etc… Well, let’s see, we have our traditional character shoes-- Shrek, Cars, Spiderman (which I refuse to buy-- TACKY and mindless). Oh look, there’s canvas, which I know will last about two weeks if they are to be considered “daycare” shoes. Then there’s the same style running shoe (blue, black, white, sometimes red) with the color placed in different areas. Are you really trying to pawn this off on me as a different fucking shoe five times over?

You do realize that the two, four, and ten year olds are NOT the ones actually purchasing these shoes, right? It’s the same fucking shoe five times.

I feel like I’ve “caught the poor” every single fucking time that I shop for my boys. I longingly watch the mothers of girls oooh and aaah over all the choices, sending their husbands to the brink of bankruptcy with an “we’ll take them all.” While I stand there ever so awkwardly in that neglected boy section. Pouting and sad. I want to ooooh and aaaaah. I want to send my husband to the brink of bankruptcy with clothing variety for our boys. I love to shop. Not for my boys though. I started shopping online a few years ago, just to avoid the embarrassment of that Boys Section.

Oh, don’t even get me started on the rare appearance of a really cute item in the Boys Section. I’ve seen Bitches fight over that shit, right there in the Boys 8-20. I’ve had women stop me at the register with a WHERE DID YOU FIND THAT? AND WAS THERE MORE? Then they take off at a dead run to the Toddler Boys Section knocking their children down on the way.

I find it repulsive that parents have been forced into these moments of desperation, and the only person to blame is YOU. The designers. The producers. The distributers. Stop being so fucking frilly and spice up those polo shirts for the future leaders of America. Put some reinforcements in those toddler Shox. Remember, just because you move the color red from the sole to the tongue of a shoe, doesn’t make it a different shoe. My boys could give a flying fuck less, but their appearance is a direct reflection of me… so I care. AND I’m the one with the money.

Thank you in advance for your immediate attention on this matter.

Warmest Regards,

Summer Circus
President of the Mothers Tired of Poorly Dressed Boys Ages 3-13 (MTPDBA3-13)

What Kind Of Person Throws A Shoe

2011-03-14T12:39:00.001-07:00

There are no pictures of the birthday debauchery. I was highly intoxicated and forgot to take pictures. When I say “highly intoxicated,” know that I started drinking at noon and finally passed out at 4:30 AM.   Two days later, I still look like hell warmed over. Party was great. Everyone came and had a great time. There were a few snafus in the evening. Some friends decided to party like Rockstars, and they just weren’t ready for that level of absorption.

You know who you are.

There were at least three of those (me being the third—although I did last all night).

For shame.

When you open your eyes the morning after a crazy party and ponder, “Holy fucking shit. I think I threw a shoe, did someone vomit in the driveway, why is there a pile of ham in the middle of the floor” it’s going to be a long day of self analysis.

The last hour of my altered birthday state was not pretty. I may have thrown a shoe and heckled a big girl (not necessarily in that order). “That’s a lot of fucking print” might have been the ignorant and drunken words that slurred from my mouth. Hopefully, my slurring was so bad she didn’t hear. I don’t even know the girl. That’s what happens when you show up at 3 AM when the party has been going on since 7 PM. Everyone may be on a slightly different level. I was on the Winehouse Level, less the heroin- of course. It was time to wind down. Maybe even past time to wind down. it was more diva birthday girl drunkypants tirade than poor poor pitiful sad panda drunkpants breakdown. There is a big difference, you know. The first one requires many more apologies the next day.

You would never have guessed that my childhood never (at any point in time) took place in a trailer park.

Sorry Girl in the Print that I don’t even know. I was outrageously out of line and stupid. I’m sure your print was lovely. By 2:00 AM, I let my alter ego Bitchfacecuntsuperstar take over, and there’s no rhyme or reason to what may transpire toward strangers after that. The girls with you were scantily clad. AND I didn’t know any of you ladies from Adam. I am a shit talker. I talk 9 kinds of shit on any given day. I’m always kidding. When I’m drunk—I become NOT kidding. I was a mean drunk girl in gorgeous pale pink stilettos sloshing red wine in a beautiful pimp wine glass.
Don’t hate me because I have the ability to transform into a hot ghetto mess in five seconds flat. She gets it from her Mama.

My shoes were lovely. Did you see them as they flew at the door? See above. They really were quite stunning. They should have been the last item I would select to throw, but they were there and my feet were tired of being encased in their beauty (oh and I was really fucking mad)… so I launched them at my front door, like a two year old.

BAAAAAAAAAMMMMM!

I may be taking a pause from drinking more than one glass of wine—for a while.

This is when things were still fantastical. The love and laughter of friends was still abound. Let’s just focus on those hours of the party. I love these women so much, it makes my toenails hurt.

Despite my ability to be an asshole at 4 in the morning, they love me.

Raising Hell Since 1977

2011-03-09T12:03:00.001-08:00

Thirty-four years ago today, the glory known as me was born.

I had absolutely no hair, and a really red nose. I have absolutely no idea what that was about. A weird, white baby thing, I guess.

Point being, I was an ugly baby. I was the youngest. My oldest brother was 16 years old, and my middle brother was 8 years old. I was probably the last addition this family anticipated. I’ve driven them all fucking nuts since March 9, 1977. True story. Both brothers can account for that.

I was a cute toddler though; the hair was beginning to thickening up a bit. Some may say I was a little on the mean side- still driving everyone crazy. I didn’t care for being told what to do. That philosophy earned me plenty of ass beatings. My oldest brother and my dad were the only ones who felt I was more misunderstood than just a little bitch. Oh, and the next door neighbors. The next door neighbors thought I hung the moon, too. People who didn’t have to tell me “no” typically held that opinion.

Picture Bukka, but white with blond hair, dressed in an obscene amount of ruffles (thanks Mom). This will be the only post in which I admit Bukka’s attitude problem and quick temper may have descended from yours truly. Nobody tell Tim! I’m certain he doesn’t suspect.

From ages 5 to 11, I rarely smiled and didn’t speak a whole hell of a lot. Photos of me smiling are rare for that time period. (far left, back row)

As a teen, I was wild as the Taliban. That’s really all one can say about that. I started smiling again though.

If you guessed I was up to no good in this photo (and hadn’t discovered a good foundation match—hello ghostface), you’d be dead on. This was similar to the prom picture I tried to pass off to my mom as my prom picture. Due to extracurricular activities beforehand, I had completely forgotten to take prom pictures. To be quite honest, we’re lucky I ever made it to the venue. My mom was PISSED!

Mom: “Where’s your date, Summer? And where in the hell is that check I gave you for the pictures? AND what is that shit in your hair? This was not professionally taken. You will NOT tell me this was professionally taken.”

Me: “Ummm… they… didn’t have prom pictures this year? Well I didn’t see that area. I guess. I dunno.”

In my twenties, I made a lot of mistakes, which provided many hard lessons. It was exhausting, but transformed me into a better person. By the my mid-twenties, I was an overworked single mom a few credits short of her degree, barely able to pay her bills. Thank Little Baby Jesus for eggs, huh Chubba? There aren’t many pictures from that era. I was the one behind the camera.

During my late twenties, I did meet my love, Timmy. Even though he leaves every cabinet open, and disregards what I want 75% of the time, I love this man. Even when I’m pissed and I tell you that I don’t… know that I do love this man. And he loves me. He took Chubba and I right under his wing, and we’ve been there ever since.

Things only got better from there.

Flash to present.

Last week, I went back to blond. My hair is so fucking spectacular it deserves the right to hold its own press conference.

You. In the back, we’re taking questions regarding Moroccan hair oil. Go.

And my nose is not red, despite recent trips to the tanning bed.

I smile constantly. I’m loud and ridiculous.

I love my husband and my three kids so much my beautiful hair hurts.

