SOME DAYS YOU'RE THE BUG...

Words of wisdom, courtesy of The Dictator

2011-05-04T09:07:00.001-07:00

I haven't posted in like, forever. Life sucks. Let's move on.

Here are some nuggets of wisdom spewed forth from The Dictator's mouth this week:

"You should have another kid and name him Know It All Jr."

"Meetings are boring, that's why they're called board meetings!"

"This music is horrible. It must be from the 80s."

It is seriously a miracle he's survived this long.

Craigslist etiquette

2010-11-03T15:16:00.001-07:00

Hubs has been laid off for a year and a half now, which means that my Pottery Barn/Pottery Barn Kids/Target shopping has taken a serious hit. This sucks. BIG TIME.

The upside to being poor is that I've rediscovered the beauty of Craigslist. I'm not going to lie, I love it. I scan the "for sale" ads looking for wood shit to refinish and live out my ghetto style Pottery Barn fantasy with. It's amazing.

Some people have treasures and think it's crap. Most people have crap and think it's treasures. Either way, I have noticed a pattern emerging. I'm going to call it "Craigslist Etiquette" and I'm here to lay down a few ground rules.

1. This is not a "desk". This is what most people would commonly refer to as a "table". Nobody over 2'8" could use this as a desk. Also, there is only one drawer and no chair. Hence, table.

2. This is not a "carpet". This is what most people would commonly refer to as a "rug". It only covers a small space and is easily portable, unlike carpet which is generally large and affixed. Rug.

3. It's "shabby chic", people...not "shabby sheik" or "shabby chick". Also, just because it's old and nasty doesn't mean it's shabby chic. It just means it's crap.

4. Please don't call your "dresser" a "chest of drawers". It's not 1935 and nobody knows what you're talking about.

5. It's "wrought iron"...not "rod iron". Just for fun, I Googled "rod iron" and got this as a definition: "Common misspelling of wrought iron". Ha! Even Google thinks you're an idiot.

6. When you list your item price in the title as "$8", and then I click on the link and you're asking "$800 OBO"...that's false advertising, my friend. Nice try.

7. I don't care how much you paid for your beloved treasures when you bought them. I want to know how low you're willing to sell them for NOW. Great, you paid $1600 for it two years ago. Will you take $20 for it now?

8. Seriously. Pictures. Nobody's going to buy your shit without pictures, and they're free to list, so throw some in there. Otherwise you can expect 427 emails that say, "Do you have any pictures you can send me?"

9. If your items's been listed for five months and it hasn't sold, it's probably time to lower the price. Nobody's going to pay $450 for your 1985 oak end table, even if the top lifts off for extra storage.

10. OH. MY. GOD. Post once. Just once. If I delete an item I'm selling, Craigslist makes me wait three days to put it back on the site, but somehow Joe Blow in Chino is able to list the same goddamn bookcase 14 times a day. What the hell?

Sigh. I think that about covers it. Happy shopping!

Well, shit.

2010-07-08T11:24:00.000-07:00

Hey.

Remember me?

Still here.

Sigh. Whatever.

Guess what I got in the mail two weeks ago? A letter. From a collections agency.

IN THE AMOUNT OF $100,000.00.

Did you catch that? That $100,000 part? Because that's TOTALLY the best part.

For those that don't know, we foreclosed on a condo we owned in 2007 (like 30% of America has done by now, but for the record...we were SO doing foreclosure before it was cool). Interest rate up, couldn't refinance because we owed more than it was worth, blah, blah, blah. I swear to God, it's the same story everyone else has.

So we walked away. It went a little something like this:

Talk, talk, talk

Plead, plead, plead

Sob, sob, sob

Pack, pack, pack

Move, move, move

Sob, sob, sob

Sold at auction

That was three years ago, and since then, my mom has died, Hubs lost his job and had two knees surgeries and we've moved twice.*

It sucked but life goes on, right? Years pass and it becomes a fading memory.

Until Friday, when I got the collections letter.

Seems in the good ole' state of California, your original loan is a "purchase money loan"...money used to buy the house. This means it's a "non-recourse" loan...the bank can't come after you for the difference.

BUT....

If you refinanced your loan at any time, it is no longer a "purchase money loan". This means the loan becomes a "recourse" loan, where the bank can come after you for the deficiency.

THE $100,000.00 DEFICIENCY.

Well...pardon my French, but fuck me twice.

So, after crying, and pleading, and consulting with two attorneys, and crying some more, and eating a tub of raw chocolate chip cookie dough...we'll be filing bankruptcy. It's the only way to protect us from this ginormous debt we didn't even know we had until two weeks ago.

Sigh. Whatever.

We'll just keep on truckin'.

And in the meantime, I'll remember my happy place:

*This sentence sums up why my life freaking KICKS ASS.

A driving lesson

2010-05-05T15:45:00.001-07:00

The conversation between me and The Dictator on the way to school the other day:

D: Mom, are you supposed to be driving with your elbows?

M: Only when you're putting on lotion. Duh.

Sometimes my magnificent parenting amazes even me.

The cashier at Albertsons is having custody issues...ask me how I know.

2010-05-03T15:10:00.000-07:00

Can someone please tell me when it because acceptable for grocery checkers to hold intenstely private conversations in front of customers? Did I miss this newly acceptable behavior?

The other night I was at the store...and yes, it was late, but only like 9:30 or so and there were still PLENTY of people in line, a fact our friendly neighborhood grocer seemed oblivious to.

I was loading my groceries on the conveyor belt, carefully stacking yogurts five high and cereal boxes four deep, already pissed off at my cashier because, dude. Move the freaking belt and we won't have this problem.

So my stuff is on the belt, my wallet is out and he's running my groceries over the beeper (again: Dude. If it doesn't work the first time, it's probably not going to the 14th. Manually enter the goddamn numbers.) The lightning bolts shooting from my retinas were apparently not affecting him at all, because this is the conversation he was having with the bagger (easy on the eyeliner there, young 'un):

"I know, right? I mean, I already got custody of my first son and my other one can't stand his mom. I don't get why I have to keep paying her child support and pay for everything else he needs when she just sits on her ass all day watching soap operas. He's already told me, when he's 18, he's out of there. They can't stand their mom."

WTF?!?!

Are you shitting me? You're seriously having THIS conversation in front of me (and nine other pissed off customers)? This one? About child custody and how much your kids hate their mom? And this is ACCEPTABLE to you??

The sad thing is, this isn't the first time I've heard about some grocer's boyfriend, or prom date, or custody status, or weight issues...it seriously happens every single time I'm at the store after 8:00.

Look...I'm not exactly "appropriate". But damn, I'm smart enough to know that my stupid ass shouldn't sit and tell my co-worker about the annoying rash I've had for three days in front of a policyholder.

All I'm saying is, your private life should be private, not broadcast to all shoppers at Albertsons on Tustin & Collins. Seriously. Censorship is our friend.

Well, not mine...but you know what I mean.

The Gaga Effect

2010-04-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

This morning, while in the car on the way to school and listening to the radio:

D: Mom, what's a vertical stick?

Sigh.

Damn that Lady Gaga.

D-R-A-M-A

2010-04-13T08:53:00.001-07:00

You know what I hate? Overreactors.

Drama queens.

Flipper outers.

Today as I was driving to work, I maybe wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been. I maybe was talking on the phone and changing the radio station, and I maybe swerved a little bit into the next lane.

Meh. Whatever.

The lady next to me (who I DIDN'T hit, by the way) honked three times, pulled up next to me and stared at me for almost an entire block...which, now that I'm thinking about it, is pretty impressive. How come she didn't swerve while doing so? Hmmmmm. Must master that.

My point is...SERIOUSLY, LADY. Relax. I didn't hit you, or cause a 4-car pile up. I just swerved a teensy, tiny bit. We're both still alive and kicking, although you might want to consult your physician for a Xanax prescription.

Sheesh. Tough crowd.

You like me! You really like me!

2010-04-11T12:02:00.000-07:00

So I've been MIA for a few months now, just trying to sort out some shit in my "real" life. This means my blogging life has gone kaput.

Unfortunately, it's hard to be funny when life keeps giving you the big middle finger, so I've taken a blog time out and haven't posted anything in a few months. I thought it wasn't an issue, but...some of yous are bitchin'.

Turns out there are a FEW (very few) folks around these parts who actually LIKE reading my blog, dare I say even look forward to reading it. Huh. Who knew?

So my resolution four months into 2010 is to start blogging again. It won't help me lose weight, or manage my finances better, or end world hunger...but hell, it might make a few of you giggle and as a bonus, get some of this shit running around in my brain all the time out. It's a win/win.

I'll be funny. I promise.

And I'll have great stories and amusing anecdotes. I promise.

But for right now, all I have is this:

- My 6th grader has a better social life than me.

- My Kindergartner is quickly working his way towards juvenile delinquency.

- My husband still has FAR too much spare time.

- If Bad Dog eats one more goddamn thing in this house, I'm going to gas her. Not really, because I love her. But something really, really bad will happen. As soon as I think of it.

- My freckles ARE NOT growing into one giant tan. Lame.

- I wish I could get the garden without the gardening.

That's it folks...for now.

Reading material

2009-09-24T09:59:00.000-07:00

I love the library.

I mean, I loooooooooove the library.

I love the stories, and the smell, and the visions I have of curling up on the sofa and spending some quality time with myself, sipping hot chocolate and cuddling with my Snuggie.

Except my "quality time" is spent with two kids yelling and two dogs shoving their noses up my crotch. And I don't own a Snuggie. And it's hot as shit right now.

Meh. Whatever.

The other day, I got a call that five of the ten books I have on hold were available. Yes, five. I'm aiming high.

This was the conversation between me and my friendly library employee:

M: Hello?

FLE: Mrs. Huttner?

M: Is my mother-in-law here?

FLE: What?

M: Never mind. Who's this?

FLE: This is the Orange Public Library. We're calling because the books you had on hold are available fo pickup.

M: Sweet! Which ones are they?

FLE: Let's see...Duma Key, Odd Hours, The Lovely Bones...ummm...Corpse and uh, Dead Men Do Tell Tales.

M: OK, I'll be by today to get them.

*pause*

M: Hello?

FLE: Ummm, Mrs. Huttner? That's an interesting choice of reading material.

M: I know, right? I'm going to have so much fun tonight!

*pause*

FLE: Uh, ok then. Have a good night.

*click*

The Orange Public Library thinks I'm a serial killer.

A shower surprise

2009-08-17T23:49:00.001-07:00

This is what I found getting in the shower the other day.

Should I be worried?

Maybe I'll start sleeping with a knife under my pillow.

You know...just in case.

This is kind-of a big deal

2009-07-09T09:23:00.000-07:00

Holy shit.

Most of the time

2009-07-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, I'm laughing.

Most of the time, I'm strong.

Most of the time, I'm capable.

Most of the time, I'm sane.

Most of the time, I'm shiny and clever.

But sometimes...sometimes...I'm just me. The real me.

Sometimes I get sick of the show.

Sometimes the sadness takes over.

Sometimes I wish I was as shiny inside as I am outside.

Silly? Maybe. I'm not crying for help, or being dramatic...just honest.

Sometimes I need help.

I value control, probably more than I should. When I feel it slipping through my fingers, I panic.

I'm panicking.

But when you see me next, I won't be. I'll be clever and strong and shiny once again. Because it's just so much easier to pretend that everything's going to be okay than to face the reality that it might not be.

The show must go on, no?

A little kindness makes everything nicer

2009-06-20T20:50:00.001-07:00

The other day, I took The Dictator and The Hormone King to Red Robin for dinner with my dear friend (Goob's mom) and her son (Goob). Goob's mom was able to hook me up with free kids' meal coupons...with Hubs planning some sort of strategic warfare on the opposing baseball team at Lamppost Pizza, I figured, what the hell? All I'd have to pay for was myself. Sweet!

The Dictator was in fine form that night. He was singing. He was sliding. He was yelling. He was touching. He was dancing. He was leaning. He was picking his nose...and eating it.

He was doing this all IN THE BOOTH AT RED ROBIN.

I threatened. Icounted. I gave The Look of Death. None of it was working.

Finally I realized I was going to have to get my stupid fat ass out of the booth, drag his little whiny ass outside and beat the hell out of him.

*sigh*

I hate it when they call my bluff.

I rolled out of the booth, grabbed his wrist and started walking...all with him yelling, "I don't want to go outside! Are you going to smack me? Are you going to smack me?"

So, I'm dragging him by his wrist. He's whining and I'm fuming. I'm plotting in my head the consequences I'm going to dole out on this insolent little creature. Talking? Spanking? Squeezing? Pinching? There are so many options.

As I'm perusing my mental rolodex of punishments, a sweet Red Robin employee jogs ahead of me to open the door for me.

Now, this is normal procedure. But in this particular instance, all I could think was, "Huh. He just opened the door for me to go beat my son. That was awfully considerate of him."

Kindness, kids. I'm all about kindness.

Smell my face

2009-06-17T22:33:00.000-07:00

I was on the computer tonight when The Hormone King came up to me and boldly stated:

"Hey mom, smell my face."

I did, believe it or not. It reeked of Right Guard Extreme.

The village idiot put deodorant on his face. Why, I asked him?

"Why not?"

He amuses me like no other.

Football is BIG

2009-06-11T14:50:00.000-07:00

The Hormone King is playing football, all four feet and 62 pounds of him.

Huh.

It should be interesting, if nothing else.

So, we went to his first team meeting on Tuesday and it went a little something like this:

Big hair. Big boobies. Big jewelry. Big makeup. Big wallets.

And me. The boobies, I got covered. Everything else...not so much.

*sigh*

This season is going to KICK ASS.

Do you think they'll have an open bar at the games? Cause I'm gonna need it.

The battle for pus

2009-06-08T22:49:00.000-07:00

Tonight, The Hormone King and I had a knock down, drag out. About what, you ask?

A zit. A freaking zit.

The little shithead wouldn't let me pick it.

I LOVE to pick. Nothing makes me happier than to spend a good 40 minutes of my life picking somebody. Anybody. On those uber rare occasions when my face is blackhead-free, I chase my husband around the house looking for an imperfection to squeeze. If he's not around, I scrutinize my kids...usually unsuccessfully. When they're hiding in the closet, I gravitate towards the dogs.

Seriously. It's that bad.

The Hormone King is just that...a hormone king. Hormones = oil. Oil = grease. Grease = zits.

SWEEEEET!

*Sidenote: THK has armpit hair. It's very fine and babyish, but it's there and it makes me want to vomit. This puberty thing is kicking my ass.

Anyway, he was getting ready for bed tonight when I noticed he had a great, pointy, juicy blackhead on the side of his face. I immediately sprang into action.

M: You have a zit on the side of your head. Lemme get it.

HK: No. You don't stop when I ask you to.

M: I will, I promise. Come here.

HK: No! I'll do it myself.

M: (getting desperate) If you let me pick it, I'll give you $2.00.

(I swear, you guys, this is what I'm resorting to).

HK: No! Go away!

M: (more desperate) See your nails? They're long. I was going to cut them tonight, but if you let me pick that zit, I'll put it off for three days.