In 34 years, I’ve seen a lot of shit, and most of it… I wouldn’t take back for the anything. For the first time in my life though, I have peace. I have peace in my heart for anyone and everything that may have wronged me (except Silk Elements--- that shit fucked my hair to hell two years ago the morning we were leaving for Mexico). I have let go of every past disagreement.

I may not be the skinniest. I may not be the most patient. I may not be the richest. I may not be the most loved. I may not be the most beautiful. I may not be the most intelligent. I’m definitely not the most demure or ladylike. I will never win at the Quiet Game. Like most women in their thirties, I’ve long since made peace with being the best at every thing.

I love my friends.

These two bitches. OMG. These two bitches right here are my light on a dark and cloudy day. They are the cheese with my wine. They are the giggle in a funeral parlor at an inappropriate moment. I love them. They knit. They bake. They curse. They read. They fill me up with love.

In the last three years, I have added some of the greatest friends to my inner circle. I’m surrounded by people that truly get me, and I get them. Everything is just chill.

My heart is full, and I am grateful.

And yes, I’ll take pictures of Saturday’s debauchery and we can talk nine kinds of shit about it.

Thirty-four years later, today is a really good day.

The World According To Bukka

2011-03-03T14:04:00.001-08:00

I read the Ugly Duckling to Bukka & Fat Sucker last night. Apparently, this bedtime classic is thought provoking on so many levels. It had not dawned on me, until I began reading, The Babies had never heard this story. They bombarded me with questions of (basically) why all the other birds were being such dicks. Because the duck was ugly? Seriously?

At the end, after the Ugly Duckling looked at his reflection and saw he was a beautiful swan, I looked at my little boys’ faces to see if they felt redemption had come home.

Fat Sucker (2 yrs old) smiled big and said, “He’s bootiful now.”

Bukka (4 yrs old) incensed with his eyebrows knitted calmly asked, “So he’s a swan?”

“Yep.”

Bukka wasn’t satisfied. “Him and the other swans should fight the geese that made him cry!!”

Before I explained the moral in it’s entirety the most comical image came to mine.

I am surrounded by WAAAY too much testosterone on any given day of the week.

I Like My Men Dark & Muscular And My Cake White & Fluffy

2011-03-02T09:24:00.001-08:00

Sacrifices. I’ve been working out relentlessly to compensate for my love of Cheese Nips and Cabernet Sauvignon. The bout of SARS, along with drunken basketball injuries set me back a week, but Monday I threw myself headlong into

Jillian Michaels: Banish Fat, Boost Metabolism

That woman is fucking nuts, but reliable if you want your quads to burn like a bathtub of Meth in a remote trailer park nestled in an Appalachian Mountain holler. I’ll do your Burpies, Jillian. I’ll do them well, but I can never give up bread. Stop hinting around about it IN EVER ARTICLE, EVERY BOOK, and EVERY DVD. I’ll give you 110% during each workout video, and you're just going to have to be satisfied with that. Hop on my back while I push a tire, but never. EVER. NEVER ask me to give up bread. Or wine. You’re totally killing my buzz talking all that crazy. Shhhhhh. Honey. Shusssssshhhhhhh.

I turn 34 years old one week from today, the month of March In The Year Of Our Lord Two Thousand Eleven. I will begin dating all my letters, emails, etc… in that format. Make note of it. I’m a fancy bitch stuck in humble beginnings.

Anyfancypants, I’d like to lose about 90 pounds before my party but will take what I can get. Can I get 3 pounds, 5, gimme 10? So despite my dislike of pills, I took my QuickTrim ISO-Burn AM this morning. That beautiful, purple pill lodged in my esophagus almost immediately. “Fuuuuuucking hell,” is right! Picture me running frantically (cursing those GD Kardashian bitches and their gorgeous hair), nearly throwing up while searching for anything eatable to dislodge said purple pill.

The only food available?

Stale cake that was left in the break room fridge. You already know… I threw that shit right down the Devil’s Hole without a second thought. It was marble, not my favorite but let’s be honest, the only bad cake is NO cake.

Once again, like a reliable and caring friend, cake has saved my life. You will never convince me otherwise.

Don’t Ever Jump To Conclusions In the Presence Of Candy

2011-02-24T12:23:00.001-08:00

Holy shit! I’m alive. I was sick as hell for 4 days, and that doesn’t include my drunken basketball wounds. The broken finger and bruised hand were an afterthought in light of the whole SARS/Ebola debacle. I was weeping at one point, sending out a mass text to my friends to give me their last thoughts and expressions to take with me beyond. Most made reference to my boobs in their last statements/requests. Actually, all but two referenced my boobs.

Good to know.

During my state of unhealth, I watched more ID Channel than anyone thought humanly possible. I wouldn’t try anything on me, if I were you.

Howevercomma I watched a horrible episode in which a man was shot outside his apartment. His wife called an AMBAALANCE (you have to say it that way—thank you Tosh.0). Detectives, almost immediately, suspected the wife. Not just because of murder-spouse protocol, but they found a recently opened (wait for it)……..

candy wrapper in the trash.

Okay, let’s rewind that. Wife is a suspect because of a candy wrapper. Swear. To. Little Baby Jesus! They said it seemed a little more than callous that she would eat candy in such a horrific situation. Clearly, she planned the murder herself, they said. I would like to point out, all detectives in this situation were thin men.

Was I the only person that thought of Thin Mints just then?

You may as well, cuff me now. I’m an emotional eater, and candy may or may not be my go-to. I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have deep concern for someone who’s had a cap busted in their ass. I’m just saying, ~~while on my way~~ after I run in to the house to make the 911 call, if there are some Dove chocolates in the pantry… I might grab a few. You know. While I wait. Outside. With my beloved shooting victim.
If loving chocolate is a crime, then cuff me now, People. Just cuff me now.

Albeit, if the circumstance were reversed and Hubby was munching away – the words, “ARE YOU FUCKING EATING CHOCOLATE WHILE I’M BLEEDING TO DEATH?” may ooze from my lips. You say selfish, I say complex.

I’m a better secret chocolate eater than him anyway. True story. I sometimes climb into the pantry with a jar of Nutella and a big serving spoon, while the kids run through the kitchen asking, “Where’s Mommy? I thought I heard her in here.”

Silence.

Point is, I don’t think we should judge someone as a murderess so quickly. She could just like candy. A lot.

Fun Hurts (I stole that from Mo)

2011-02-22T09:35:00.000-08:00

Things you need to know about me.

1. I'm over Studio Thirty today. Stop in. Give your love. If you're not a member yet, join. All the cool kids are doing it.

2. My finger is broken, my hand deeply bruised, and my tail bone mysteriously sore from a really bad decision to play drunk basketball at my party on Saturday. I hosted a card playing party, in which ZERO cards were played. I also carried one of my best friends around like a baby. My husband says that I wasn't successful at it. I disagree.

3. I may have SARS or just a really bad chest cold. Either way, I feel like I'm dying.

In The Trenches with Beauty Products: 1

2011-02-16T12:52:00.001-08:00

I’m addicted to StumbleUpon. I can’t be stopped. Thank you, MeanGirl. Dammit JULES!!!!

Came across this homemade Pore Strip post yesterday. Read that link, or you won’t know what the hell I’m talking about. I’ll wait.

I like this lady. I’m not stealing her post, but I’d like to walk you through my experience with the Knox Concoction and review it for you. I’m a product girl. I have more hair, skin, feet, nail, and hoo-hoo products than anyone you know. Trust. So when I see a way to create and control my own product, Bitch, I am so in.

So I bought the necessary ingredient (Knox gelatin), not just for myself—but for you guys too. Not the first time that I have taken one for the team to see what the hell is up. Allison was not exaggerating… that shit hardens up very quickly. Wait too long, and (as my Aunt Joy would say) it’ll get as hard as an elephant’s dick.

Quick hands, People. Quick. Hands.

I frantically threw the mixture into the microwave, pulled it out after 10 seconds, and slathered it onto my face utilizing the microwave door to view my reflection. There was no time to move to the bathroom, which gathered a perplexed look from my husband, who walked to the fridge to grab a drink.

He didn’t even ask questions. Is that a sign he thinks I’m crazy? I suspect as much.

Reviewer’s note: I used my hands to apply, in place of an applicator, which was fine after washing them for about 5,000 minutes.

I left my Knox Concoction on for longer than 15 minutes, while watching a certain Caucasian sexy Viking vampire. When it’s dry, you’ll know. I’m just going to leave you with that. Much like a labor contraction, you will know. Not that it’s that painful, but I had never experienced the likes. Very tight. Very.

This is where we get to the part that is not for the faint heart. You must be a die hard beauty chic to implement the time needed in this process. Peeling. Eewww, but worth it.

This mixture will not just clean out your pores. It will also pull any fuzzies off your pretty little face. Now stop thinking that I have a fucking beard! I’m not rockin’ a goatee or mutton chops , but in certain areas, I have blond fuzzies. Or I would if I didn’t take care of it.

Have you ever waxed your bikini area? Very similar in the psyching up. In some areas, you’ll do the whole deep breath aaaaand 1-2-3, pull.

I would like to mention… be a little more tedious than I was in your application of this product. Sloppy application may result in a dry, painful mess during the peeling step. Careful around your nostrils, hairline, and eyebrows! Ouwwwwww, was heard several times coming from my bedroom.

Also. Read the blog post in it’s entirety before even mixing the concoction, and follow Allison explicitly. This isn’t a DIY that you want to go rouge on. Who would have thought gelatin would be such a bad ass?

My overall review, LOVED it. I’m a no pain, no gain kind of girl—so that part didn’t bother me a bit. After the last bit was peeled off, I washed my face. I immediately felt a difference in my skin. Pores were noticeably smaller. Skin felt cleaner and smoother.

A Little Bit of Everything Along With a Whole Lot of Nothin’

2011-02-15T10:02:00.001-08:00

Last Wednesday.

BUT over the weekend, the snow began to melt. Praise Baby Jesus—SnOMG 2011 is over. I thought I was going to have to move to the Caribbean. I’m not ruling that out just yet.

With the roads all clear on Sunday, we celebrated the long overdue, Bukka 4th Birthday Party.

I always bake my kids’ cakes. You didn’t know that I can do so much more than be extraordinarily cussy. It’s a robot. I have to say that this cake had to be the most FRUSTRATING in the history of The Circus’ Cakes. I even enlisted Tim’s help. We were both OVER it after hours of trying to attach those antennae, while simultaneously making grub for the party.

So after a day and half of work, it all comes day to this (as always).

Next time, I’ll just throw a big slop of cake on a platter and call it the Rocky Mountains. Swear.

Did everyone have a Happy VD? Great. Me, too. Well… aside from Bukka sneaking into the Valentine’s candy. He ate all of his and Fat Sucker’s Reese's peanut butter/ chocolate hearts. Do we blame him? Without going into too much detail, a little candy thief threw up all over his pillow last night and moaned with a tummy ache.

Tim and I gorged on steak and lobster. Then he decided to work out. Him and his clap push ups. Luckily, he’s hot—so I didn’t hold it against him. Proof of his hotness (he will probably kill me for this one).

To avoid feeling like a total fat ass, I hopped on the elliptical. We met back up and enjoyed a fantastic romantic evening.

Life is pretty good. By the way, Tim is wearing pants in this picture. I just cropped them out.

I’m a Marketing Firm’s Wet Dream

2011-02-10T14:33:00.001-08:00

I am visually seduced daily. Food, Sex, Music, Food. Did I mention food?.

Starbucks advertisement, I want a Caramel Frap. Red Robin commercial, I need a cheeseburger- hold the special sauce. Boogie Nights, I want some cocaine and big… bell bottoms and roller skates. Kidding about the cocaine part, but not the roller skates.

A friend shared a video today featuring Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen. So, of course, I downloaded a ridiculous amount of Bruce Springsteen music, because I liked Springsteen’s hat in said video.

I mean, what would you have done? Don’t answer that.

I may or may not have downloaded 4 albums worth. Maybe more. What can I say? I really liked his hat. Sucker for accessories, party of one!

Point is, these reactions are always impulsive, short-lived, and ALWAYS regretted. I’m sitting here listening to Hungry Heart wondering how in the hell I’ve come to this point. Just remembered, I never like Bruce Springsteen.

I’m over it. Moving on to something else entirely.

Checked my StatCounter today. High traffic coming from Louisiana. Howdy, y’all. Also, if there are any Cajuns following, delurk yourselves post haste. I love Cajun food more than ANYTHING and have always wanted to shoot an alligator, so HOLLA.

UPDATE: If you were wondering, I turned The Boss off. Sorry. No matter how adorable that hat was… I don’t get it.

Best line this month so far happened last week. I decided to make hot chocolate for my coworkers. More or less the decision was based on me—but not only am I selfish, but I drag others into my endeavors so as not feel like such a fat ass. I poured milk into the office teapot, turned on the stove, aaaaaaaand completely forgot about the task at hand. Milk boiled over, spewing out uncontrollably while I was answering the phone.

Coworker yelled, “Aaaaahhhh. It’s ejaculating!”

I’ll leave you with that.

The White Death Doth Approach. Again

2011-02-08T14:02:00.001-08:00

So remember when I said I didn’t buy into the SnOMG round one? Well I ventured to the grocery store last night in preparation for SHUT IN Phase #2. While picking up the very last package of ground hamburger, I glanced around at the chaos before me.

I saw a woman in coveralls (by the way, Ladies… no… just no to the camo coveralls. It’s never okay.) running with a her basket. Sprinting. As in, FULL SPEED AHEAD, CAPTAIN. And yes, I began (to my oldest child’s absolute horror) sprinting with our basket, along side her. Why? Because I can. It was kinda fun.

Then I witnessed another woman in coveralls (coveralls= panic) carrying a stacks of egg cartons. Literally, running to her husband and kid at the grocery basket with eggs from her waist to her chin. That’s over six cartons of fucking eggs! Slightly UNNECESSARY, unless you are the Duggers. In that case, carry on.

On a positive note, I saw this.

If that didn’t make your day, you may be completely dead inside. That. Is. Spectacular! The wolves are howling at some poinsettias. Possibly? Maybe. Not sure. This made all the shoving in the dairy section worth it. Am I the only one wondering why the maker of this glory did not make a fourth wolf (other sleeve)? Also, this man’s ponytail may be covering up the best thing EVER. We’ll never know.

My buddy, Billy, needs this to go with his puppy coat. Ya know, for when it’s warmer out.

I think we can all agree, like wolf guy, Billy’s swagger knows no bounds

HEADS UP. Billy’s wife may kill me, because if I see wolf guy… I’m buying that jacket off his back. On. The. Spot. (whispers) Because it’s fucking awesome. OH. I’m under no false illusions. He won’t give it up that easy. Would you blame him? Probably had it for years. It’s comfortable. Warm, but not too heavy. That shade green is very hard to find. UMMM and it’s straight up beast (that’s what the kids are saying these days—if you didn’t know). I’m hoping said wolf guy will say someone made it for him. OH. KIDS. The bid just went up.

Also, I must share with you, Funnybunnies, that I saw a REALLY large woman in sequins a while ago at the gas station. SEQUINS FOR DAYS, I tell you. I wanted a picture, but was entranced by that many sequins in one area. The bitch could of robbed the place, and no one would have noticed. During the interview they’d ponder, “I don’t know about the armed robbery. Did you see that woman in the sequins? Phenomenon.”

Brooke saw a woman in maroon jeans today, too. (Again. Ladies. NO.)

Point of this entire post? Snow equals mass chaos, bad roads, and fantastic fashion risks.