HK: Seriously, mom. You're scary.

M: Dammit! Did you hear me? I said I'll let you grow freaking talons, dude! That's insane! I'm desperate!

HK: (running away) I'll do it! I'll do it! Dad! She's out of her mind!

I chased him, but he got away. I even held his hands behind his head, but turns out you can't pop a freaking zit when you're holding someone else's hands. And it's absolutely gross when your kid licks your arm to force you to let go.

He won this battle, but the war is just beginning. He's 11, for God's sake. The hormones are just starting to do their work on him.

I will be victorious.

31 Reasons

2009-05-10T08:40:00.001-07:00

It's Mother's Day. It's time to celebrate your mom, to pamper her and indulge her and let her know how much she means to you, and how blessed you are to have been raised by her.

Except I don't have a mom anymore. At least, not in physical form.

I hate this freaking holiday. It takes on a totally different meaning when your mom is gone. Instead of shopping for that perfect gift, I watch commercials telling me what to get the woman who raised me, the woman who was my best friend in the world...and I cry. Instead of planning brunch or dinner or figuring out who's going to be where, I stare at her picture and wish she was still here.

Yep, Mother's Day without a mother simply blows.

*Sidenote: FTD, I hope you die. I'm pretty sure my mother doesn't want flowers today, and I'm VERY sure that she's not sending me emails letting me know that...so enough with the emails from "mom" detailing "Here's what I want for Mother's Day!" Seriously. I hate you.

I'm in a funk and I'm not so good at hiding it. My friend Erin realized this (because I posted it on facebook) and suggested I write 31 reasons why I love(d) my mom. 31, because that's how old I am, and reasons because it might heal my heart a bit. It's been a year and it still hurts every bit as much as it did the day I found out, so hey, it can't hurt, right?

31 REASONS I LOVE(D) MY MOM:

1. She was the funniest person I've ever met in my life.

2. She would spend hours preparing a meal because she loved to cook. Totally didn't rub off on me.

3. She had little chicken legs, just like me.

4. When I was older and married and would get migraines, she would drive from Long Beach to Orange to bring me medicine, at the drop of a hat.

5. She was there when both my boys were born.

6. She loved my kids more than she loved me, and appreciated each of them for their (very different) spirits.

7. She sacrificed so her children would be taken care of.

8. She worked her whole life, from 15 years old to when she died at 54, even when she was so sick she couldn't keep her eyes open.

9. She managed to take care of me and my brother even after she was gone.

10. She survived things most people can't and shouldn't.

11. She left my dad when she realized he was bad for us. I was only 2 years old.

12. She was the Medicine Queen. Seriously. Need some Vicodin, Xanax or Midrin? Give her a ring.

13. She was strict. And I was scared of her, until the day she died.

14. She was an old school parent. She wasn't my friend, she was my mother. I didn't argue, I didn't say no, and when I was grounded, my ass was in my room for two weeks.

15. I look very much like her. And so does The Dictator.

16. She made me be a parent when I had The Hormone King at 20 years old, instead of raising him while I went off and partied. I hated her for it then, but loved her for it later.

17. She was the most sarcastic person I've ever known.

18. She wanted to be a better parent than her mother had been. And she was.

19. She loved to watch TLC.

20. She talked to me recently in a dream. She still cares. :)

21. She was one of the most intelligent people I've ever met.

22. She told me she was proud of me before she died.

23. She was very generous, and would give anything she had to someone she loved.

24. She used to say "Happy Natal Day" instead of "Happy Birthday".

25. She taught me to smile instead of cry.

26. I could forge her signature perfectly. She found out and didn't care.

27. She kept every single lame, ugly "thing" her grandchildren gave her. And trust me, some of them were very lame and very ugly.

28. She used to play music throughout the house on the weekends. I grew up listening to The Steve Miller Band, The Beatles and Fleetwood Mac blaring at full volume.

29. She never let me off the hook. She made me own my shit.

30. She was the mentally strongest woman I've ever known.

31. She was my best friend.

Happy Mother's Day, mom. I miss you.

Today sucks big donkey balls

2009-05-05T15:37:00.000-07:00

Today sucks big donkey balls.

Hubs called me this morning to tell me that he got laid off. No notice, no warning...just take your check and hit the road. Oh, and we'll be by on Saturday to get the piece of shit work truck that's been monopolizing your driveway for three years.

We're broke with him working. Can you imagine what it's going to be like with no work? Uggs. And to make this super sunshiney day even grander, there are 270 people on the books before him at the union hall. The economy kicks ass.

Pray for me, folks. Or cross your fingers for me. Hell, I don't care what you do. Light some incense, rub a Buddha belly, chant in tongues...just do it. Quickly.

We're dog paddling now...drowning soon.

Let's talk Twilight

2009-04-15T09:33:00.000-07:00

So I read the Twilight series. I didn't want to, because, hello, I am WAY too cool and mature to read vampire books and buy into the whole "you complete me" bullshit romance genre. I'm married, remember? I know that real life consists of cleaning up piss on the bathroom floor, asking for a courtesy flush and fighting the urge to stab your husband as he snores on the sofa while you're trying to get two crabby kids ready for bed.

But, under much diress and with much prodding, I read it.

Fine. I'm lying. I asked Salley if I could borrow the stupid first book. Actually, I begged.

And OH MY GOD, I loved it. LOOOOOOOVED it.

I don't know why, but it hit some long-dead romantic, vulnerable nerve in my body. All of a sudden, I actually wanted to spend time with my husband. Like, alone. Sans kids. Weird, right?

Unfortunately, there have also been some negative side effects of stepping into the (sigh) Cullen world. For example:

- I'm madly in love with a fictional teenage vampire who was really born in 1901.

- I'm madly in love with the actor who plays said fictional teenage vampire in a movie, but only if he's wearing full vampire attire & makeup.

- I've watched the DVD about 23 times and have a tendency to pause every single frame said actor is in.

- I hate the whiny human teenage girl he's in love with. Bitch.

- I find myself suddenly doodling crap like this all over the place.

- I'm pretty sure my kids didn't bathe or brush their teeth for three days. Mom was in a Cullen coma on the sofa.

- I have totally unrealistic expectations of men now. Instead of hearing things like, "You are my life now", I hear things like "You didn't wash my underwear?" and it PISSES. ME. OFF. Seriously...Edward would die for Bella and I have to promise sexual favors to get the living room vacuumed. How is this fair?

And, on top of all this, I've finished the damn series. What the hell am I going to do now? I have no reason to function. The sun is no longer shining when I get out of bed every day. I've resorted to Googling random shit in my spare time, in hopes of forgetting the Cullens and the love affair we once had.

Damn.

Twilight has seriously jacked me up.

What am I going to do now? Go back to reality, you say? Nay, good sirs, nay.

Somebody find me a new series to obsess over, pronto. This "real life" shit sucks ass.

Freaking Edward.

Happy Easter, mom

2009-04-14T00:02:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter, mom. I miss you.

This child is not mine

2009-03-26T22:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I truly wonder if The Dictator is genetically mine.

I mean, sure, he looks exactly like me...well, a smaller, blonder, penis-carrying version of me, but still...we're pretty damn close.

I see him every day and I feel 100% sure that he's my child.

Most of the time.

Then, there's other times...like tonight, when I walked in the living room and saw this:

Can't tell what he's eating? Here's a bigger picture for you:

DO YOU SEE THOSE? Those horrid, green, foul-smelling farm belongings on my coffee table? Those are snap peas.

Snap peas.

BLEEEEEEEEEEEECH.

And my offspring is eating them. Not sweetened, not cooked, not rolled in powdered sugar and deep fried...raw. He's eating them raw.

Obviously, there was a mix-up in the uterus.

Dear IRS

2009-03-16T23:37:00.000-07:00

Dear IRS,

Blow me.

Wishing you a lengthy and painful death,
Shannon H.

I should start saving

2009-03-04T21:40:00.000-08:00

The Hormone King is a tattletale. A massive, hyper-sensitive, over-reacting, sissyboy tattletale.

In his defense, The Dictator is the master of all instigators, so it's usually justified. But since I can only hear so much whining and complaining before I pack up my shit and get the hell out of Dodge, the new rule is this:

If I don't see blood or bones, deal with it.

Magnificent parenting, I know.

So tonight, this was overheard in my house as I was ignoring my offspring and tending to Facebook:

HK: Moooooom, Owen just said boobies are awesome!

D: *giggle*

*sigh*

You know what's more expensive than counseling? Bail.

I'm so not cut out for this parenting thing.

The Hormone King's on a mission

2009-02-20T01:01:00.000-08:00

The Hormone King wants a cell phone. In fact, he wants a cell phone so bad that he gave all his friends (and a few little 5th grade floozies) my cell phone number so that none of them would know he's the poor trashy boy at the expensive private school with (gasp!) no cell phone.

This means that I get 46 texts a day that look a little something like this:

"do u know who likes u lol? dont tell ne1 i told you, k? g2g lol"

What the hell kind of freaking language is that, anyway? Sorry kiddos, I don't speak textese, and shouldn't you be out playing Barbies or braiding each others' hair? For the love of God, you're in 5th grade, stop trying to whore yourself out to my son.

So anyway...

Despite the fact that he's 10 1/2 years old, and that we've never dropped him off and not come back for him, and that he has never in his life walked anywhere by himself, much less the 3 miles to school...The Hormone King is on a mission to earn his much-needed cell phone by proving himself responsible.

When I got home from a baseball meeting tonight, everyone was in bed and this was the note I found on his dresser:

Can't read it? Here's what it says, verbatim:

"Mom I packed my homework so don't get scared if you can't find my homework. I'm taking responsibility so I can get that phone I really want. P.S. It's only $10!!! Got my assingment book signed, and put my close away and got new close out, and after practice I will pick up poop even if it goes to dark. If I don't pick it up, then ground me. And I picked up my room. Sorry for argueing with you about the phone. P.S.J.R. You are the best mom. Thanks for looking after me!!!" (and a picture of a stick figure with snot coming out of his nose, and a note that says 'snot.')

To clarify, the poop he's speaking of is canine, not human. Although human would make for a much more interesting evening.

Sometimes, all it takes is a misspelled word on wide-ruled paper from The Hormone King to make my day. And if said note just happens to also contain an illustration of snot...well, shit, that just about makes my whole week.

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions

2009-02-20T00:49:00.001-08:00

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,

The Dictator obviously knows much more about how amazing tractor clocks can be than I do.

I stand corrected.

Sincerely,

The proud owner of 2 boys, 4,328,032 outdated toys and one truly magnificent John Deer tractor clock

Naked football

2009-02-05T18:37:00.000-08:00

So I'm sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with my family and bonding right now.

Not really.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table stalking people on Facebook.

Same thing, right?

Anyway, this is what I just heard from the playroom:

HK: Let's play naked football.

D: How do you play?

HK: You have to touch me in my end zone.

*cut to me laughing hysterically*

I really should not be allowed to raise children.

Larry

2009-02-03T10:20:00.000-08:00

Last night, I was watching The Hormone King as he was getting dressed for bed. I don't do this because I'm a pedo, but rather because if I don't sit on the bed and stare at him threateningly, he'll spend approximately 12 minutes singing, 10 minutes dancing with the towel, 23 minutes watching TV out of the crack in his bedroom and 8 minutes checking himself out in the mirror, all before he even picks up his clothing.

Approximately.

So I was on his bed giving him the "Boy-you'd-better-get-dressed-right-now-or-I-will-beat-you-to-death-and-text-all-those-little-floozies-you-like-and-tell-them-you-still-watch-The Wiggles-on-a-regular-basis" look, when he turned to me and said:

HK: Stop looking at Larry.

M: Larry? Who's Larry?

HK: *giggle, giggle*

HK: *giggle some more*

It took me a minute and then I realized what he was talking about.

Oh, for the love of God.

My son has named his wiener Larry.

Thank you

2009-02-02T00:25:00.000-08:00

Despite what you all may think, I haven't offed myself, or my husband, or anyone else close to me. And my children are still alive and kicking, and even Bad Dog and Good Dog are fed and healthy, and continue on their happy little path of sleeping, shitting and barfing on my rug.

You can take me off friendship suicide watch, because I was just really, really bummed.

But thank you.

Thank you for caring. And questioning. And calling. And understanding. Or not understanding, but at least not calling 911 and having me admitted to a mental institution.

I appreciate it, and I love you all.

And I have more to blog about, I do...but right now, I need to eat my body weight in Smores and pass out in a pool of my own vomit.

You're the best.

The end of my rope

2009-01-23T21:39:00.001-08:00

I'm just about at the end of my rope.

I'm tired.

I'm angry.

I'm hurt.

I'm resentful.

I'm hateful.

I'm scared.

I'm confused.

I'm full of blame.

I'm ashamed.

And most, and worst, of all:

I'm nearly hopeless.

Sometimes, it's just too much. It's just too overwhelming. You don't know what to do, so you just pretend like everything is fine. You deny and deny some more. And then, it all comes crashing down, all your layers of denial, and the brick wall you hit is bigger than you ever imagined it could be.

Sometimes, you just need someone to remind you:

IT'S WORTH IT.

I could use some reminding right now.

Another reason I'm the best parent on earth

2009-01-19T21:59:00.000-08:00

So The Dictator's sick. And he's been sick since Saturday, but since I'm, #1. The Mother of the Year, and #2. A big fan of medicating and waiting it out- I didn't take him to the doctor. I figured it was a cold, and after ingesting enough children's Tylenol and Ibuprofen to kill a Velociraptor, he'd be fine.

Until he got bumpy.

Like, everywhere.

Now, I'm no doctor...but I'm pretty sure my son's exterior should be smooth and bump-free. So off to the land of Kaiser fun we went.

We sat in the Land of Sickness and Filth for 30 minutes before we were called in. The Dictator was measured, weighed and temperature-checked, all of which reminded me of a cow going to the slaughter.

Sad.

Then, the blessed Doctor, Patron Saint of Prescription Medicine, floated into the room. She looked at The Dictator's throat, checked out his bumpiness, and boldly declared:

"He has Scarlett Fever."

*blink, blink*

What?!?!?

What the shit is Scarlett Fever? Isn't that something that existed back in the days of Cholera and the Black Plague? Is it even possible to get it now? And why don't we immunize for it? Because dammit, I may let my kid have a fever for three days, but I stick to that immunization schedule like white on rice.

My mind was reeling with the newly heightened levels of bad parenting I had reached. My son, my beloved Dictator, had something called Scarlett Fever, and it was all my fault. Next thing I knew, he'd be foaming at the mouth and trying to bite our dogs.

Not really.

Scarlett Fever, it turns out, is just what strep becomes when it gets into your system. So my son had strep, and because he was born to neglectful parents, it spread. Hence, his skin became bumpy, which is when I, being the perceptive parent I am, noticed it.

Pobrecito.

I'm just saying...if your kid has a fever for three days, and when you finally take him to the doctor, they tell you he has Scarlett Fever...then you might be the best parent on earth.

Like me.

The other twisted one in the family

2009-01-16T02:19:00.001-08:00

I'm a little twisted. Everyone knows that.

But what most people don't know is that I'm not the only twisted one in my house.

Today, our God-forsaken laptop was running slower than...well, nothing that I have a good metaphor for, but it was insanely slow. I was getting frustrated and bitter, because hello people, I have Facebooking to do! Let's go! Now! What if I miss a witty comment? I might die!

Anyhow, Hubs just happened to walk by as I was raging.

M: For the love of God! This is ridiculous. It's 5:43, that's like prime Facebook time, and I can't get online. I'm going to miss close, personal revelations with friends I haven't spoken to in 15 years, all because this damn computer is clogged up!

H: Huh. Maybe I should back off the porn.

*sigh*

I'm pretty sure he was kidding.

How Wii Rock Band leads to rehab

2009-01-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

I've been told I've become a blog slacker. Shit.

It's just sometimes, real life gets in the way of blog life. It sucks, because honestly, I like blog life better most of the time. Blog life can be summed up in a few paragraphs with a cutesy little picture and a witty response. Real life, well...not so much.

*sigh*

So let's finish off these sonofabitching Christmas posts and call it a day. Or a week. Whatever.

Luckily, I can pretty much sum up my entire Christmas experience with one picture.

There you go, kiddos, that was approximately 98% of my Christmas, in some form or another. Either I was watching it, or playing it, or listening to it, or trying to throw it away without anybody noticing, or threatening to kill one and/or all the boys in my house if they didn't turn it down, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TURN THE DAMN ROCK BAND DOWN!

The good news? My kids are learning an appreciation for classics like 'Aqualung' and 'Carry On My Wayward Son'.

The bad news? I suck. But at least Rock Band is nice enough to let me know that I suck.

Now The Hormone King is convinced that he needs a drum set so he can become a rock star and make millions of dollars, snort lines of cocaine off hookers' asses and end up on Celebrity Rehab at the age of 14.

Curse you, Wii Rock Band 2. You're paying for the sober living house.

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions

2009-01-07T10:44:00.001-08:00

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,

Look, I get it. I totally get it. You want to be able to buy your grandchildren lots and lots of gifts, like any good grandparent does, so you're always looking for a good deal or a hidden sale.

And I get that in order to buy your grandchildren 300 gifts each, you have to buy the toys that aren't really cool anymore, like Shrek or Cars or anything else you can find for 74 cents at Big Lots.

I get it.

But for future reference:

No matter how cheap it is...no matter what kind of deal it is...

A 5-year old boy just isn't going to appreciate the understated elegance of a John Deere clock.

Even if it does have 12 different tractor sounds that go off at each hour.

Sorry.

Sincerely,

The proud owner of 2 boys and 4, 328, 032 outdated toys.

Domestic bliss

2009-01-07T10:12:00.000-08:00

I suppose it's time to blog about my Christmas.

I mean, it is January 7th, and all.

Fine.

It was good. Lots of time off equals less pay for Babe, so that sucks, but we managed to squeak through the holidays relatively unscathed.

And this year, we tried to be all domestic and shit too. You know, because that's what good families do during the holidays. And we're a good family, dammit, so Martha Stewart, here we come.

Our first foray into domesticity was a gingerbread house.

*Note to self: Never, ever, ever attempt any sort of gingerbread anything ever again. It doesn't matter how many other people sucessfully craft a cookie dwelling, or that Michael's sells amazing kits that have beautiful pictures of heavenly bliss...yours just isn't going to look anything like that. EVER. No matter how hard you try, or how many curse words you use, yours is still going to fall apart.

Gingerbread housing with the boys, it turns out, is much like Halloween pumpkining with the boys. I have this image in my mind of what it's going to be like. I imagine the whole family bonding, stretching our creative abilities to the limit, for hours and hours and hours of fun. We'll laugh, and tell silly stories, and compliment each other on our amazing gingerbread accomplishment.

Instead, the boys watch TV while we do all the hard work, come over to decorate for 20 seconds, ask to eat all the candy, throw things at each other, drop 4000 sugar bits on the ground, get bored and leave.

Norman Rockwell would have a freaking coronary.

So, here's the house as we (read: The Guy That's Sleeping on the Couch and I) started:

And here's the boys, during their 20 second decorating blitz:

Look at that intense concentration. And, to his benefit, TGTSOTC did manage to actually make icicles on our gingerbread house. So that totally makes us more domestic.

And here's the completed project:

Granted, it looks like the door is melting off into the foundation of the home, but I think it turned out pretty damn good.

Martha Stewart better watch her domestically inclined ass, because the wieners and I are coming right up on it.

*Giggle*

I just re-read that sentence.

*Giggle*

Shit, I'm funny.

I'm totally NOT addicted to Facebook

2009-01-06T11:50:00.000-08:00

Somebody needs to come to my house, break down the door, find my laptop, pry it out of my cold, evil hands, run out the door as fast as they can, and remove Facebook from my life forever.

Seriously.

It's a little addicting.

A little.

I mean, just because I race home to check my Wall before I even say hi to the boys or Babe...that doesn't mean anything, right?

And just because I frantically search the site, trying to find one more, just one more, familiar face I can add as a friend (even though we haven't technically spoken in 15 years)...I mean, that's totally normal behavior for a 31-year old wife and mother of two, isn't it?

And just because I private chat with friends that I could just as easily pick up the phone and call until 1:30 in the morning on a Monday...that doesn't mean I'm addicted.

I'm totally not addicted.

I'M NOT!

SHUT UP!

If you have something to say to me, you write it on my Wall, dammit. I'm no longer taking those old-school "phone calls" you speak of.

I'll be online at 5:32 p.m., give or take 10 or 20 seconds.

SHUT UP!

New Year's just isn't quite the same when you're a parent

2009-01-01T00:58:00.001-08:00

It's 12:58 a.m. New Year's Day.

Happy freaking New Year! In 2009 I'm going to lose weight and manage my finances better, and blah, blah, blah.

I came to the conclusion years ago that New Year's just isn't the same once you become a parent. Tonight, that conclusion was confirmed.

I really had the best intentions of celebrating New Year's like you're supposed to. We gathered up the fam and headed to our friends' house for the evening, with about 20 other people and 15 other kids. Their pool was heated, alcohol was aplenty and we were ready to party like it's 1999.

We got there about 7:30, and since I was out to have a good old-fashioned shitfaced New Year's, I started drinking right away.

I was more than a little tipsy by 8:00. Literally, 30 minutes later. One wine cooler and I'm off and running, as those of you who hang out with me in real life know.

So I'm off to a good start, and I'm socializing and hobnobbing and having a grand old time like my kids didn't even exist. Except for the fact that every 1.5 seconds, I heard, "Mom, look!" from the pool, because The Hormone King was insistent on showing off his very best dance moves on the diving board.

Around 9:00, I started wondering if it was almost midnight. I was exhausted, and Hubs was exhausted, and it was cold, and WHEN THE HELL DID I GET SO WHINY?

At 9:30, The Dictator started feeling sick. At 9:40, The Dictator started burping and spitting a lot, so we ran to the bathroom, where he hugged The Porcelain God for about 15 minutes while a line formed outside.

From 9:45 to approximately 10:30, I tried everything known to man to calm his stomach, make him happy and stop the horrific whining. We finally ended up on a recliner, under a blanket in my friends' living room, watching an auto auction. Commence checking of watch for time updates.

No, really.

At 10:30, The Dictator started feeling better so he wandered back to the playroom to hang out with the other little humans in the house. I had stopped drinking when he started feeling sick in case I needed to drive home, so that was over too. Yeehaw.

For the next hour and 20 minutes I watched the UFC fight from last weekend, checked my watch another 11 times and tried to prevent Hubs from lapsing into a sleep deprivation coma in the living room. In said hour and 20 minutes, I was visted approximately 14 times by The Dictator, who came in to tell me that the boys weren't sharing, the boys weren't letting him play, the boys weren't listening to him, and how many more crackers can I have before I barf again?

At 11:50, I rolled myself off the sofa and went outside to prepare for the festivities (which really meant securing a good spot by the fire pit so I wouldn't freeze my sufficiently large ass off).

And then...12:00 hit. There were horns and poppers and Dom Perignon and children screaming "Happy New Year!", and all I could think as I looked at the whole shabang was, "Huh. I wonder who's going to clean all this up tomorrow."

Yes, friends, New Year's just isn't quite the same when you're a parent...but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Tom & Jerry make me want to kill myself

2008-12-30T23:21:00.000-08:00

It's 11:21 p.m. and I'm up watching TV with The Dictator.

WHAT? I've never claimed to win any parenting awards. Besides, it's Christmas vacation, and nothing screams Jesus's birthday like letting your kids stay up until 2:00 a.m. and dragging their angry asses out of bed in the morning.

Anyway, I'd just like to say that TOM & JERRY SUCK ASS.

Seriously. Suck. Ass.

This cartoon is by far the lamest thing I've ever seen in my life (although quite a few Steven Segal movies come in a close second).

There's no talking, and the storylines are just pathetic, and really, how many times can Jerry hit Tom over the head with a wooden board?

Stupid.

I can't believe I used to watch this shit.

I'm off to kill myself (right after I check Facebook).

The Dictator and mud

2008-12-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

The Dictator is drawn to trouble like a moth to a freaking flame.

The Hormone King plays travel baseball from July-December. This means that twice a month, we spend a full weekend on some sort of bat and ball facility, somewhere in Southern-ish California.

Like, the whole weekend.

Needless to say, The Dictator is generally bored to snot and willing to go to any lengths to amuse himself on these weekends. In all fairness, he is stuck on a baseball field for 8+ hours a day, so I'm not saying I don't get it, because I do. Holy shit, do I.

At one of our last tournaments, The Dictator disappeared for a bit. As Mother of the Year, I didn't feel it necessary to go look for him. Usually he's just brawling with little boys for their quarters or taking candy from the friendly man in the van with no windows looking for his puppy.

He wandered over a few minutes later and this is what he looked like:

And that's just his feet. The rest of him looked like this:

He was totally Pigpen from Charlie Brown.

His explanation? "We found mud!" Really? Never would have guessed.

I begrudgingly dragged him to the bathroom to clean him up. I was about 1/2 inch into the cleaning process when I realize it was utterly, totally, completely pointless. I threw away his socks and let the mud dry, praying to the Tide & Shout gods to throw me a freaking bone with this one.

I thought about getting mad, but seriously- it's mud and he's a boy. And a Dictator boy, no less.

A better (and messier) combination never existed.

The story of the turd-filled hallway

2008-12-29T09:15:00.001-08:00

I have a story. It's about our hallway and how it became filled with Dictator turds. It's pure awesomeness.

The Dictator is 5 years old and amazing. He's sweet, funny and intelligent, and I adore him more than words can even begin to describe. Now, having pointed out his good qualities, I'd like to point out one of his negative ones.

He'd like to crawl back in my womb.

Like, now. At 5 years old.

But he can't, so instead he'll settle for begging me to do everything for him...from getting him a drink, to putting on his shoes, to wiping his ass.

So we've been working on it. I've tried gently explaining to him that his wife won't appreciate it when her mother-in-law comes over to wipe her husband's ass at 2:00 a.m. in the year 2029. I've tried gently explaining that mommy & daddy potty trained him for a reason. I've tried gently explaining that seriously kid, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, get off the freaking pot, you're going to wither away and die.

He's just not getting it.

I'm finally just opting for a compromise...you wipe, I'll check. There. We're done. And it was working. For a while.

Until...

The Dictator took a marathon dump and decided to get all 'Big Boy' on us and wipe his own little ass.

And wipe he did, friends...wipe he did.

I honestly don't even know how many butt wipes he used to clean himself. I figure his cheeks are only, what, 8 inches in diameter? That means the hole itself is teeny tiny too, but the little Prince was apparently feeling pristine that evening, and took extra precautions to cleanse himself.

Yeah.

By my calculations, he used approximately 12 wipes.

And then flushed them all down.

Well, not really. Somewhere along the line, they got stuck. And the water kept running.

And running.

Until an hour later, when I walked into the hallway and my foot sank in mushy, shit-particle filled carpet. Lots and lots and lots of mushy, shit-particle filled carpet.

*Sigh*

Awesomeness.

So, we filed a claim with the insurance company, which, in an ironic twist of fate, happens to be the same Big Insurance Company I work for. And a restoration company came out, ripped up our carpet and padding, and left us with removed chunks of drywall, missing baseboards and cold, hard concrete floors in the hallway and (appropriately enough) half of The Dictator's room.

This is what our house looks like:

Doesn't that look like a cozy, inviting place to hang out during this beloved Christmas season?

So, that's the story of my turd-filled hallway, which helped contribute to my already horrid Grinchy Christmas attitude.

As for The Dictator...well, I tried being mad at him. I really did. I was all, "Dictator middle name last name!" and then he looked at me like this

and I turned all mushy, sniffled, and walked away.

It's just a turd-filled carpet, after all.

Hey, remember me?

2008-12-29T09:09:00.000-08:00

So I've been in blog denial for a while now. I was feeling Stoogey and Grinchy and just all around shitty this Christmas season, and I totally slacked off on blogging. It's hard when life is just kicking you in the ass again and again...I simply wasn't feeling amusing and thought nobody would want to read me any other way. Funny is good but the tougher times aren't, so I stayed away from my beloved Blogger because I didn't want to be the whiney buzzkill bitch.

But I'm better now.

So, I'm going to post. Probably a lot.

We'll see...

Tagged again! Something to blog about!

2008-12-12T09:59:00.000-08:00

My darling little Vern tagged me again, and I'm not gonna lie...I love it. It gives me blog fodder, something to write about during this season of money spending and shit-water flooding my house-ing. (Another time, kiddos...you'll hear that story another time. Maybe when it's less aggravating and more amusing for me.)

So of course I'm going to post the tagging, and of course you'll all read and find out how uber amusing I am. Or not.

I need a Xanax. Or twelve.

Oh, and the rule for this tag is that your answer has to be the first one you thought of, and it has to be one word. Should be really easy for me, since I'm not long winded at all. (That was sarcasm, hence the italics).

1. Where is your cell phone? Car.

2. Your significant other? Frustrating.

3. Your hair? Red.

4. Your mother? Missed.

5. Your father? Soulless.

6. Your favorite thing(s)? Sons.

7. Your dream last night? Forgotten.

8. Your favorite drink? Milk.

9. Your dream/goal? Contentment.

10. The room you’re in? Bleh.

11. Your fear? Loneliness.

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Happy.