Winter Wonderland, Part I

2011-02-07T09:37:00.001-08:00

It has now been determined that I dislike snow. Once my feet were cold and wet through (my more fashionable than functional) snow boots, I remembered that snow is what I disliked about Colorado. It’s inconvenient and annoying, and my truck is horrible on the ice. I don’t like working, but I hate being trapped in the house more. I’m in the market for some of those tennis racket thingies to strap to my feet to walk to my besties’ homes. Look for me coming, Amber. Brooke. I have to be independently mobile at all times, for shopping, eating, imbibing, and such, or I become increasingly agitated and irrational.

I did not buy into the White Death 2011 hype, so I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been. We don’t own a snow shovel, and I only had a gallon of milk and a half carton of eggs. Did I mention my kids eat like locusts? BUT I’m a creative mom when it comes to food, so nobody starved and we didn’t have to eat the dog.

Good thing, because Lorek Byrnison the Armored Ice Bear has completely lived up to his name. He loves the snow. Who would have thought?

I’m not sure if it’s the snow specifically that he loves, or knocking down unsuspecting boys in fluffy white powder without hurting them or getting in trouble.

Chubba has to routinely be told to come inside to warm up.

Bukka announced that his “fingers could easily fall off from being so cold, and that’s not fun.”

Fat Sucker said that he didn’t “wike dis” at all, but kept insisting to go back outside. IN and OUT. In and out.

I also determined that because we live in a normally warmer climate, we don’t own enough thermal underwear, or as Tim calls them --bully woolies. Guess who will need to do some winter shopping on her lunch. More snow is expected for Wednesday. I’m going bananas already. AND not in a good way. Although I’m not thrilled, I admit the snow is pretty and peaceful (if you aren’t driving on it), and being at home so much brings memories of my childhood. Hot chocolate, the real shit not that Swiss Miss stuff. I’m talking about the real deal! Warm milk on the stove with Hershey’s semi sweet, sugar, and a dash of vanilla—topped with marshmallows. Winter clothes thrown into a dryer with fabric softener while little fingers thaw out. Furry throws. Excitement from no school.

Then the adult reality is work backlog, shoveling snow, mopping floors five thousand times in one day, not enough wine or reading material, irritability, monotonous conversation, etc…

For now, I’ll try to focus on the hot chocolate.

On Notice

2011-01-31T12:58:00.001-08:00

I’m in a horrible mood. My shitty week spilled in to a catastrophic weekend. Then carried right into my Monday, which is turning out to be pretty ridiculous and it’s not even noon. My keyboard should be taken away from me when I’m this pissed.

You’re thinking, what’s she so pissed about.

Not one particular person, place, or thing. Several. So I’ve created a “You’re On Notice!” list.

1. Kids who don’t listen the first go round. My voice is going hoarse. If it’s between my voice and your butt, guess which one will come out less harmed.

2. Bad ass neighbor kid throwing shit in my backyard for my dog to chew up—right in front of your fucking parents. I haven’t said anything yet, because your grandparents who live next door are really sweet, and I don’t want to cause trouble. I watch you and your unleashed dog run away from your mom, while she pleads with you both to come back. I’m not sure how someone’s children or dogs become that uncontrolled, and frankly… deep down I don’t care. It wasn’t any of my business… until you started fucking with my shit. Since your mommy can’t get you under control, I hope you’ll do it for yourself. I can promise you haven’t seen the likes of me in the 5 years you’ve been on this planet. I don’t plead with children or adults. Trust. I almost dare you to throw one more piece of plastic at my dog. If you’re feeling froggy, Son, then you should definitely jump.

3. Money. Where do you go, and why so quickly? You’re a fuckhead who needs to stay put.

4. People with tunnel vision!!! You are not the only person on this fucking planet. It’s very annoying when you mill around in your car, like there isn’t a mile of cars waiting for you to back out in a timely manner. WHAT in the fuck are you doing in your console? Weaving a basket? I’ll tell you what I tell my kids, GET YOUR HEAD UP SO YOU CAN SEE YOUR TEAMMATES AND OPPOSING TEAM.

5. People who are geographically retarded should never, ever, ever be allowed to draw a map. EVER!

For the love of all that is holy, look that shit up before you go any further. Please! AND how in the hell does anyone not know the geographical location of Iraq, at this point? Tell me!

6. Panicked people, there is a winter storm coming, but I promise it’s not the apocalypse. You may have to put on some mittens and possibly drive a little slower, schools may be out to avoid lawsuits--- but does this warrant taking ALL the French bread and baked beans? I’ll be 34 years old next week. So I’ve been in a winter storm or two, AND I’ve never been trapped in my fucking house and almost starved to death. We’ll pull through. I promise. STOP letting the media control your emotions! They can’t even put together a map correctly!

7. People who compare apples to fucking oranges. You know who you are. STOP. Or at the very least, only do it in arguments with dumb people. I’ll quote my dad on this one, I know big wood from brush.

8. Diet hot chocolate. I blame Jillian Michaels for this entire fiasco. Diet hot chocolate is disgusting, Jillian. There’s no way around it. I feel like throwing up just talking about it. I can no longer trust you, Jillian. You say things like diet hot chocolate and tell the waiter that you will be forgoing the bread. Ummmm… no.

9. Stop abusing the CAPS LOCK. I can’t take anyone seriously who overzealously type-shouts.

10. People over the age of 30 that say things like the F-word for fuck, PG for pregnant, or just use a long pause for anything profane RIGHT in the middle of a sentence (without any children present). If you are that uncomfortable with the word, don’t fucking use it.

11. Parents who encourage young people from getting married. Marriage is damn roller coaster that you can’t easily dismount. If I’m going to be quite honest, some days marriage is just fucking stupid. Even though you may not tell everyone that you want to scratch your spouse’s face off, there are days that the urge is overwhelming. Don’t lie! Stop letting these kids nest and reproduce when they barely know their ass from a hole in the ground. It’s messy.

12. Stop crucifying Tiger Mom. I could list one thousand and one reasons why I agree with most of what she says, but I’ll just say this—I’m not trying to raise self entitled, irresponsible shit heads. So consider me a Tiger Mom. My mother always taught us that it was not her job to be our best friend. It was her job to teach us to not only survive in this world without her, but to also THRIVE. The world is a cruel place for those who think it will served on a silver platter.

I feel immensely better.

Rub Down

2011-01-28T12:52:00.001-08:00

I’m in the need for a rub down.

Massages are fantastic. For me, they bring the mind, body, and soul back into balance. Whereas, I once had a massage addiction, now I never have the time. My love of massages was transplanted onto me by my aunt. She gave me my first massage gift certificate on my 20th birthday. The massage therapist’s name was Steve, and he looked and laughed just like young Jimmy Houston.

I’m not a shy girl, so stripping down completely and hopping under a warm sheet to be rubbed down has never been a problem. Especially, 20 year old Summer—who naively thought cellulite was an old, lazy person’s affliction that would never affect her.

His laugh reveals itself in the first twenty seconds. No need to watch the whole 8:57 minutes unless you’re a fan of fishing. If so, cast on, My Friends. Cast on.

So you’ve got the laugh. That’s what we’re working with. I used to love to get that laugh going. In my state, massage therapist have to ask if they can massage your bottom. When he’d ask, “Would you like me to massage your gluteus maximus?” I’d shout, “If you don’t rub my ass, I’m not paying you!”

He was a fantastic massage therapist, who played the likes of Enya, Yanni, and sometimes K.D. Lang during his sessions. Very relaxing. Aveda lotions that smelled of heaven, paired with rejuvenating peppermint candles, created an atmosphere that I never wanted to leave. Each session was 1.5 to 2 hours. I think when you own a hot body, you get massaged longer. These days I wouldn’t know.