13. Where were you last night? Lamppost Pizza.

14. What you’re not? Subtle.

15. Muffins/donuts? Yummy.

16. One of your wish list items? Bike.

17. Where you grew up? O.C.

18. The last thing you did? Peed.

19. What are you wearing? Black.

20. Your TV? Whatever.

21. Your pet? Unconditional.

22. Your computer? Evil.

23. Your life? Crazy.

24. Your mood? Shitty.

25. Missing someone? Yes.

26. Favorite pastime? Napping.

27. Something you’re not wearing? Socks.

28. Favorite Store? Target.

29. Your summer? Hot.

30. Your favorite color? Brown.

31. When is the last time you laughed? Yesterday.

32. Last time you cried? Tuesday.

33. Who will re-post this? Erin?

34. Four places I go over and over? Home, work, school, Target.

35. Four people who e-mail me? Julie, Vern, Jenni, Keri.

36. Four of my favorite foods? Bubblegum ice cream, pizza, chicken pasta, pazookies.

37. Four places I would like to be right now? Bed, Colorado, bath, Cheesecake Factory.

38. Four people I tag? Erin, Debbie, Jade, Angela.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

2008-12-09T10:53:00.000-08:00

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas in our dysfunctional household. The tree is up, Bad Dog is eating all the glass bulb ornaments and Babe and I haven't paid the cell phone or insurance bills yet because DAMMIT, THERE ARE GIFTS TO BUY!

Because it's December, the boys are in a gift-anticipating daze. Everything revolves around Christmas, Santa Claus and what his totally realistic flying reindeer are going to be bringing them.

Everything.

Today, The Dictator called me in the bathroom after his morning pee, and announced, "Look mommy, it's a stocking!"

He was referring to the pee bubbles in the water that had formed a striking resemblance to a certain gift-bearing sock.

And holy balls if he wasn't right on. It really was a stocking.

Even my toilet thinks it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Dub-Dubs

2008-12-08T13:34:00.000-08:00

So today I actually removed my fingers from my keyboard, stood up, and dragged my fat ass to Weight Watchers.

And holy shitbricks and coffee cakes, I lost TWO POUNDS! Two pounds, folks! That's like...shit, I don't know, but that's two pounds, and hell if I won't take it. I am officially two pounds less fat than I was last week.

So I drove back to work deliriously happy, with visions of rainbows and pink unicorns and fuzzy bunnies running through my head. And I ran (shut up) to my desk, logged in, and typed in "www.weightwatchers.com" as fast as my chubby little fingers could.

I logged in my weight, grinned, and pushed the "submit" button, waiting for the screen to pop up and tell me how wonderful I am.

And instead, I got this little diddy:

"Please note: You're probably excited to be losing weight, but you're losing faster than is recommended. Although it's normal to lose over 2 lbs in 1 week, if you lose more than an average of 2 lbs per week over a 4-week period, this could pose health risks, such as heart irregularities, anemia or loss of muscle mass. Please slow your weight loss; your doctor can help you do this if you're not sure how, or ask your Leader for ideas."

SON OF A BITCH.

The evil little Weight Watchers computer tramp thinks I'm losing weight too fast. What a pessimistic, sabotaging, horrific little buzzkill.

She obviously doesn't realize that I totally worked for this two pounds. She doesn't realize that instead of having 56 bags of fun-sized Skittles, I only had 2. Or that I parked a good two more spots farther in the Target parking lot than I normally do. Or that MY GOD, do I want cake right now.

She's probably skinny too.

Bitch.

Just life

2008-12-04T14:11:00.000-08:00

*sigh*

I've got nothing, folks. NOTHING.

No amusing anecdotes, no happy tales, no sad stories.

I've got nada. Zippo. Zilcho. Nil. Bazonga.

I've just been busy living, trying to maintain my sanity this horrid holiday crowd-bringing month.

I've gone shopping for toilet paper and groceries. I sat and pondered on how to blog about that, but nobody wants to hear about my great deal on soup or the fluffy soft Charmin that caresses my ass, so I'm screwed.

I've bought Christmas gifts. Who hasn't?

My brother turned 21 yesterday. Alas, no alcohol and hooker-filled party, so I have no material.

The Dictator learned how to ride a bike. It was cute and precious, and meaningful enough to bring tears to our parental eyes...but nobody else has DNA invested in him, so what's the point?

Although, I did manage to snap this shot of him after taking off his helmet, and it's so awesome I almost tried to drag it out into a 6-paragraph blog entry.

I weighed in at WW and I'm still fat. SURPRISE!

The Hormone King got his braces off and we found out he has teeth the size of Montana. I'm praying his cranium keeps growing, because his adult-sized teeth in his kid-sized head is a little awkward.

We went to dinner with some friends and my pal Erin took this family photo of us.

I spent a good 35 minutes trying to figure out why my boobies are trying to run away from my chest and are sliding down my stomach instead. Apparently my bra was on break that night.

I'm growing out my nails. Somebody give me a medal.

See what I mean? I'm just...living.

In a totally non-amusing way.

So, once my dogs barf up something cool, or The Dictator uses inappropriate words at appropriate times, or The Hormone King becomes even more hormonal (like that's possible), or I go ballistic on a fellow preschool mom, or I finally reach the breaking point with my Bluetooth and shove it some unfortunate fellow's ass...I'll be back.

But for now, I just really want to sleep. And take a bath. And read. And not function in any capacity.

*sigh*

Nothing, folks. Nothing. Just life.

Dear Internet Spam (part 2)

2008-12-02T09:19:00.001-08:00

Dear Internet Spam,

Seriously.

We've already had this conversation. I made it very clear that I'm willing to accept your presence in my technologically-challenged life, but some concessions need to be made on your end. I don't think that's asking too much.

I was very specific. Look, I'll even refer back to my original letter for you. If you're willing to take 2 minutes away from your 'sending-penis-emails-to-Shannon' time, kindly click this link: http://bugsandwindshields.blogspot.com/2008/09/dear-internet-spam.html and review my requirements for maintaining a happy Internet working environment.

*crickets chirping*

I'm still waiting.

*more crickets*

Fine. It's fairly obvious to me that you're not going to honor my requests. You're apparently a huge asshole with a wicked mean streak.

Fine.

But one last thing...pretty, pretty please...cut back on the erection ads.

S.E.R.I.O.U.S.L.Y.

I came back to work from a 4-day weekend and had 561 emails. I honestly thought I was the super-coolest, most popular girl in all of Internetville.

Until I realized that 432 of them were dong emails.

432 of them. Dong emails.

Let's get something straight...I'm not a boy. I don't have a wiener. I don't need need Viagra. I don't need Cialis. I don't need hours of my pleasure maximized.

Why don't you speak English? And why can't you spell? And who ever taught you it was okay to just throw random words together to make a sentence? NEWSFLASH: 'Unruffled cleavage but cargo bay', 'Load bearing curse and demon' and 'Bonbons and pills' are NOT good intros to a successful penis pill sale.

Actually, the last one sounds fun.

*sigh*

Sir Internet Spam, I tried being kind. I was very clear and concise with my requests, but you are choosing to blatantly ignore my needs. You're a selfish bastard. I hate you. Die.

Or at least send pictures too.

Reason #157 that dogs kick ass

2008-12-02T09:11:00.000-08:00

Hey, wanna see what happens when an obese Boxer finds a trashcan whose lid is slightly ajar?

The wiley hunter takes a much-needed rest after the kill.

Jerk.

But still...reason #157 that dogs kick ass.

Reason #156 that dogs kick ass

2008-11-29T08:14:00.000-08:00

The other day, after shopping for groceries (one of my least favorite activities EVER, by the way) I pulled into our driveway and noticed an empty bag of rubber gloves. You know, the kind the doctor uses to stick his/her hand elbow deep up your vag?

They're not used for that in our house, much to Babe's dismay. He keeps them in the garage for...hell, I don't know. But he keeps them in the garage.

Anywho, I noticed an empty bag, picked it up, and threw it away. Done. I didn't think anything of it.

Until the next morning, when I woke up and found this lying on the floor of my playroom:

For those of you who aren't familiar with doggy digestion, those are barfed-up rubber gloves.

A whole pack of them. Some still fully intact.

This means Bad Dog (because she's the one, I can tell you right now. Good Dog is far too lazy to expend energy chewing up anything that doesn't involve food.) not only ate the rubber gloves, she swallowed some whole. And then yakked them back up, in almost exactly the same shape and form they take on in the bag.

Huh.

I swear, Bad Dog could eat a porcupine, 14 steak knives, arsenic and 10 bottles of Drano and still live. That dog will never die.

Reason #156 that dogs kick ass? They eat rubber gloves whole and barf them back out the same way. Discuss.

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T23:54:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving, mom.

I miss you.

Thursday, November 27th. 11:56 p.m.

I want an Addison

2008-11-25T14:12:00.000-08:00

My pal Angela just had a baby. Five days ago, as I ate a bowl of Fruit Loops and checked my bank balance, she pushed out a little human being.

Addison is a girl, and adorable, and the minute I held her my ovaries started dropping eggs like they were Hot Pockets fresh out of the microwave.

She is BRAND NEW. Unblemished. Unsoiled. Untainted.

She doesn't talk back and think she knows it all.

She doesn't heavy sigh when asked to pick up dog crap.

She doesn't bite other little children in preschool.

She doesn't put off a book report until the night before it's due so the whole family can stay up until 2:00 a.m. getting it done.

She doesn't have a screaming meltdown when you tell her she can't play Beer Pong on addictinggames.com because it's just not appropriate for a 5-year old.

She doesn't give out her mother's cell phone number to her friends because she doesn't have a cell phone. This means her mother doesn't get texts all day long from some little stalker whore who just can't take a hint that she's already been broken up with.

She doesn't run around with her wiener flapping in the wind before she gets in the shower.

(I guess that last one is technically impossible).

My point is, she's new and soft and cuddly. She smells like fresh human and has no teeth. Her fingers are long, her fingernails are tiny and she has no neck control whatsoever. She's floppy and warm and sweet.

I love her.

Unfortunately, she belongs to Angela, which is probably the best thing for her anyway. But since Hubs has pretty much shut me down completely on procreating again, I'll just have to make do pretending she's mine for awhile.

Until she can talk. Or walk. Or have an opinion of her own.

Why do those damn babies have to grow up?

Apparently, the joke's on me

2008-11-24T13:18:00.000-08:00

Alright, fine, so the joke's on me. I don't even care. Good job, you schooled me.

But I really want to know...

WHO ORDERED ME THE GODDAMN SUBSCRIPTION TO MAXIM MAGAZINE?

Delivered to my work, no less.

Thanks. Now the boss thinks I'm some sort of undercover lesbian fiend.

Which, of course, I'm totally not.

*Sigh*

I'm going back to Stacy Keibler's bikini spread.

Bastards.

TGTSOTC redeemed himself

2008-11-20T13:13:00.000-08:00

Two days ago, The Guy That's Snoring on the Couch totally redeemed himself. And that's great, because he was in some seriously deep dookie.

TGTSOTC has to be at work very early in the morning. He's up by 3:30(ish), to leave by 4:30(ish), to be at work in L.A. by 5:00(ish). This means that although his work day is over by 1:00 and he has the afternoon free...by 6:30 every night he's pretty much toast, knocked out on the couch (hence the name).

And he snores. LOUD. So not only is he hogging the couch every night, he's emitting sounds that can only be described as Sasquatchian. It's horrific, and as much as I adore the man, I have to fight the urge to smother him to death in his sleep coma.

Instead, I resort to mumbling words under my breath as I walk by. These words usually start with an "F" and end with an "ucking jerk".

You get the idea.

Anyway, a couple of days ago he crashed on the couch, leaving me to take care of the urchins, and the house, and homework, and the dogs, and the toilet that wouldn't flush, and the dishes and the laundry. I was P.I.S.S.E.D. Methinks rightfully so.

The next day I called my friend Jenni to vent and cuss. She is a good wife and a normal, emotionally healthy human being, and told me that I need to focus on the positive until we go back to counseling in a week. She pointed out that TGTSOTC picks up the kids and hauls them around every day and makes dinner every night, and that most men wouldn't do that after electricianing for 8 hours. I responded with, "Mmm, friggin shittin blah sheeess mmmm bbbbbblllh aghhh" and drove home ready to brawl.

I ended up taking the urchins to Target to buy some stuff for The Hormone King's Operation Christmas Child box (more on that later). I came back, pissed as ever because TGTSOC still hadn't called me to grovel for forgiveness or hung a huge banner outside the house that read, "I'm a moron and you're the best woman on the face of the Earth".

I walked inside and just about shit my giant panties. TGTSOTC had:

- unloaded the dishwasher
- done the dishes
- taken out the trash
- put away the clean laundry on the bed
- gone to 2 stores to get stuff we needed
- picked up the house
- fed the dogs

and was outside shop-vaccing leaves out of the garage. I was stunned.

I picked my tongue up off the ground and went over to say thank you and tell him that he's out of the shitcan he was in.

To quote the wise Salt N' Pepa- "What a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man."

I'm torn

2008-11-19T23:52:00.000-08:00

Somebody large and supremely frightening needs to come to my house, forcefully pry my laptop out of my hands, and ensure that I can never, ever go to The Cutest Blog on the Block again. Ever.

I'm like a kid in a freaking candy store. My miniscule mind is reeling from the options.

So what do you think of the new blog background? I thought I liked it...and then I didn't...and then I did...and then I was ready to rip out my hair and rock myself to sleep. Somebody needs to make this damn decision for me. Do your eyes ache whilst trying to read my blog?* I mean, even more so than usual?

What's the haps...likee or no likee?

*Seriously, I used 'whilst' in a sentence. I think I even used it correctly. I'm obviously brilliant.

Fire sucks

2008-11-19T15:08:00.000-08:00

I'm sure that by now, everybody knows about the fires raging in Northern Orange County. They're pretty nasty. But here's a vision of how nasty they are:

I took this picture from my backyard on Saturday around 12:30. The fires had only been burning for about three hours at this point, but our normally blue sky had already turned brown and orange. One of the parents on The Dictator's soccer team put it perfectly when they said, "It looks like Armageddon."

Fire sucks. Especially when it destroys people and memories.

Say a prayer.

Dear Blogger

2008-11-16T22:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Blogger,

You sir, are a bastard. I love blogging, and because I'm already all set up with an account, and my page is all super cute and shit, I'll keep you...but I am SO not a fan.

Here's my laundry list of reasons why I wish you would explode in a mass of microchips and technology.

1. Why won't you let me figure out my own freaking spacing? God forbid I actually want to post a dreaded picture on my blog, because it means it's going to take me two hours to get the spacing just the way I want it, and I have to save, and then fix, and then save again, and then cross my fingers, and light some incense, and kill some sort of livestock and pray to the Lord that you actually put things where I want them to go instead of where you think they should be, which is always like, four inches below the post. Seriously. LEAVE MY PICTURES ALONE.

2. What do you have against refreshing the everloving page? Refresh, jackass, refresh!

3. You have more "scheduled outages" than any company I've ever used. Seriously. Those rolling outages scheduled by the electric company have got nothing on you.

4. Sometimes I tool around on your "next blog" link in the navigation bar, hoping to find another interesting blogger to stalk at 10:58 on a Sunday night. Know what I find? Nothing in English. Nothing. I don't even know what half the languages are, but I'm pretty freaking sure IT'S. NOT. ENGLISH. And it's not just the first 2-3 blogs that pop up...I've gone through 15 of them without finding one I could read. I'm more than willing to blog stalk, but damn, Blogger...work with me!

P.S. Whoever has the 4387 blogs devoted to Dylan and Cole Sprouse needs to die. Now.

P.P.S. I just attempted to test this language theory, and the first 5 blogs I pulled up were all in English, and actually pretty entertaining. Meh. Blogger obviously knows I'm planning this post and is trying to discredit me. Bastard.

*Sigh*

Whatever, Blogger. At this point, I'm ready to call truce and sing your praises if you'll just give me my spacing back. PLEASE. Give me my spacing!

Off to shave my legs, watch Dexter and ruminate on what to complain about next.

Sometimes, just a little bit Sincerely,

Shannon
The bitch with the pink blog

Full House, indeed

2008-11-14T10:18:00.000-08:00

So I was online this morning, checking out one of my celebrity whoring sites, and I found this:

Holy 90s flashback, Batman! When the hell did Uncle Jesse get so freaking hot?

Curse those lucky goddamn Olsen trolls.

There's a wrestling match in my pants

2008-11-12T10:47:00.000-08:00

PPT is a sneaky little bastard. He loves nothing more than to play with a toy for a few minutes, enjoy it immensely, and then promptly hide it where either Babe or I will unknowingly find it.

For a long time, the freezer was his drug of choice. Everything he hid, he hid in the freezer. He literally froze EVERYTHING. That ended when the plastic cup he had filled with water and two army men exploded, destroying the cup and the army men. Somebody should explain the whole "expanding molecules" thing to him.

Lately, he's been playing with his Lego characters in the shower and strategically placing them in hidden spots we will only find 3-5 days later. Nothing brightens your day like finding a Star Wars Stormtrooper behind your John Frieda shampoo.

Hey, you've got to enjoy the little things in life.

So yesterday, when I went to remove my pants that I hang dry from the hanger in the hallway, I wasn't too surprised to find this:

I know the picture isn't that great, so I'll just tell you that it's three wrestlers fighting on my pants. The one in the belt loop doesn't seem to be faring so well, so I'll pray for him.

My kids freaking rock.

Living on a corner kicks ass

2008-11-11T08:37:00.000-08:00

Hey, wanna see the view from my kitchen window on Sunday?

Why, lookee there! There seems to be something in my front yard. Let's look closer...

IT'S A CAR.

A freaking GMC, to be exact, and it somehow ended up in my front yard, accompanied by a newborn baby, a hysterical mother and a bleeding old woman.

Fine. It wasn't so much in my yard, more on the corner, but I'm short on blogging material these days, so let's just pretend.

Basically, there was a car accident in my front yard. And yes, we all ran out to see, and thank God I actually had my boobies wrangled up in a bra, because those firemen...oh, those firemen. Holy hotness, Batman.

*Sigh*

I need more accidents in my front yard.

The best/worst school picture ever

2008-11-10T09:53:00.000-08:00

Oh goodie, my blogger pal* Scary Mommy has asked us to post our absolute worstest, most horrendous school picture for viewing entertainment and mockery. What a great idea! I'm in!

Truthfully, I have so many awful school photos to choose from that it would take me a year to go through them all and decide. I have perms, no perms, bangs, no bangs, one chin, two chins and three chins, surfer shirts, flowered shirts, brown hair, orange hair, red hair, pale with freckles and crispy fried sunburn with freckles. Truly, my possibilities are endless.

BUT- I keep going back to this beauty. I showcased it in my 80s Day blog, but since it's so appropriate for today's blog as well, it's going up again.

1984, folks. Second grade. And yes, this was my school picture. Apparently the school was going for a new "retro" look that year, and decided to snap us all at our desks, working so diligently at gathering knowledge...except if you look closely you'll notice that my pencil is upside down, so I'm guessing I wasn't working too diligently. But the books! Look at the books! I must be getting a good education, because I had so many books!

It's a beauty, isn't it? Those turquoise shorts hiked all the way up my crotch. The pastel bead bracelet. The shirt...hell, I honestly like the shirt. I'd wear it now if I had it.

I think what gives this photo it's charm is the combination of hair (the apparent hybrid lovechild of Dorothy Hammill and Joe Dirt) and glasses (I'm not sure why nobody ever actually measured my face to see if they'd fit).

I'm indecisive about this photo. To me, it's the Walmart of school pictures...I hate looking at or being near it, but I just can't stay away. Yes, it's embarrassing...but seriously, look at how freaking awesome it is at the same time. Its charm is undeniable.

Like me.

*Not really, unless the definition of "pal" is "A blogger I stalk on a daily basis who doesn't even know I exist." Then we're best friends.

The Dictator vs. The Pavement

2008-11-09T13:12:00.000-08:00

The Dictator decided to brawl with The Pavement.

You think that's bad? You should see The Pavement.

Perfect freaking love

2008-11-08T23:06:00.000-08:00

Although he's a GIANT pain in my enormous ass cheeks, I'd like to give you an example of why I love The Dictator to pieces.

This was our conversation tonight:

D: I wish I could be part of you.

M: What do you mean?

D: You know, like Zak and Wheezie.

For those of you who don't have babies, toddlers, or little tiny humans taking over your house, Zak and Wheezie are the attached twins from the show Dragon Tales. They look like this:

A little disturbing, sure, but that's not my point.

Basically, my sweet little boy loves me enough to be connected to me at the sternum. And maybe even enough to turn into the green portion of a green and purple dinosaur that wears music note necklaces and sings high-pitched, horrifically annoying tunes.

If that isn't perfect freaking love, I don't know what is.

Hubs and the big, shiny washer

2008-11-06T23:23:00.000-08:00

I had a Little League board meeting tonight. It started at 7:00 and ended sometime around 9:30, but since I can't shut my yapper for longer than 3.5 seconds, I didn't end up getting home until almost 11:00. My therapist would kill me if she knew, so hopefully she's too busy deconstructing marriages and solving daddy issues to ever find out.

Anyhow, Hubs and The Dictator were home alone tonight (PPT is spending the night at Goob's house because there's no school tomorrow), and since nobody in our house has clean socks, I asked Hubs to throw in a load of whites, since, you know, I wouldn't actually be inside the house to do it myself.

This is the note I found on the counter when I strolled in at 11:00:

We've had our washing machine for 6 MONTHS and Hubs doesn't know how to get it started. Granted, it is shiny and red with lots of pretty electronic gadgets...but really?

*Note to therapist: I have a topic for next week's discussion, and for once, it ain't my daddy.

Dear Daylight Savings

2008-11-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Daylight Savings,

I appreciate you. I really do. Because of you, when I roll my crabby ass out of bed at 6:30, it's actually light outside. It feels like morning, bright and sunshiney, and I only feel the need to hit snooze 13 times instead of 14. In the shower, I can hear the sweet little birdies singing outside my bathroom window and it makes it just a wee bit easier to wake up grumpy PPT and even grumpier The Dictator.

However...

I have an issue with this whole "gets dark at 5:10" thing. It's really pissing me off. Seriously- I go to work and leave my office at night. Like, midnight. Okay, not really, but that's what it feels like. I actually have to turn my lights on driving home and the other day...get this...I had to defrost my window. DEFROST MY WINDOW. In Southern California. What the hell?

And don't even get me started on bedtime...I drag my ass around the house, barely able to keep my eyes open. I scream at PPT to hurry up and get his homework done, HE. NEEDS. TO. GET. IN. BED. and then realize it's only 7:30.

So, although I appreciate your efforts, Daylight Savings...I'd like you to move on to another section of the country now. You're seriously messing up my schedule.

Sincerely,

Shannon
The West Coast

My executive decision wasn't such a good one

2008-11-05T18:36:00.000-08:00

Can I just recant an entire blog? I mean, I know I can delete it, but can I recant it too?

In my last blog, I made the executive decision that I was going to cuss in my blogs. Granted, I cuss now, but the word I really wanted to use was the F-word, because honestly, it's a word that floats around in my mind in many situations every single day.

My thinking was that I had to blog about every single thing I think, exactly the way I think it.

I think I was wrong in my thinking about my thoughts.

Wow.

The fact of the matter is, yes, this is my blog. And yes, I write for myself, but I also write in a public forum that anybody can read. And, believe it or not, I actually have readers. Most of them are my friends in real life, not just Blogland, but a few are people that have stumbled upon my blog in passing and actually enjoy reading it. They actually care about the shit I ramble about. That astonishes me.

The point is, I love these readers, both friends and newbies. Because I love them, and because they make me just as happy by reading my blog and commenting as I make them by telling stupid stories, I respect the fact that the word that I love to think is sometimes highly offensive to hear.

Not to all, but to some. Some of my readers, and some of my friends.

So, I'm making a new executive decision...I won't use the F-word. I'm not going to lie and say I'll stop cussing altogether, because that's not going to happen. But out of respect for those that have loyally followed my blog and may actually despise that word, I won't use it.

That's how much I love you guys.

Is 'freaking' okay? Good. Because I'm not giving that one up.

Big, smooshy hugs and kisses to all.

I'm making an executive decision up in this bitch

2008-11-05T09:11:00.000-08:00

So, I've been blogging pretty regularly now, and it is truly an outlet for me. I love doing it. It makes me deliriously blissful being able to put my feelings and thoughts into words and get them out of my jam-packed, slightly warped brain.

But as much fun as I've been having, and as many positive reactions as I've received, I'm still holding back. I'm still not being "me", completely and totally, for fear of offending someone, or losing a reader or two. Because that would make me sad, being the delicate little flower I am.

Specifically, I haven't really cussed on my blog. Oh sure, I've said 'bitch' and 'shit' and 'ass', but let's be honest here...if you've met me, you know that doesn't even begin to enter the arsenal of swear words I have at my disposal.

So, I'm going to cuss. I'm probably even going to use the dreaded 'F-word'. It's my blog, with my thoughts, and I need to be 100% real to enjoy writing. I'm sorry if this offends you, and you always have the option of not reading...but that would probably not be such a great idea, because sometimes I totally KICK. ASS.

Sometimes.

So, let's get this enormous elephant in the room the hell out of here.

(Close your eyes and click down on the mouse if you don't like icky words).

Fuck.

There. I've said it once, and now I can say it all I want. I'll even put a cute little disclaimer on my sidebar.

This blog was never really intended to be meant for kids. Truthfully, mine don't even know I have it, and yours probably shouldn't either. Well, especially not now.

So please...keep reading. I'd really love it if you did. But if my ugly mouth offends your tender ears, I understand.

Did I mention that sometimes I totally KICK. ASS.?

Halloween memories

2008-11-03T14:16:00.000-08:00

So as you all know, Halloween has come and gone. And it was fun, like it always is, and I ate 43 pounds of candy, like I always do. Unfortunately, now I'm paying the price, because it's time to start buckling down on Dub-Dubs again...but that's another blog for another time.

My wonderfully domesticated and totally non-dysfunctional family decided to carve pumpkins this year because it seems to be a tradition we've skipped out on the last couple of years.

Now I know why.

Here's what I imagined would happen:

- The Dictator, PPT and his friend (we'll call him 'Goob' because he's the biggest goober on earth besides PPT) will lovingly place their pumpkins on the table.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will then proceed to quietly and joyfully scoop out all of the pumpkin guts and place them neatly in a bowl nearby.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will take turns copying extremely intricate templates from a book on to their pumpkins, then share with and support one another while they carve their pieces of art.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will then gleefully show off their creations and hurry over to the sink to help wash off all the pumpkin guts and remove the seeds in preparation for cooking.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will then all congratulate each other on a job well done and clean up.

- Babe and I will watch with joy, hearts swelling with pride at the wonderful little humans our children have become and the amazing memories we're creating with them. I will take pictures of every moment and Babe will patiently help the boys perfect their pumpkins with fatherly love.

- All this will happen in less than 1 hour.

Here's what really happened:

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob fought over who got to use the saw first.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob fought over who got to spoon out the guts first.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob whined for 44 minutes about how gross the guts are. In fact, I think the look on PPT's face in this picture pretty much sums it up perfectly.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob whined about the pumpkin smell.

- PPT whined that his pumpkin was warmer inside than The Dictator's and Goob's. No, really.

- PPT and Goob took approximately 2.5 hours to trace their templates and cut them out. The Dictator gave up after 7 minutes and Babe finished it. At 11:00 p.m.

- PPT accidentally cut on the wrong line and his skull had no eyes. Commence pouting for 25 minutes.

- The Dictator spilled the bowl of guts all over the kitchen floor and then skipped off to watch TV.

- I opted to do the dishes instead of listening to the commotion.

- Good Dog & Bad Dog ate every single pumpkin seed they could find and barfed on the rug later in the evening.

- We finished. 4 hours later.

Here were the astounding, wonderful, simply PHENOMENAL results of our efforts:

That's a skull with no eyes, on the left. And a spiderweb with a spider, on the right. Big kudos to Babe for that one, because The Dictator sure as hell had nothing to do with it.

It's funny, I remember carving pumpkins rather fondly as a child...as an adult, not so much.

Oh, and Halloween? Fun as always. Trick or treating in Old Town, party at the Beasleys', WAY too much sugar. The boys got all hopped up on candy and then crashed hard...when The Dictator murmured the words, "My tummy hurts," visions of regurgitated Sweeties & M&M vomit raced through my head.

Nobody barfed but I'm sure our dentist will be ever so thrilled with us at the next appointment...nothing like cramming candy down the kids' throats and then letting them fall asleep without brushing their teeth. Tooth decay, much?

That's Captain Rex and a Stormtrooper, and the cutest damn ones on earth, in my opinion.

The Dictator went bobbing for apples. Can you tell?

I'm not sure why PPT chose Captain Rex for his costume, when it's fairly obvious that it simply takes a blond wig and cop glasses for him to pull off the coveted 'Chester the Molester' look.

Ah, memories. They're freaking grand, aren't they?

For the record...

2008-11-03T11:06:00.000-08:00

For the record...

If you get an email in your inbox from a pal and this is the first sentence:

"OMG! I'm watching 'Taboo' on National Geographic on transsexuals...thought of you!"

Then you kick ass. Like me.

5th grade math is totally kicking my ass

2008-10-30T14:59:00.000-07:00

I'd just like to say for the record that 5th grade is totally kicking our family's ass. Yes, all of us. All of us are getting our asses kicked by 5th grade.

Math seems to be the prime culprit here. Let me give you an example of what we dealt with last night, and why PPT's math homework took over an hour.

This was the problem:

195 x 3= ?

Simple, right? Written like this:

195
x 3
-----

the answer is 585 and it take two minutes to figure out. No problem buckos, I am bright and fairly capable, it shouldn't take me more than 15 minutes to help my offspring with his homework.

But wait.

PPT's class isn't just learning multiplication, they're learning 'grouping'. Which means that this simple problem:

195 x 3= 585

turns into this ridiculously complex and mind-bending problem:

195 x 3= 3 x (100 + 95)
195 x 3= (3 x 100) + (3 x 95)
195 x 3= 300 + 285
195 x 3= 585

So, our simple little math problem has turned into sonofabitching quantum physics, and what should have taken up two lines on his page has now taken five.

As a result, what used to be a calm, manageable mom has become a psychotic bitch throwing a math book across the room and cursing out a sweet Lutheran math teacher.

5th grade math is totally kicking my 31-year old ass.

It's 80s Day!