I’d often doze in and out of consciousness, partly due to relaxation, in combination with the fact I was a partying college student. One session, I had dozed off for about 5 minutes, only to be so rudely awakened by my waist-length hair being pulled.

Hard.

Like a “holy fucking shit it’s gonna rip out” type of hard.

My massage therapist died laughing-- that crazy “Jimmy Houston” laugh. Then he proceeds to tell me that my hair is wound in the zipper of his jeans. He hadn’t the foggiest of how it had happened, but we were attached at the head/crotch in a dimly lit room with K. D. Lang softly crooning in the corner. AND neither one of us could stop laughing.

We tugged. Nothing.

We tried to untangle. Nothing.

He even tried to unzip his jeans, in hopes that the hair would come loose. That was a no-go, because my hair was so tangled in it, the zipper wouldn’t budge.

So Steve, the wonderful massage therapist about 20 years my senior gave me two options. He said (in between his crazy chuckles), “Okay. I have a pair of scissors in a drawer over there, or I can call one of the other massage therapists to come in and help. I’ll warn you though. This does not look good.”

The offending wad of hair was located at the back of my head, so after devising a hair strategy for the next 4 months, I said, “Fuck it. Just cut it!”

So we simultaneously moved over to the drawer. Keep in mind: No clothes on, warm sheet, head in a zipper. Strangest walk across a room IN MY LIFE. He chopped my locks. Then I (so very awkwardly) stood up and walked back to the table to resume my massage.

It’s all about going with the flow. My life is strange and weird—so I just go with it most of the time.
Side note: I miss that guy HORRIBLY. When I moved to Colorado, we lost touch. He was the best massage therapist—I’ve ever known.

And Then I Saw Red

2011-01-27T12:47:00.001-08:00

How is your day?

That’s good.

Mine? Well, not so much. Quite frankly, it’s been a fucking circus, but that’s okay, for I specialize in circuses.

I knew when I was awaken before the sun came up by, “Mommy. I had an accident. I’m wet.” that this day was probably going to be pretty pissy.

Bukka, who has been sleeping sans pull-ups let loose the Amazon River in his bottom bunk. Yay. Only not. So I clean him and the bed up, threw laundry in the washer, pulled laundry out of the dryer and then started on our morning weekday routine.

Breakfast.
Make lunch for Chubba (9 yrs old). See him off to school.
Get onto Bukka and Fat Sucker a gazillion times to finish their breakfast and stop playing, while simultaneously picking up everyone’s mess from the night before that escaped my vision when I went to bed at 12AM.
Make beds (I am my mother’s daughter).
Begin getting myself ready, while The Babies play upstairs.

After I flat ironed my hair, I ventured upstairs to get Bukka and Sucker (collectively known as The Babies) ready for daycare learning center. I heard playful squeals as I came to the top of the stairs. They were hiding from me under Sucker’s bedcovers. “How adorable,” I thought. Then I looked down at the covers, and I saw blood EVERYWHERE.

EVERY.

WHERE.

After I gathered both kids up, I didn’t see any visible injuries. I stripped them both down to their character underwear to see what in the hell was going on. Nothing. What. the? I looked up their noses, in their mouths, glanced over their ears, and examined their little fingers. Nothing.

Bukka explained it was probably vampires. Fat Sucker confirmed there may have been an incident involving vampires.

Okay. So we have inexplicable blood on a Thursday at 7:35 AM. We’ll just move on. If you have three or more boys, you are totally with me right now. If you have girls or only one boy, you are confused as hell. Why would I call off the injury search party? Blood and boys go hand in hand. True story.
I brushed teeth, wash faces, and then start on hair. I have ethnic kids, so hair is an essential part of our morning. A slight comb through all of Sucker’s (2yrs old) thick wavy mop reveals a bloody mess hid underneath shiny curls. Head split wide open. It was small, deep, and because it was a head wound, it was leaking like a sieve. No tears. No crying. No whining. Just blood.

I don’t do well when my kids are injured. I could help a stranger in a head on collision, but when my babies are hurt… let’s just say, I don’t do well. Howevercomma this time I didn’t have a choice.

So we’re-- one trip to the urgent care with a long wait while we were the ONLY patients there, a $50 co-pay, one lidocaine injection into my baby’s head, three staples, one stressful day at work with two kids under the age of 4 with no nap, and one insanely greasy McDonald’s trip for being such a big boy --later. Of course, because Fat Sucker is two, he won’t be still, and he’s whacked his staples about 4 times on office equipment.

Still no tears, but the vampire story has remained constant with a few more embellishments involving a baseball bat and rock fight.

Is this day over yet?

This Child… This Child

2011-01-24T13:39:00.001-08:00

I am exhausted. My Bukka has been wired up lately. This can mean a variety of things. When I used to see kids like Bukka throwing tantrums, I would think, “DO SOMETHING WITH THAT FREAKIN’ KID!” Now I know despite strict and varying discipline, some kids just test that boundary to the fullest. We love them, nonetheless, but they take all of our energy on the bad days.

Name: Bukka

Age: 3, almost 4 years of age

AKA: Hell on two legs, Mean Baby, Houdini, Manny Pacquiao

Occupation: Driving everyone around him absolutely bananas, yet offering lovin’ in between escapades of madness, and being all out ORNERY.

Hobbies: Blood curdling screams. Not compromising at all. Hitting his brothers. Attempting to do everything himself, which almost always creates the biggest mess ever. Sweet dimpled smiles in the aftermath of his destruction. Somehow escaping every group photo ever taken (look for the blur). Putting away laundry (you will hear no complaints from me on that one).

Newest skills: Insanity defense (Example: My mouth sassed back, not me, Mommy. My mouth is very bad. **Cue the dimples.)

I knew when I was pregnant with him, the intensity of everything would go up about 36,578,080 notches. He flip flopped around constantly in my tummy. All. The. Time. There were days I thought he would burst through the amniotic sac, uterus, and skin. Much like Alien.

When he came into this world, his cry was (by far) the loudest I had ever heard in my life. He scared the other babies in the nursery silent. True story. He lifted his head and turned to look around within the first 4 hours of being born. The Pediatrician on duty was like, “Well… you certainly don’t see that every day. My… he has amazing coordination.”

AAAAND that began our journey.

He starting crawling around 5 months, and he went straight to my parents staircase and from there he could not be stopped. Baby gates. Nope. Bukka would grab a hold and shake them so hard and so quickly --they’d wiggle loose, and we’d have to tighten them back up. He walked at 8 months old. He was sprinting a month later. I wish I was lying. Baby gates would only stall him, at that point. After shaking the baby gate to its core, he’d ram them loose and crawl over the top.

Every Pediatric appointment, they would remark on his ab muscles and hand eye coordination, while I kept bringing the attention back to his temper tantrums and lack of cooperation.

Bukka refused to sleep through the night. He had things to do, much too busy for that sleep nonsense. Did I mention I was pregnant with Fat Sucker? There were days I thought I was going to die from exhaustion and lack of patience.

Tim and I would lie in bed at night, plotting out how we were going to repay Bukka for his childhood shenanigans. When he had kids, we’d keep them on the weekends. Ply them with candy and purposefully mess up their sleep schedules. Then send them back to pay him back for our absolute exhaustion.

AND before you say it… no, there’s nothing wrong with him. Trust me, I consulted many on the subject. He doesn’t have attention deficit disorder. He will sit through any book or movie that he enjoys. My pediatrician says, it’s not uncommon for the middle child to be so stinkin’ difficult. She tells me to ride out the storm. He may be the calmest and least problematic teenager. Fingers crossed.

There are weeks that we rarely have incident, and he’s good as gold. That has not been the case for the past 2 weeks. AND I am maxed out. So if anyone else has that complicated, freakishly athletic and strong, short tempered child, and they want to talk--- you know where I am.

Prime example of Bukka… this video was taken over a year ago. Don’t laugh at the baby blue paint job, we’ve redecorated since. Why do I have the need to post a picture of my kitchen now so you don’t think I have bad taste?