2008-10-30T09:11:00.000-07:00

My blogger pal Where's My Angels has asked all us co-bloggers to participate in a universal "80s" blog today, complete with totally tubular photos of ourselves. Before I start, let me post this standard disclaimer:

"The Boss Lady will not be held responsible for any mental or physical anguish caused to you by viewing old, extremely horrific pictures of her, including but not limited to: seizures, vomiting, diarrhea or painful urination. Furthermore, let it be known that The Boss Lady was born in 1977 and can blame most of the painful fashion faux pas on her mother, who was still dressing her in many of these photos. Dated this 30th day of October, 2008."

Let's start early on in my repulsive fashion career:

I'm guessing this is 1984, which would put me at 7 years old. Although the shorts pulled up to my nipples is attractive, I think my very favorite detail of this photo is my bowl cut-turned mullet hairstyle I was sporting that year. And the glasses? That's a recurring theme. You'll see.

1986. I've moved on from the boring tortoiseshell glasses and have picked up a snazzy new pair of bright blue ones. Apparently they were fitted by the same Lenscrafters, because they still take up 60% of my face.

This one is difficult to pin down, because it looks like every other picture I took for about four years of my life. I'm guessing it's 1987-88ish. Yes, the pink pants, flamingo shirt and high top Reeboks are amazing, and the hair...hell, I don't even know what the hair was. A perm, maybe? That means my parents paid someone to make me look like that. No, the best thing about the whole picture is the gas prices...look closely and you'll see that gas was 97 cents a gallon. Kill me.

1989. No, I didn't dress like this every day...but I might as well have. This was for Nerd Day at school. Something to remember- although I dug through my closet and picked out the most mismatched clothing I could, these options were still in my closet. I owned them. And kept them. And probably cherished them.

And just so you know, if I still had that polka dot skirt, I would wear it. EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Late 1989/early 1990. If you can look beyond the face, and the bangs, and the perm, and the again HUGE glasses (Lenscrafters must perish in a fiery Hell), you'll notice I'm wearing a "Don't worry, be happy" shirt. God, I loved that shirt. I wore it all the time and was totally sporting it that same year, the day I was hit by a car. Ironic, much?

Alright, I'm totally cheating here. This is 1990. I know that because it's my 7th grade picture. At this point, I'm fairly certain I was dressing myself...at least I hope so. Those bangs. Oh God, those bangs. I went through Aquanet like it was crack cocaine, and I remember waking up at the crack of dawn so I could take my time in perfecting my bangs.

And damn, they were good.

Here's something I found going through old photos. It's a special present from me to you.

Apparently I really, really, really, REALLY liked Keanu Reeves.

God bless the 80s.

The Dictator is channeling Russell Brand

2008-10-29T23:30:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that we're growing out The Dictator's hair? We are. And it sucks ass. It sticks to his forehead when he's sweaty, his sideburns look like a really bad 70s flashback, and last week I bought my first-ever bottle of detangler.

Detangler. For a boy. I haven't used a brush on either of my kids in years, and now I have to buy strawberry scented detangler too? For the love of God, I have boys...I shouldn't have to brush or detangle. That is the innate beauty of the wiener-baring species.

But, he wanted to grow it out, so we are. And tonight, IT. WAS. FREAKING. AWESOME.

The Dictator's hair takes about 40 minutes to dry. I don't know why, I just know that about 80% of the time he falls asleep with wet hair and wakes up with a killer case of bedhead.

Tonight, he took a shower and watched TV afterwards for about 20 minutes. When I finally pried his little ass off the sofa to go get ready for bed, this is what I saw:

To give you an even better perspective, this is what his hair looked like in its full glory:

Apparently, he had been laying the whole time on his wet hair, and this awesomeness was the result. I honestly don't even know how to fix this for school tomorrow, so I'm just going to say screw it.

I'll tell everyone he's dressed up as Russell Brand for Halloween.

Sweet, I've TOTALLY been tagged!

2008-10-28T16:13:00.001-07:00

Holy crap, somebody loves me! My super-sweetest-most-amazing-friend-in-the-whole-world Jenni tagged me, which came as a total surprise to me because I had no idea this was going around.

(See post below).

So, I'm supposed to list 7 random things about myself that you may or may not know, and since I'm the most random person on the face of the earth, this should be pretty simple.

1. I hate the word "moist". I don't mind typing it, but hearing it out loud makes me want to hurl all over my keyboard. It's a horrid, despicable word. Coming in a close second: "plump". Eeeew.

2. I don't sleep. Well, I do, but only with some medicinal intervention. Falling asleep isn't the problem, but staying asleep is, and it's only worsened since my mom died. So every night I take my generic nighty-night pills, and all is right in the world...unless I take them after 10:00, because then I'm in a sleep coma until 12:00 the next day. "Non-habit forming," my ass.

3. I'm kind-of a teenage boy. Fart and weiner jokes make me laugh to no end, and I will seriously watch any movie that Will Ferrell is in. Any movie. I don't care if it sucks, it's freaking Will Ferrell! When I die, I hope to be buried with a copy of Anchorman. Anywho, I'm kind-of a teenage boy.

4. I'm way more sensitive than I make myself out to be. I don't get offended easily and am usually pretty quick to forgive, but I have tons of issues that have never been worked out and a big, giant marshmellow heart. I'll donate to anyone, anytime and will follow a stray dog for three miles just hoping to catch them and get them home. What can I say, I'm a sucker.

5. I LOVE tattoos, especially on guys. I've been telling Babe for 7 years now that he needs to get totally sleeved, then start working on his legs. I've promised sex every day for the rest of our lives if he does it, but for some reason he's just not buying it.

6. I HATE bending over. I hate it. I will spend 25 minutes trying to pick something up with my toes so I don't have to bend over. God knew this and thought it would be funny to give me three very messy boys to live with. And two dogs, all of which require lots and lots of bending over. (Insert Babe giggling like a 13-year old boy at the mention of 'bending over').

7. I sleep like a pretzel. It's something I've done since I was a baby, and I just can't shake it. Basically, I sit Indian style and then bend over. I have to put pillows down so my head doesn't just snap off and roll away from my body, but I love sleeping like that and will often do it without even knowing it.

As a side note, I'm a big girl...so methinks that last one is especially impressive.

So there you have it. I realized as I was typing this that I could literally type for hours on all the random things I am/do. What the hell, I'm amusing if nothing else.

This is the part where I'm supposed to tag some of my fellow blogger friends, but most of them have already been tagged, so I'm a little screwed. I do have a few more tricks up my sleeve though, so Nikki Crumpet, Where's My Angels, Deb, Angela, Jade...you're all tagged. Ha! So there!

Ah, this was fun.

My beef

2008-10-28T15:26:00.000-07:00

I have a beef to pick, so pick it I will.

Instead of working today, I was blog stalking. Shocking, I know.

As I read my pals' blogs...you know, the ones I have blogrolled on my site...I noticed a trend. Everyone, it seems, has been 'tagged'. Everyone I've ever spoken to that has a cute little blog of their own.

Oh, wait. Everyone but me.

What the Hell, girlies? Am I not worthy of your tagging? What, you think I don't run out of things to blog about too? Have you read me recently? I've blogged about crickets, genital warts and Walmart for God's sake, obviously material's running short over here.

So, what's the haps? I'm talking to you, Jenni, Michelle, Daiana and Erin. Jerks.

However, because I'm a giver, I'm totally willing to forgive your lack of courtesy if one of you will just tag me. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST TAG ME!

*Edited 3 minutes after I wrote this: Oh hey, Jenni already tagged me. Lookee there! Sorry about that whole "jerk" thing...who knew?

Dear God

2008-10-24T09:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, in my worldly travels to Ralph's Grocery Store, I come upon something that elicits a giggle and completely makes my day. Yesterday it was this little treasure laying delicately in the parking lot, waiting to be discovered by yours truly.

Dear God,

Thank you for not making me Dr. Jeffrey Lauber.

Amen.

Bad Parenting 103

2008-10-24T08:49:00.000-07:00

This morning, PPT was taking his sweet time doing EVERYTHING I asked him to do. What followed is another shining example of why my uterus should have been removed before I procreated:

M: PPT, finish your cereal, we have to get going.

*Eight minutes later*

M: Seriously? You're not done yet? Hurry up, we have to leave!

PPT: (Showing me his empty cereal bowl) OOOOHH! (Said in a very snotty, "You're so stupid and I told you so" pre-teenage voice. At least, that's what I heard.)

M: BAM! KAPOW! (The sound of me hitting him upside the head.)

PPT: What?! What did I do?

M: Didn't you just say "OOOOHH" to me, all snotty and bastard-like?

PPT: No.

The Dictator, piping in:

D: He didn't, mommy.

M: Oh. Well, sorry. And just so you know, if you ever do make that sound, I'm going to smack you in the head.

PPT: Yeah, I got that.

D: (Giggle)

I present to you: Bad Parenting 103.

Hell, at least I apologized.

My thoughts on Walmart

2008-10-22T14:36:00.000-07:00

I just went to Walmart, and I am seriously in sensory overload. I could do a three hour post on all the people and things I experienced there.

But I won't.

Instead, I'll just made this general statement:

Walmart is where intelligence and class go to die.

The end.

Who wants to learn about ME?

2008-10-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

My pal Erin lives in Denmark and always sends these cool survey things, which I absolutely hate but for some reason can't stop my fingers from answering. Instead of emailing this time, I'm going to blog my answers, so all four of my faithful readers can figure out what makes me tick.

Revised- I just read my answers, and turns out, I'm extraordinarily boring. But, by all means, read on.

What time did you get up this morning? Very unhappily at 6:33.

Diamonds or pearls? Diamonds. So shiny and mesmorizing...

What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Tropic Thunder. But now that Stepbrothers is playing at the $1.75 theater, it's on like Donkey Kong.

What is your favorite TV show? Dexter, Heroes, Nip/Tuck, Intervention. Oh wait, were we supposed to pick one? Oopsie.

What do you usually have for breakfast? Oatmeal if I'm being good. Reese's peanut butter cups the other 355 days a year.

What is your middle name? Liane (pronounced LeeAnn).

What food do you dislike? Pretty much anything colorful. I'm a "white food" kind-of gal.

What is your favorite CD at moment? Hmmm...I'm currently alternating between Guns N' Roses, Jack Johnson & Dropkick Murphys, depending on how I'm feeling on any given day. I also have Eminem, Don McLean and The Steve Miller Band in my car as backups. Wow, I'm random.

What kind of car do you drive? A Mazda minivan. Mega fun.

Favorite sandwich? Quizno's turkey & swiss. Or just good old PB & J.

What characteristic do you despise? Judgementalism. Is that a word? Hell. I don't like people who judge others. There.

Favorite item of clothing? Flip-flops.

If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? I honestly have no idea. I'd love to do a Disney cruise for the kids...but only for the kids, since I hate Mickey Mouse. Freaking 6-foot rat.

Favorite brand of clothing? Most things from Torrid (fat girl Hot Topic).

Where would you retire to? Colorado or Oregon. But I'll follow my kids wherever they go. Dammit, I'm not missing out on grandkids!

What was your most recent memorable birthday? My 31st this year, but not for good reasons. It was my first birthday without my mom.

Favorite sport to watch? Football! Not baseball, for the love of God, not baseball!

When is your birthday? June 14. Flag Day, can I get a whoop-whoop?

Are you a morning person or a night person? N.I.G.H.T. Morning is the Devil's downtime.

What is your shoe size? Nine.

Pets? Good Dog and Bad Dog. 8356 fleas currently co-habitating with us. They have their own room now.

Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I'm pregnant!

Joking.

What did you want to be when you grew up? A Lawyer or writer. Somebody should have told me I don't have the brain capacity for either of those.

How are you today? Peachy freaking keen. Bronchitis is kicking my ass and four hours of sleep just ain't cutting it. But thanks for asking.

What is your favorite candy? Reese's peanut butter cups.

What is your favorite flower? Yellow roses. (Wink, wink, Babe, wink freaking wink).

What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? October 31st. I love Halloween.

What is your full name? Shannon Liane Huttner.

What are you listening to right now? Boston on Jack FM. No, really. The co-worker gets to pick the station the first half of the day, I get the second. Counting down the minutes until KROQ.

What was the last thing you ate? A brownie ice cream sundae at Katella Grill. Instant diarhhea. But so yummy.

Do you wish on stars? Sure, when I see them. Orange County has an awesome smog index rating.

If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Red. Because I'm a horny beast. Ha.

How is the weather right now? Hot as shit and windy. God bless the Santa Anas.

The first person you spoke to on the phone today? Hubs.

Favorite soft drink? Sprite. Although any sort of fruit-flavored soda comes in a close second...oh, how I love Orange Crush.

Favorite restaurant? Roma's, BJ's or Claim Jumper. All three have amazing artery-clogging pasta.

Real hair color? Damn. Now you'll all know the truth. Poopy brown.

What was your favorite toy as a child? GI Joes, baby. I always used to hope Flint and Lady J would get together. She obviously never realized what she missed. Whore.

Summer or winter? Winter, winter, winter! Sweaty fat rash is not our friend.

Hugs or kisses? Hugs. Especially just-bathed little boy hugs.

Chocolate or Vanilla? It depends...In-N-Out shakes, chocolate. Everything else, vanilla.

Coffee or tea? Vomit. Neither, please.

When was the last time you cried? Two days ago.

What is under your bed? Babe's shorts and a wooden baseball bat that we use to beat the bad guys' heads in with.

What did you do last night? Went to a baseball board meeting, ate a brownie sundae that gave me diarrhea and watched The Dog Whisperer for two hours. Wow, my life is awesome.

What are you afraid of ? That something will happen to my boys, or that they'll grow up to be creeps and it will be all my fault. Moths, crickets and clowns.

Salty or sweet? Sweet. Like me.

How many keys on your key ring? Five.

How many years at your current job? Eight.

How many towns have you lived in? Too many to count...we were nomads when I was a kid.

Do you make friends easily? Well, I never SHUT THE HELL UP, so I'd like to think so.

How many people will you send this to? Apparently anyone who reads my blog. So, four.

Well, that was fun.

An angel sleeping

2008-10-21T23:20:00.000-07:00

I've never actually seen an angel sleeping, but I imagine they look a bit like this:

I'll bet they even have stuffed Pugs to cuddle with at night.

Dear Crazy Bitch

2008-10-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Crazy Bitch driving the Nissan truck in my son's preschool parking lot,

Really?!?! Really?!?! You were really in such a hurry this morning that you couldn't wait for me to close my driver side door and/or make sure my offspring was not in the path of your wheels before backing out? Really?

I pulled in to my son's preschool this morning and parked my car next to yours, in between the white lines like a good little driver does (which is more than I can say for you). Since you apparently did not have the ability to fit your vehicle in the oh, I don't know...six feet of width alloted to you, you were over the lines, but I hugged the car next to me and made it work. Because I'm awesome, and you suck ass.

I opened my driver side door and squeezed my fat ass out a 4-inch crack because I didn't want to hit your car. Courtesy, you stupid whore, I'm all about courtesy. I completely crushed two boobies but made it out and opened The Dictator's sliding door in the back. He got out, got his lunchbox and we were good to go.

Until you came roaring out of the school gates, dragging your older, obviously miserable child with you. You were back in your car faster than I could say "Holy shit, that crazy bitch is running in the parking lot!", and although I'm pretty sure your child wasn't even sitting down, much less buckled in, you started backing up.

Three inches away from me and The Dictator.

In fact, you were so close to us, that you hit me with your side mirror as you were screeching out. YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR SIDE MIRROR. With my 5-year old standing right next to me, hugging me (and the car) as tightly as he could.

You're lucky I didn't sic his angry ass on you.

So, all I have to say is, REALLY?!?! You really couldn't wait 15 more seconds for us to get out of the way before attempting to run over a whole gaggle of preschoolers?

Unfortunately, I was so stunned I was only able to get out, "Hey, hey, hey!" like Fat Albert. But next time I see you, Crazy Bitch driving the Nissan truck in my son's preschool parking lot, it's on.

The Dictator's already sharpening his Captain Jack swashbuckling sword.

Not-at-all Sincerely,
Shannon
The Dictator's mentally unstable and highly aggressive Mom

I am a criminal

2008-10-19T18:05:00.000-07:00

I am a criminal.

Well, technically I'm not...but I could have been. You know, if I hadn't taken that EIGHT HOUR CHECK RESTITUTION CLASS in Diamond Bar this weekend.

*Middle finger*

So I wrote a bad check. I didn't mean to, and it was written when Babe had knee surgery and was off work for six months, so it's not like I planned for it to bounce. Honestly, Your Honor, I wasn't trying to get my $23.00 worth of sports pictures for free. Luckily, you kind folks in the courts system have allowed me to fix my mistake- by threatening to press fraud charges, imposing a $250 class fee and forcing me to drive 25 miles (each way) to Diamond Bar on a Saturday, where I got to spend eight hours with some of the most entertaining (and well rounded) people on the planet.

My personal favorite part of the class? You know, besides the part where I got to miss The Dictator's soccer game? My favorite part was when we got in groups to discuss our specific situation with the whole class. Because really, there's nothing like fessing up to bouncing a $23.00 check at the age of 30 because you're a moron. It's good for the soul.

Our teacher was a nice-enough woman named Bonnie, who kept saying, I suppose to reduce the embarrassment of why we were there, "We're all adults, we're all smart, and we're all responsible."

I disagree, Bonnie.

Erika sitting next to me looks like she's 12, so I'm pretty sure she's nowhere near being an adult. And Lisa across the way...not only is she obviously blitzed off her ass, but she blows your smart theory out of the water. And responsibility? Ha! Sweetie, I bounced a $23.00 check, or did you forget that when I had to say it out loud four times?

I must say though, Tony almost made my class worth while. He is your typical government-conspiracy-know-it-all-middle-aged-loser who has an opinion about everything, and has no qualms with dragging your time out two hours longer than should be just to get his point across. Every single time Bonnie would ask him a question, he over-answered, complete with reasoning and in-depth explanations of his feelings and situation in life. At the end of the class, when we were getting our "Bad Check Certificates" (anybody know where I can find a gorgeous frame to commemorate such an achievement?), Bonnie asked all of us to tell one thing we learned in the horrid class. About the third person in, we learned that if we just said, "budgeting", we would all move along quickly, thus returning home to our beloved families. But oh no, not Tony. When Bonnie asked him, he started his answer with, "Well, my specific situation was a little different because I don't really think I should have been here to begin with..." The entire room breathed a collective heavy sigh and walked out, hitting Tony on the back of the head as we exited.

Surprisingly, Tony is still not ready to "own" his situation.

But I am. I'm a moron, I wrote a bad check, I suck and I'm lucky I wasn't thrown in a river with some rocks. I learned my lesson, believe me. As of this point in my life, I am willing to do WHATEVER I have to do to never return to that horrid class again.

And as for my $273 baseball pictures, they own a very special place on my Wall of Fame. I'll be clearing out a spot tomorrow right next to them for my hard-earned Bad Check certificate.

Perfection, thy name is Gerard

2008-10-18T23:56:00.000-07:00

For the record...

It's 11:56 p.m. and I'm watching "300" for the well-over 300th time. And can I just say-

GERARD BUTLER.

*Dreamy sigh*

So beautiful I can even look past the Scottish accent coming from a Greek warrior's mouth.

Perfection, thy name is Gerard.

Me and four fleas

2008-10-16T23:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight was a relaxing evening in our humble abode. Hubs and I were deeply engrossed in a phenomenal episode of "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" and couldn't wait to find out who the third burnt body was, and how the hell did he end up with the Mexican Mafia guy?

PPT was watching The Military Channel in the playroom and asking rousing questions like, "Did Adolf Hitler kill himself before he was caught?" and "Did you know that China has been at war for over 200 years?" Damn that Current Events class he's been taking in school. The other day he actually asked me what I thought of the $750 billion dollar bailout plan. I just blinked and walked away.

The Dictator was on the computer under the pretense of playing games on Cartoon Network, but I'm fairly positive he was perusing midget porn or looking up ingredients for a McGyver house bomb. That's just how he rolls.

All in all, a soothing, electricity-hogging night.

Then, as I was rubbing Good Dog's large belly, this happened:

M: You're so cute, Good Dog, yes you are, you're such a good...WHAT. THE. HELL. IS. THAT? Oh my God, it's a flea. It's a freaking flea. Good Dog has a flea. I'm going to barf. Seriously. Get me a...OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD, there's another one. What are we going to do? If there's two fleas, that means there's 300 fleas, and-

H: Calm down. It's just a flea.

M: No, it's TWO fleas. Which means 8004 fleas. Which means they're going to crawl up my nose and eat out my eyeballs when I sleep and-

At this point, I've started scratching my arms like some sort of heroin addict on a bad fix. And I'm on a mission. A mission, dammit. I'm going to find every damn flea I can and make it suffer. Because that, you dirty little vampires, is how I roll.

I call Bad Dog over, and she immediately flops on her back for a tummy rub...and WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS? Two more fleas. Sons of bitches.

Now I'm in a full fledged panic.

M: Oh my God, what are we going to do? Do we have to bomb the house? What if they eat The Dictator whole? What if we wake up and he's missing because the Flea Tribe has carried him off in the middle of the night to meet their leader and he's going to be their human sacrifice, because you know there are 4 billion of them in the house now and-

H: Seriously.

M: I'm going to Petco, and I'm going to buy every single flea product I can find to wipe this whole God-forsaken flea species off the planet. I'll teach these little jerks who's boss around here.

And so, at 8:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, I went 185 miles per hour down Tustin Avenue to Petco. And I got flea shampoo and flea medication, and held a lengthy conversation with a Labrador owner about the benefits of neutering.

But that was just the beginning of my evening.

This was the rest of it:

1. Drag both dogs outside for a flea bath at 9:30 at night with freezing hose water. Relax, they were fine.

2. Strip their dog beds of all washable materials and put them in the washer, on high, high holy-crap-my-eyebrows-are-burning heat and the 'Sanitize' cycle. Put both dog collars in there too. EVEN THE LEATHER ONE.

3. Vacuum the ENTIRE house. At 10:00. Move everything. Fleas are tricky little bastards.

4. Scrub walls behind dog bed area with baby wipes, because...well shit, I have no idea why.

5. Stay up waiting for dryer cycle to be done with dog beds so I can put the white load I need by tomorrow in the dryer.

6. Blog about it at 11:40 p.m. and watch Snakes on a Plane to stay awake.

And so, my peaceful little evening turned into a flea hunt of epic porportions. I'm scouring every square inch of this house looking for the fallen fleas' angry brethren, and when I find them, they'll wish they'd never stepped foot on Good Dog or Bad Dog.

But here's a neat little fun fact: fleas can't swim. They paddle their loathsome little legs and try, but they can't. So hypothetically, if you were to get a plastic Islands cup full of water and shove them in there, they would drown. And you could watch and laugh maniacally at their suffering.

You know, hypothetically.

I'm never going in the kitchen again

2008-10-14T23:22:00.001-07:00

If you happen to live in the city of Orange and see a fat, freckled redhead galloping down the street barefoot, boobies flopping in the wind, and she's screaming like she hasn't been on her meds for a few months, that's probably me.

Because as I was minding my business, tooling away on the computer, I glanced over and saw this on my kitchen wall.

Freaking sonofabitching ninja cricket.

Bastard can have the kitchen. I'll blog from the front porch.

You just wait another six hours until Babe wakes up...then your nasty cricket ass is grass, shithead.

GNO & the BEST. GAME. EVER.

2008-10-14T16:43:00.001-07:00

Sunday night was our monthly Girls' Night Out (GNO), and this month, my pal Anita was nice enough to host us for an evening of eating, playing 8th grade paper games and screaming loud enough to wake not only her little girl, but the whole damn neighborhood. Thanks Neeters!

The Guy That's Snoring on the Couch has these fantasies about what we gals do at GNO. His fantasies involve Catholic school uniforms, pillow fights and high pitched giggling. He's a little off base.

Want to know what us party animals really do at GNO? We eat. A LOT.

And we laugh. And we tell stories about vaginas, and childbirth, and all kinds of nasty stuff you don't even want to know about. And we take 4002 pictures of ourselves on Vern's camera and put stickers on the ends of our already huge and massively accentuated noses.

Oh wait, that's just me. Holy shit, I only have one (very pointy) chin! It's a Christmas Day miracle! The cute one with scary earrings is Gina, by the way.

But we've never had a naked pillow fight. And I don't think any of us even owns a Catholic School uniform. Sorry, Hubs.

We did play the best game EVER, which I simply can't recommend highly enough. Appropriately titled "The Paper Game" (an ode to our 8th grade creativity), here's the gist of it: each person goes around and says something they've never done. For example, "I've never had sex with an animal." Then, everyone who has done that thing (in this case, someone who's had sex with a goat, cow, sheep...you get the picture) puts a piece of paper in the middle of the table and everyone in the room now knows that person has screwed a hairy creature of some sort.

Really, it's a compassionate game, because said person never even has to tell anyone they like to get it on with dogs...we all just know because of their pristine white scrap of paper.

Don't judge.

I'd fill you all in on some of the topics we discussed, but I'm afraid a gang of middle class, almost-middle-aged, church-going women would bum rush me and burn me at the stake this evening.

Good times.

I love you all, and for the record, there's nobody I'd rather be talking about threesomes and vericose veins with.

Big green wiener

2008-10-14T10:02:00.000-07:00

This weekend was one big, long sports fest for our family. PPT had a football game Friday, two football games Saturday and a baseball game on both Saturday and Sunday, and The Dictator had a soccer game Saturday. Babe and I were juggling kids, which sucks but is a necessity.

Anyway, I was going to do this post about how amazing PPT is at both football and baseball. And I was going to post this picture and talk about how much I love him, and how proud I am of the person he's become.

But then I downloaded this picture, and realized he's holding his bat like it's a big, green wiener. And I can't stop giggling about it, so the mother in me is gone and the 13-year old boy has taken over. Sorry.

But really...BIG. GREEN. WIENER.

*Giggle*

Communication is key

2008-10-14T09:29:00.001-07:00

The Dictator and I were reading a book about whales last night:

M: When whales want to communicate, they make...?

D: Babies!

*Note to self: Hubs is no longer allowed to speak to The Dictator. Somehow, this is his doing.

Dear Time Warner Cable

2008-10-13T00:19:00.000-07:00

Dear Time Warner Cable,

Pardon my language, but just shitgoddamnasssonofabitch you.

It's 12:20 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I'm finally sitting down anxiously to watch my DVR-ed episode of Dexter I've been looking forward to all night. Yes, it means I'll be up until 1:15 on a work night, but for my adorable little serial killer, I'm willing to make the sacrifice. This simply can't wait until tomorrow.

So I cozy down in my loveseat and start my beloved Dexter, and all is right in the world. Until I realize that holy shitbricks and coffee cakes, I'm going to have a seizure any minute. Why, Time Warner Cable, you want to know why?

Because you suck ass. And my digital cable looks like it's being run by a crack whore all juiced up on speed. My eyeballs are shaking from trying to focus, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a migraine in 14 minutes. Maybe I'll try crossing my eyes and jumping up and down, because judging by the quality of the "picture" on my TV, that might actually work.

I hate you. And Dexter hates you. Ack. That's all I have to say to you.

Bite my ass,

Shannon
A horribly pissed-off Orange customer, currently making plans to call The Dish Network asap.

P.S. If you'd like to keep me as a bill payer, fix my Dexter. And find out what's up with Jimmy Smit's accent. Why is every other word he says in Spanish? I can barely keep up with this intelligent series banter in English, now I have to figure out Spanish too? Great.

Reason #12,643 that I'm the best parent on Earth

2008-10-10T08:19:00.000-07:00

Last night, I actually said these words to PPT:

"Opinions are like assholes, sweetie...everyone's got one and most of them stink."

Maybe I should call Kaiser and see if they have a child psychologist.

You know, just in case.

Note to self

2008-10-10T08:16:00.000-07:00

*Note to self: Don't ever Google Image 'warts'. EVER.

Dear Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome

2008-10-09T13:21:00.000-07:00

Dear Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome,

Why do you feel it necessary to ruin my dining experience?

For years, I've been going to Taco Bell and ordering the same thing...a taco with no lettuce and a soft taco with no lettuce. For a long time, my tacos were correct and lettuce-free, and all was right in the world. But the last few years, I started noticing that my tacos are not correct, nor are they lettuce-free, and I could never figure out why. I've pondered and struggled to understand, and I think I finally get it.

It's you, isn't it, Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome? It's you.

You lurk behind the steel bins full of processed meat and cardboard lettuce, waiting for a chance to get your revenge on all of mankind for whatever harm was done to you as an innocent toddler Gnome. You wait, giggling and rubbing your hands together maniacally while you devise your master plan, until you hear the magic words: NO LETTUCE. Then...you spring into action.

You watch the Taco Bell workers carelessly gather up the rubber meat and plastic cheese and toss it on the tortilla. Then, as they turn their hair-netted heads to double check the paper order, you pounce, gently placing one little piece of disgusting, wretched lettuce in the taco. The workers, too busy and full of hatred for that little mircophone in the drive-thru, don't even notice you. But your evil plan has worked. You've now officially ruined my tacos. Both of them. And all it took was 10 centimeters of that horrid green shit.

Why, Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome, why? Why do you desire to destroy my nourishment? What have I done to upset you so? Please let me know, and I will fix it immediately. I'd like my tacos lettuce-free again.

And in the meantime, I'm ordering the nachos and a cheese roll.

Sincerely,
Shannon
A Huntington Beach/Orange Taco Bell patron

P.S. I drive a silver 2005 Mazda MPV, and am always very nice to the cashier. Even when he calls me "Honey", which makes me want to bash his friendly little face in.

PPT & The Crocodile Hunter

2008-10-09T08:42:00.000-07:00

PPT, God bless him, is on a Crocodile Hunter kick. He's holding full-on debates with himself to try and perfect his Australian accent, and it's driving me bonkers. This was our conversation this morning as he was getting ready for school (this whole discussion was in a horrible, 10-year old version of an Australian accent, so use your imagination):

M: PPT, are you finished eating?