See. I told you

Not Amused

2011-01-21T14:44:00.001-08:00

I have nothing witty or profound to say. A permanent look of disdain has been planted for most of the week. I will tell you, we had a wave of snow and ice, so everyone’s a little grumpy. I’ve seen several people fall on the ice. You know me… not ashamed at all to say I laughed. One of them was an old man.

WHAAAAT? Gimme a break. He was fine.

Probably.

I’m sure karma will present itself with me busting my ass in front of group of people.

Moving on.

A few days ago, I was told that someone does not watch Modern Family because of sexual suggestion.

Really?

I filed this under “why do you have to make me dislike you so.” Do people have to work extra hard at being really fucking lame?

Speaking of strong sexual content. Spartacus starts tonight. This makes me INSANELY happy for obvious reasons. Barely clad hot bodies, STRONG –I mean reeeeeeally strong sexual content, history (probably), men, men fighting, and chariots. By the way, little known fact about myself: I want to ride in a chariot at some point in my life.

I have not had a glass of wine all week. Now I know how the residents of Betty Ford feel.

Lucky

2011-01-17T10:59:00.001-08:00

I cannot believe my baby will be 10 years old this week. The time. Someone please tell me… where does it go?

My Chubba Bubba, age 1

It seems like last week… I was pregnant with you. I didn’t know crap about babies. I was apprehensive about the pain I knew would be involved with giving birth, but I was more terrified of being a parent. I was never a “baby” person, but I knew as soon when I found out I was pregnant--- that you were supposed to be here. With me. Can’t explain it.

I made the move back to my home state when I knew I was going to need family. Lots of family.

It seems like a few days ago that they laid you on my chest. Through a morphine induced haze after a traumatic delivery, I held you so tight… worrying that somehow I would drop you and damage you somehow. lol. You were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. Despite the nurses’ objections, you slept on my chest. You would occasionally look up at me as if to say, “What now?” I had no idea. Thank goodness for Grammie, huh?

I almost punched the nurse that gave your first vaccinations. She handled you roughly and told me that you were spoiled. It was the first of many times, I’ve restrained myself from beating the hell out of someone who made you cry.

Most of the time, it was just you and me. Us. Even as a baby, it was like you understood that to make it, Mommy would have to work insane hours, missing out on most holidays. You will never fully understand how much I regret that. You always gave me credit when I tried my best to make our lives as normal as possible. I can remember when I worked in Sales & Catering for a hotel, I’d have to stay sometimes until the end of an event. If I didn’t have a babysitter, you’d either sit on a commercial steel table in the kitchen eating pineapples that the sous chef would chop up for you, or you’d play in a banquet room that the banquet staff was setting up for an event the next day. You never bothered anything. You just waited. Patiently. Talking to any and every one that crossed your path. I can’t imagine either of your little brothers being that good for so long.

It’s almost like you knew that’s the way it had to be, because we didn’t have a choice.

When your real dad moved down here, and we tried to make a go at it, you never required more of him than he could personally give… it was like you knew. You are an old soul that has always understood far more quickly than I ever did. When your real dad and I called it quits, you never held his empty promises against him. Now that he’s nearly disappeared completely, you still don't let it affect what you have going on in your life. I know in my heart, you not having a real dad in your life will never be an excuse.

When you were 4 years old, you try to get me to stop cursing. You made a Swear Jar. It lasted three days. I ended up owing you more than I had in my checking account, but you didn’t hold it against me.

I’ve never had to sugar coat any situation to you either. I have always been able to be straight with you about everything, and for that I thank you. You get me. And I get you.

You excepted your step-dad as your own when you felt it was time. You even asked him if you could call him dad. You used to ask us why we didn’t have any babies. We told you that you were all we needed. You concluded at the age of 5 that we didn’t like babies. You actually said that, “They don’t like babies. That’s why we don’t have any babies.” Careful what you ask for, huh? When Bukka was born, I don’t know who was happier. Me, your dad, or you. Bukka was your baby, too. You worried and fretted over him, almost as much as your dad and me.

You’ve saved his ass several times. I’m sure you’ll remind him when you’re both older.

Oh, and your dad and I are witnesses that Bukka bit the back of your head during this photo shoot. That was the last time we had your photos professionally done. True story.

Then 15 months later after Bukka was born, Fat Sucker came along. You were elated that our once quiet house was now Crazytown. I bet you’re rethinking that now though.

I don’t think they could ask for a better older brother. Even when they drive you nuts, tear up your favorite toys, or tell on you for absolutely nothing, you are reduced to a least a little sympathy when they cry.

We are so proud of you. It’s amazing that you stay on the Honor Roll, play sports, have a gazillion friends, do your chores with very little guff, never sass back, and genuinely care for your family and friends. I am so lucky to have you. One day when you’re older, I’ll tell you how you’re the one who actually saved my life.

I love you. Happy Birthday Baby!

You Ain’t Got To Be Sceerrrrrd Of Me

2011-01-14T09:36:00.001-08:00

First, I would like to say that there are at least three people in this world that will die laughing when they hear that statement, and I’m about to ‘splain. Second, I need to mention when you hear someone make that claim… well, you need to run.

I think my paranoia as a mother stems from being such a wild ass teenager. From the age of 16 to 22, reckless is, as reckless does, but it was a fucking blast. Sometimes.

I could grab a year for this event, but the fact is—I’d be pulling that year out of my ass. I can’t remember. Told y’all. So circa 1994ish (I think), my friends and I were going camping to an unfamiliar area. We camped all the time. Drunkenly high camping trips (in completely foreign surroundings) were our thing. Before we headed out, I received notice from my high school boyfriend that a “friend from his job” would be joining us. My boyfriend was slightly older. So he was in the workforce and making friends. All kinds of friends. Let’s be honest… weird friends. High school boyfriend had what I would now label “wounded bird” syndrome. You never knew who in the hell this kid was bringing to dinner. He befriended EVERYONE. Nice kid, just not usually a good judge of character. Some people are down on their luck, because they’re fucking crazy. Just sayin…

It was pitch black outside by the time we made it to the lakeside area, and we were setting up camp when the new friend rolls up in his conversion van.

Before his friend gets out of the vehicle, HS Boyfriend says, “By the way. Dave is a bit older than us. He’s 48. Oh, and he only has one leg. He lost it in a motorcycle accident.”

I’m sorry, he’s what? And doesn’t have a what? Side note: Our group was the only campsite in this horror film. Pay attention.

Low and behold the one legged man hopped out of the van, and began introducing himself as One-Legged Dave. In addition to the missing appendage, he had maybe 4 teeth in his whole head. I couldn’t look at my cousin, Mo, for I knew we would die laughing at the sheer absurdity of this situation. Possibly never stopping. So I watched the reaction of our other friends. There were about 7 of us, not including One-Legged Dave. Aside from HS Boyfriend, everyone was pretty much wondering what in the fuck a group of under 20 year olds would have in common with a soon to be AARP member. Well One Legged Dave liked to drink a lot. Well guess what. Soooooo did we. Same, same. Only not.

Until that point, I hadn’t realized there was a difference. One-Legged Dave had lived a horribly hard life. The missing appendage being just one of many adversities due to bad decisions. Oh, and I might mention Dave had been drinking heavily… pretty much his whole life.

Let’s get this party started, ya’ll!

We needed to get to the liquor store. Oh, and lookey here. We have someone over 21--- waaaay over 21. Saweeet. Looking back, it would have appeared as though we were teens on vacation with our dad. Our one-legged dad.

One-Legged Dave decided we’d take his ride. HS Boyfriend decided he’d get a fire started while we get the hooch. So five of us (3 girls, 2 boys )boarded USS Do You Want To Die Now Creepy van. As the side door slid back, it revealed a scene from an ID Channel reenactment of Disappeared. In place of back seats, there was a bed. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. AND being dumbass teenagers wanting to get drunk, we hopped on in. Some of us sat on the dirty bed amid the empty liquor bottles and crushed beer cans. While pots and pans swung above our heads. What the hell is this Mad Jack from Grizzly Adams. Oh. Realization. Dude. Lived. In. His. Van. (of course he did). HS Boyfriend failed to mention that.

One-Legged Dave made sure we were comfortable in creepy-overly-touchy-uncle-fashion. Then he sat in the driver’s seat, and took off his fake leg. Then handed it to my friend, Jeff, in the passenger seat. Jeff held the leg in absolute horror. Our eyebrows raised, and I believe at that point I was laughing. Hard. That silent, bent over laugh that can only come when something is this unfuckingbelievable, and you hope that you aren’t going to die that night. Never had that type of laugh?

Speaking of laughs, when Dave thought something was funny he belted out the weirdest, scariest laugh ever. “Uhheeehawheeheee HAAAAAA.” Emphasis on that last bit. Praise be to GPC cigs.

My friend Jeremy asked, “Don’t you need that to drive?”

“No,” replied One Legged Dave.

“Oh, you have a handicap modification on the steering column?” Jeremy pressed.

“No,” replied One Legged Dave.

Okay. Off we went. Recklessly. Drunkenly. Too fucking fast. One Legged Dave’s driving could be compared to that of a taxi driver in Cozumel. Are you with me? Okay.

As One Legged Dave swerved from one side of the spooky, dimly lit country road, he began to tell us that he lost his leg to a semi truck back when he was in a motorcycle gang (of course he was). Semi pinned him up against a cement pylon, and the leg could not be saved. Semi 1, Dave 0. He told his life story while driving about 80 miles per hour on a curving hilly road while drinking a bottle of Wild Turkey. Some of the pots fell from their racks and hit my friend Amanda. “We’re probably going to die,” she said loudly.

One Legged Dave explained he was living in his van, because his cunt of an ex wife had kicked him out. AGAIN. Something about the grandkids and step-kids or some other white trashery. Looking back, it may have involved some inappropriate touching. I’m guessing some girl out of that situation is probably doing time on a pole. Oh well, maybe someone will make it rain.

I digress.

After the craziest ride of my life, we returned to the campsite with One Legged Dave totally hitting on my cousin, Mo. She will deny he was hitting on her (probably in the comments section), but he was making creepy eyes at her. AND my friend Amanda who was really short. Did I mention that Mo was much younger than us? So One Legged Livin In A Van Pedophile Dave was in the Hizzy.

Anyreallybadchoices, more friends arrived to party. As the night wore on, we discovered the drunker this guy became, the levels of creepy and more dysfunction increased. I can remember thinking, “Surely this guy will pass out soon. Surely.” His drunken ramblings were so bad, that he shut our party down. DOWN. Finally, everyone approached it with a, “Yaaawn. Think I’m gonna turn in. You sleepy Dave? No? You’re gonna keep hittin’ on that Wild Turkey? K.” Finally, we gave up and retreated to our tents.

As HS Boyfriend and I quietly argued about his new friend in our tent, I could hear One Legged Dave getting really rowdy by his damnself in his van-home parked off in the distance. Against my better judgment, I ~~drunkenly passed out~~ fell asleep… for about a minute. I was awaken to the sound of rocks spinning out under wheels. I raised up to see headlights coming toward our campground. Quickly.

I was beyond terrified, but I had to find Mo among the other tents. I sprinted out of my tent screaming to wake up all my passed out friends. The van-home was headed straight for my cousin’s tent. I jumped in front of the van SCREAMING my head off. He quickly turned the wheels, spraying my with mud and tiny rocks.

Really? What in the hell was he doing? I don’t even think he could tell you what his plan of action was at the time. He stumbled out of the van-home, “You ain’t got to be sceeerrrd of me.”

Riiiiiight.

I believe that may have been my very first verbal assault on a grown man. It wasn’t pretty. One-Legged Dave probably felt about one inch tall when I finished. The things that flew out of my mouth were insane and purely fear motivated. If One-Legged Dave had any plans to chop us up into little pieces, he put that shit on the back burner that night. HS Boyfriend ushered Mo and I into our tent. I didn’t want her out of my fucking sight. Campsite can turn to crime scene in a matter of seconds.

It was a first for many of us that night. HS Boyfriend got his hand at drunk damage control. You know. You bring ‘em, you babysit ‘em--- even if they’re a 48 year old homeless man. It was the first time, Mo had almost been run down by a one-legged, potential pedophile in a red conversion van-home. I hope it was the first time, Jeff had ever been handed an artificial leg without any warning whatsoever. It was also the first time I had ever slept with one eye open and realized that you can pity people from afar. WAY afar. You don’t have to take them camping with you.

I sometimes wonder what happened to One-Legged Dave. Then I remember, he almost ran camping teenagers over in their tent, and I stop caring.

I Couldn’t Title This If You Paid Me

2011-01-13T08:57:00.001-08:00

I couldn’t blog. I was sucked into a void called “The Sookie Stackhouse Series” for about a week. For realz. Don’t judge my reading material. My life contains hardly a drop of drama, and my husband doesn’t wash and comb my hair (if you’re a fan—you got that). SO LAY OFF.

I loves me some True Blood, more precisely I loves me some Eric Northman. Yum. These novels contained other deliciously masculine characters as well. Tigers, Vikings, and Werewolves OH MY.

I don’t care who you are--- that is HAWT!

My head is now out of the clouds. Kinda. Back to reality where I ponder how much the character Bill Compton annoys me, even more so in the books. Then I realize that my husband will probably never change into a tiger, which kind of sucks, and Eric Northman will not be sleeping in a hidey-hole in my closet. Boo!

Was I the only one glad Sookie was kind of slutty in the books?. I like her sooooo much more as a Dirty Leg to the supernatural. You say ho, I say interestingly popular!

Moving on.

The series My Strange Addiction is freaking me out. First a carazzeee woman was eating toilet paper, and another was sleeping with a blow dryer. Dear Blow Dryer Addiction. Now these crazy bitches are licking hand soap off their hands. What. The. Hell? Here’s my problem with this. THE GERMS ARE STILL ON YOUR HANDS. You didn’t rinse then lather again. You’re licking soap and germs. Soap and germs. Weirdo.

Watching her eat the laundry detergent was unnerving as well. It reminds me of when I was a kid, I’d lick my finger and stick it in this:

AND devour off my grubby little fingers. It was yummy, and unsanitary- now that I think about it. I became really ballsy about it, and filled my Milkweeds’ pale and was scattering it to and fro on the staircase. I’m still a slosher when I’m really happy. Wine now, instead of lemonade mix. BTW Remember the Milkweeds? I still have mine, if you want to come over and play.

Not mine, but similar—I hate to brag, but I have the Milkweeds grandparents’ home as well.

Grandpa Milkweed was a grocer, if you didn’t know.

Where in godsname was I going with this?

Oh yeah. So anyway… my mom busted me on the staircase for wearing her Lemonade mix down, and possibly attracted mice or bugs in the process. My strange addiction was done.

I’m still not sure where I was going with this, so I’m just going to stop right here. Once again, I would like to mention that I am obsessed and not thinking clearly lately.

Resolutions

2010-12-29T09:07:00.001-08:00

So. How’re we doing with our New Year’s Resolutions?

Meh. Me either. I don’t get on board with these things. It’s stupid. Resolutions are dumb, but new mottos are fantastic. Anyway, I don’t plan on losing 495 pounds, nor do I expect to stop cursing anytime soon. I eat. I swear. It’s my thing.

So instead of coming up with a nonsensical list of things I will do or will not do in 2011. I have made a list of things I would like everyone else to stop doing in 2011. A pet peeve list, if you will.

1. Stop lying to yourself. Whether it be your husband/boyfriend is a psycho, or that you’re a horrible housekeeper with disgusting baseboards—just be honest with yourself.

2. Don’t put too much value in expensive things. I have yet to meet a person that HAD to be fitted in all designer attire and driving a luxury car that was even remotely interesting. Incredibly shallow people bore me. Sometimes if you are putting too much work in the outer appearance, you’re letting your inside go. Designer clothes are nice, but don’t make them a necessity. Buy a tee shirt from Wal-Mart and walk around. You’ll see there’s no difference in you.

3. Too much TV. I am guilty as charged here. Let’s get outside. Tim & I love to play a ~~notso~~ friendly game of basketball every once in awhile. The kids laugh their butts off, and when I’m losing I like to elbow Tim right in the gut.

4. Holier than thou. Religion is fine, as long as it doesn’t prohibit people from thinking outside the box. If Jesus is your guy, know that he wouldn’t have judged anyone.

5. Raising weird and lazy children. I saw a family in their car the other day… everyone had an electronic device in their hand. How can we interact with each other if we can’t put down the damn video games/phones/MP3? Siblings bond with each other by arguing and working it out, laughing and crying together, etc... There is nothing like having that brother/sister that you can always count on, even in adulthood. I think if I would have constantly had a PSP in my hands, I would never have gotten to know that my older brother can be the biggest dickhead in the world, but he has an enormous heart and still (to this day) tries to give me sweets when I cry. I don’t think video games are making good memories.

6. Dress your children weather appropriately. I don’t care if they are 2 months old or 17 years old. You’re the boss, and there is nothing more disturbing than a barefoot baby when the parents have full-on winter gear. For the 17 year old, just holler as they are walking out the door (like my dad still does)--- “Put a GD jacket on!”

7.   Let’s incorporate, Hello, Thank you, I’m sorry, and Excuse me back into our vocabulary.

8.   I’m so tired of being surrounded by a bunch of pussies. Sorry. I had to say it. We are pussies, and we are raising even bigger pussies. Sometimes you just need to man up and quit your fucking crying. I was raised by a woman who was not prone to crying or complaining. I was also raised by a man who never missed a day of work. When he was sick, he never complained. If he was hurt, I never even saw him wince. So I have a really hard time following your hangnail ordeal, your sprained wrist, your stubbed toe, your eczema, or your hurt feelings. Thank GAWD, I married someone like my dad—because I just can’t sympathize with ridiculousness.

9.   People who don’t know history at all. Did some of you just miss every class, or what the fuck happened? When I reference historical events and/or people as sarcasm, I want you to be able to follow along or at the very least be able to Google that shit from your phone while we’re talking (as in, you vaguely remember the historical figure, can spell the name, but can’t remember specifics).

10. Quit naming your children stupid white trash and/or ghetto names. They have proven this directs them into paths of destruction in life! So stop. Off-the-mainstream-names with historical value are great, but names that you fucking just made up with a gazillion consonants are not. AND stop changing the spelling of common names. It’s not cute anymore!

So instead of giving me your New Year’s Resolution, give me what you want everyone else to stop or start doing for 2011.

Sharing and Caring and Breaking

2010-12-21T14:53:00.001-08:00

There’s nothing more infuriating to me than sharing.

I exaggerate not.

Some people, like myself, require their own space. “These people should never get married,” says my mom. I take extreme issue with people touching my things. Especially if they handle those things roughly.

Example.

I bought an elliptical machine back when I was a single gal. I loved that thing. Mind you, I didn’t use it 90 times a day at a resistance of 40 to know that it was being used. That I was getting my money’s worth. At the time of purchase, Tim and I were dating, but when you’re dating someone-- you’re not all up in their shit. Or…. you shouldn’t be all up in their shit. AnyImaselfishbitch, when he moved in. Shacked up. Plotted our path to livin’ in sin. He began touching all my shit. Fondling my hair straightener. Stealing my pillow. Wearing my men’s athletic socks (nowhere on that package does it say that I need a penis to wear).

To top off all the invasion of comfort zones, he began using my elliptical. At first, I was all— “no big deal.” Then I watched him run on the damn thing. The only comparison that comes to mind would be an injured caribou stuck in the mud (accomplished with a resistance of about 40), about to be attacked by a pride of ravenous lions.

Loud. Oh, GURRRL. Loud.

I had never seen anyone utilize exercise equipment in such an angry manner. Sweat streaming onto my (then) beautiful elliptical. Sounded like the fucking thing was going to fall apart.

Of course, Tim denies it, but case and point. One day the fan didn’t come on to his liking—so he punched it. The covering to the fan caved.

Me Hulk. Me need fan. Fan no work…BAAAAAAMMMMMM. Bad fan.

That’s how I picture the whole thing going down. After one summer of sharing the elliptical, he announced to me one day that it was completely broken. Sigh.

Who in the hell does this? Men. That’s who. This is why I don’t want to share anything with them.

This brings us to now. Last night, I decided (after letting the elliptical sit in the garage for a couple of years) to investigate. It was the fucking batteries, People. The batteries. I think deep down, Tim knows how hard he is on equipment. Why else would he be like, “Oh. It’s caput.” BECAUSE he knows he rides that thing like an injured caribou stuck in the mud. THAT’s why.

So I made him help me put it into the bedroom, so I can watch my shows and not get as big as a house in the process. Tim’s first words, “Awesome. Now I can throw on my IPOD and get with it.”

No. No. See, you can’t use it. It’s mine. I insisted this was not going to happen.

Apparently, in marriage… you’re supposed to share your shit. Didn’t get that memo, or I straight threw that shit away. I thought I was going to have to dig out receipts proving this was a pre-marriage purchase. It got that ugly.

He insisted that he will be using the elliptical, to which I exclaimed, “Great. Now you’re gonna break it next to my side of the bed. The whole elliptical will crash. You will fall into my nightstand breaking my lamp. You will break my side of the bed and all my books.”

It’s like a pesky little kid trying to rub their dirty little hands all over your white and yellow Victorian dressing table that your mom bought you for your 10th birthday. Whew. Flashback.

Anyway. I don’t like to share. At. All. but I love my husband. So my time on the elliptical will be limited.

I Keep Forgetting What Day It Is

2010-12-16T13:35:00.001-08:00

Christmas is nearly here and, per usual, I’m scrambling. I have Snuggies, basketball goals, Leapster 2, and many other miscellaneous stocking stuffer crap to grab before the most commercialized holiday of the year. Every year, I say “We’re not spending as much this year. It’s ridiculous.” AND every year, I spend more than the year before. It’s sickening, but I do think there may be chocolate diamonds under the tree for me. So it’s hard to concentrate on overspending when there’s that…

I get to see the most awesome fucking people in the world this weekend. I have a Wassail to attend on Friday and the Coven’s Christmas Party on Saturday (remember I call my aunts The Coven because there’s 8 sisters including my mom). I wanted to cable in to the Wassail for my entrance, but Hugh Jackman has fucked that all to hell. Hugh and Frito Chili pie. I’m a fat ass. The only person that could truly test that zip line’s safety would be me or a hippo. So there’s that…

How do I know I’m out of shape? My three year old kicked my ass at Wii Boxing last night. Seriously. He blocked my right hook like it was a gnat. I have a truly awesome combination punch in real life and Wii life. It concludes with a knock out right hook, which last night was a no-go. It was so sad. I talked mad shit after he knocked me out twice. He’s very lucky it wasn’t Wii Bar Brawl 2010, because I’m not above leg swiping a little kid. Shameful all the way around.

Fattiefatfatfatfat.

I was going to get all gussied up ready for the Wassail. For my friends. Friends that I haven’t seen in a while and friends I see often. So far, I’ve plucked my eyebrows and painted my toenails hooker-ho-whore-slutbag red.

I knew I should have put more effort into the zip line.