PPT: Crikey! Ay mate, I'm finished.

M: Then go brush your teeth, we have to go.

PPT: Crikey! I'll go brush me blooming teeth. Did you see the kangaroo in the hallway? I almost got the little bugger...

M: GO!

PPT: Crikey! Don't yell! You'll scare the koala bears.

M: I'm going to kill you.

PPT: Crikey! She's a wild one, I don't want to scare her. I'll just creep up quietly...

M: Your life is over.

PPT: (running down the hall) Crikey! Crikey! Crikey!

Remind me to cancel Animal Planet, stat.

My clients kick ass

2008-10-08T10:34:00.001-07:00

One of my policyholders just came in, and he was born and raised in Egypt. This was our conversation:

C: My brother works at Connell Chevrolet, and he's the same color as you...

M: White?

C: Red.

M: Pink?

C: Red.

M: Lighter skinned with some brown freckley accents?

C: Red.

M: Thanks.

C: You're welcome.

I can't make this stuff up, people. My clients kick ass.

Best parent ever

2008-10-08T10:29:00.001-07:00

If your children are 5 and 10 years old, and you ask them what CD they want to listen to on the way to school and they reply:

D: Ooh, do you have Jay Z? Or Guns N' Roses?

PPT: No, it's my turn! Dropkick Murphys...or do you have Linkin Park?

Then you might be the best parent ever. Like me.

Thank you for being a friend

2008-10-08T08:45:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling all pink unicorns and rainbows and shit today, so I'm going to blog about my friends and why I love each and every one of them so dearly. Look for your initials, because that means I've known you since I was in the womb and I love you more than life itself. And if you're not in there, it's because we may be friends, but we're not super close yet. So just suck up to me and do everything I ask, and maybe next time, you'll make the list.

If your initials happen to be J.D., I know you read my blog and you're going to stab me for not listing you...but since these are all my childhood friends, you don't fall in that category. So let me just say that I love you to pieces. I can tell you anything, and you make me giggle even when I'm Bitter Betty. I call you every single day and start to panic if you don't answer the phone, because you're totally my Lifeline. And I'm so glad PPT played baseball and I got to meet you. But really, we shouldn't ever go out to eat together again, because $63.00 each at Red Robin? Ack!

And pals' husbands, although I adore you all, aren't listed. Sorry boys...this is strictly a vagina thing.

A.J.: You have one of the most wonderful hearts I've ever known. You don't judge me, and you're so mellow, and I know you've survived so much that your strength just amazes me. I know you're there for me no matter how bad anything gets, and I adore you for that. And I want to be like you when I grow up. BONUS POINTS FOR: Having me pick you up behind your back fence the night you ran away from home...for one night.

C.F.: You're so amazing and brilliant and have done so many wonderful things in your life. You take everything in stride and truly find the good in everything. You don't have a mean bone in your body, and live by what you speak...faith and simplicity. And I know you'll be there for me, always, no matter what. And you have a killer body. BONUS POINTS FOR: Getting mad at me for being late when I got hit by a car in 6th grade.

E.C.: You might be one of the most direct people I've ever met, and since my mouth tends to speak before my brain can stop it, I truly appreciate that. You are driven and determined and know what you want, and you're younger than me but much more successful, which pisses me off but also makes me admire you tons. And I think you're much more sensitive than you want anyone to know...and I feel you, sister. BONUS POINTS FOR: Almost brawling with me during Bunco over a weekly planner.

A.G.: You're a new addition to the group, but man, do I dig you. You're funny and outspoken and opinionated and I think you're really whipping your husband into shape. I love that you blog stalk and are obsessed with UFC just like me, but seriously...Frank Mir is not a vampire. And Rich Franklin is not Ace Ventura. And I can't understand a word George St. Pierre says. So there. BONUS POINTS FOR: Telling the other girls to take the Sharpie away from me at your baby shower. You already know my evil ways.

G.G.: You're honestly like my sister, which sometimes makes me want to punch you in the eye but most times makes me love you. We disagree about lots of things and probably will continue to...but I know if I need you, you'll be there in two seconds flat. And I'd do the same for you, because I love you to death. And you make me laugh like no other, besides Hubs. But I have to wash his stinky underwear and clean up his pee around the toilet, so you rank higher, as far as I'm concerned. BONUS POINTS FOR: Living with me (twice) and making me cry by saying New Kids on the Block sucks.

*Side note: Didn't I get a message from you this morning asking if I'm going to the NKOTB concert? 18 years later, FACIAL DISCRIMINATIAL!

J.B.: You're my go-to gal, and the true definition of a friend. You listen when I need to talk and laugh at my stupid jokes. You don't mind when I drop an F-bomb (well, I know you mind, but you don't say anything) and you always seem to make the right decisions. I have honestly thought so many times when I'm struggling with something, "What would J do?"...and that's not Jesus, that's you. I value our friendship immensely and love you for loving me, faults and all. BONUS POINTS FOR: Googling unmentionables when your mom walked in, and that cockroach that flew down your shirt...one of the funniest things I've ever seen. EVER.

K.O.: First of all, your initial are K.O.! How have I never noticed that? You are so considerate and thoughtful, and are always thinking of other people. You never miss a birthday and even know most anniversaries, which boggles me. You've listened to me rage about Babe and know just when to say, "Mmm-hmm" or "I know" to make me feel better, and you don't feel like you need to put up the appearance of perfection. Honestly, I adore you for that, because we all know how screwed up I am. And you're super sensitive but somehow put up with me, which you deserve much kudos for. BONUS POINTS FOR: Laughing at Babe's sleep mask in Vegas. I think you're the first friend I've ever called a bitch...to her face.

N.N.: So, you moved far away and I never see you anymore. But I still love you. You're kind and sweet and always, always laughing...even at yourself. When I see you, it's like we're in 9th grade again, and nothing has changed. Except I've gained 100 pounds. But you're still cute. Whatever. And...you were a delivery nurse, so if ever there is a vagina question that needs answering, you're the lady to call. BONUS POINTS FOR: Getting me grounded after our double date with I don't even remember who to Black Star.

S.C.: You're full of piss and vinegar and we should hang out all the time. You're only 4'10", but honestly, you terrify me and I wouldn't ever call you a bitch to your face (sorry K.O.) because you'd probably beat my ass. But underneath all that, you're a girl who would truly give the shirt off her back to a friend in need. You have a heart as big as Kansas and an incredible inner strength that I truly admire. BONUS POINTS FOR: All the funny shit you've said when you're blitzed off your ass. I can't even remember it all, I just remember it ruled.

S.A.: You're so freaking cute and stylish and your hair does things that mine never could. You're always there for anyone in need and have a heart of gold, and although we're not super close, I get the feeling that I could call you to vent and you would totally listen and never judge. So you rock. And you make me laugh. A lot. BONUS POINTS FOR: Introducing me to "J/K, J/K, LOL" and "Shake it off!" These are regulars in my vocab now.

V.S.: There should be a law that nobody can be as cute as you are and be hysterical, brilliant and kind. You love me with all my ugly, and that is priceless and so cherished by me. You are a true friend, one that is there when needed and doesn't pry unless asked. And you don't judge me, even though there's plenty to judge. You're a survivor with a tender heart, and I worship the ground you walk on. And James is hot. BONUS POINTS FOR: James. And sleeping in the doorway of your room during an earthquake.

And that, dear pals, is why I love you all. Here's my thought: we all need some warm fuzzies every now and then. Why don't we all do this? If you have a blog, blog about why you love your friends. If you don't then email me. I mean, them.

Alright, fine, I really just want to know why you guys love me in return. So if you don't blog or email, I'll think we're not buddies anymore, and I'll draw an X across your yearbook picture and you WON'T get B/F/F next to my name. So there.

B/F/F!

Bathing, bonding & pokey hair

2008-10-06T21:19:00.001-07:00

I was checking out my posts today, and I realized I post about The Dictator way more than I post about PPT. It's not because I have a favorite child...rather, it's because The Dictator tends to get in more trouble, cause me more grief, and he has a way with words, to put it nicely.

PPT is a glorious child...moody at times, yes, but nowhere near as high maintenance as the little gnome that popped out of my womb 5 years ago.

So tonight, Hubs and PPT went to Michael's to buy materials for a book report that's due on Friday, which left The Dictator and me home all by our lonesomes. I decided to take a bath while he was playing Wii, which was wonderful...until his keen 5-year old brain sensed that mom was relaxing, and that simply can't be done on his watch. He came in, butt naked, and declared he was getting in the bath with me, which he hasn't done in about a year.

Now, let me start off by saying that I am not a small girl. And the bath is not a big bath. So by myself, I was pushing maximum capacity. But fear not, fellow crimefighters, for he is clever. The Dictator was able to firmly wedge his little ass in the tub, and we were able to bond, he and I, me hugging my knees and suffocating on my own boobies and him playing with his wiener.

Here are just a few gems that came out of The Dictator's mouth while we were enjoying our time together in the tub:

D: You have a lot of hair. (Legs, you perverts, legs.)

D: This tub doesn't fit you.

D: Your hair is pokey. (Legs!)

And, my personal favorite:

D: You're the best mommy with a big stomach EVER.

*Note to self: Repeat three times quickly: Children are a blessing, children are a blessing, children are a blessing.

Fun with art and The Dictator

2008-10-06T15:09:00.000-07:00

At 5 years old, The Dictator is not only a soccer protege, but quite an artist. He's graduated from drawing giant penises all over every single piece of paper he can get his grubby little hands on to scribbling lollipops with stick legs.

Here's what he usually brings home:

This particular specimen seems to be missing a couple of limbs, but you get the idea.

The other day, The Dictator brought home this:

Now granted, I'm no Picasso- but I'm fairly positive that my angelic little spawn has been watching too many TLC programs, because dammit, if this isn't a sperm fertilizing an egg, then slap me twice and call me Sally.

He is so my kid.

Hindsight

2008-10-04T21:38:00.001-07:00

*Sigh*

File this under "Things I wish I'd Known 10 Years Ago."

Sex thoughts

2008-10-03T11:28:00.000-07:00

The Guy That's Snoring on the Couch always complains that we don't have sex enough. I'm not sure why two times a month isn't enough for that nympho, but I've tried explaining to him the difference between me (complex woman) and him (single cell organism).

Nothing's working, so I'm hoping this can clarify for him.

Here's what's going on in our respective minds as we lay in bed and prepare for "doing it" (as he ever so romantically puts it):

TGTSOTC: Weiner. Vagina. Boobies. Fun. Sleep.

M: God, I'm so tired. I hope I got everything ready for tomorrow. Did I put PPT's cleats in his bag? Does The Dictator have his bedding ready? Did I finish the whites? I think I finished the whites...no, that was the darks. Damn, the whites are still in the washer. Now they're going to mold and the whole washer's going to stink for three days. And I love that washer. It's red, and I love it. I'm so glad I got it, and what a great deal, because I had that coupon from ebay. I love ebay. I need to go on tomorrow, I need a new watch. Watch...shit, what time is it? I'll bet it's late. Did I set the alarm? I can't get up late, PPT's got to be at school at 7:30...7:30! Who in the Hell gets to school at 7:30? That's insane. Is he touching my boobs? He is. I should get a new bra. Note to self: go to Kohl's tomorrow. Look for a white bra, because the pink one you got last time shows through all your shirts, and then you look like a hooker. Hookers have it rough. I can't imagine getting it on with people you don't even know. Did PPT finish his math? I think he did. Poor kid, he's really struggling with that subject. I need to get him a tutor. "Tutor? I don't even know her". Ha, that joke makes me laugh every time. Did I let the dogs out? I should get up and let the dogs out, otherwise Bad Dog will pee in the house, and I'm almost out of dog pee cleaner. I need to go to Home Depot and get more. I should get new plants while I'm there too, because the ones we have need to get the Hell out of my life. Damn shrubbery. I water it and it dies. What's that about? I need to go to the grocery store. I hate the grocery store. But we're out of produce. Did I just think the word 'produce'? Who uses that word? Apparently I do. God, I'm tired. Am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Nope, he's still feeling my boobs, so I must be awake. How is that he falls asleep while I'm talking but all of a sudden when boobs and vag are involved, he's wide awake? Caveman. I saw the new Geico commercial today. Pretty funny. My favorite is still the one where he's in the airport. What time is it now? Can I go to sleep yet?

And that's just a small sample of why we only have sex twice a month.

Baby on Board

2008-10-03T11:09:00.000-07:00

The other day I was driving on the 22 freeway, or, as I like to call it, "The Path to Hell". In my usual commuter fashion, I was trying to juggle a water bottle, the radio dials, my purse, two Target bags, lotion, an old sippy cup of milk and my God-forsaken Bluetooth while steering with my elbows. What? I have 25 minutes all to myself, I have to multi-task.

In the process of debating the benefits of Jack Johnsons versus Guns N' Roses and hanging up on someone (blow me, Bluetooth), I seemed to forget to brake, thereby causing me to stop .00003 inches away from a minivan's back bumper and leave a nice trail of smoke billowing up behind me.

Yes, I put (almost) everything down and started steering with opposable thumbs. But the woman I nearly hit was none too happy and felt the need to glare at me the rest of our 14 minute ride home. Whatever. I was far too captivated with her "Baby on Board" sign to give two shits about her evil eyes.

Why on earth does someone feel the need to advertise that there's a small human in the vehicle? Does that tiny yellow sign scream, "DO NOT HIT ME. I HAVE AN INFANT IN THE CAR. GO FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO HIT, PERHAPS SOMEONE WITH A TODDLER. THEY ARE NOT BABIES SO IT IS PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE TO SLAM INTO THEM."

I'm just saying...the tiny yellow sign almost didn't stop me.

I'm off to find a car full of 5-year olds.

Top 15 reasons The Dictator kicks ass

2008-10-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

Today is The Dictator's birthday, and because I don't have a warm fuzzy blog, I'm going to honor him by making a list of the top 15 reasons I think The Dictator kicks ass.

1. He makes me laugh, every single day. Sometimes it's intentional, but usually it's just him being him.

2. He loves to cuddle, and actually asks me to schedule it in for him- "Mom, is it cuddle time yet?" It makes my cold heart melt.

3. He takes the longest craps I've ever witnessed. Honestly. Every single time he gets up from the toilet, he has a ring around his ass because he's been sitting there for 25 minutes. And he gives you a play-by-play of what's happening. "Okay, I'm pushing again. This one is big!" And bath water motivates his bowels, because the second his bath is done running, he has to poop. And then his bath gets cold, so I have to run the water again. But I still love his marathon craps.

4. He knows almost every word to every song he's ever heard. It's amazing. He hears a song once and the next time it's on he's singing it.

5. He's always hungry. If we eat dinner at 6:30, by 6:45 he's hungry again. And this continues every 15 minutes until bedtime at 9:30.

6. His favorite show in the whole world is Wipeout, and he insists that we all sit down and watch it with him. And we do, because seriously...it is the BEST. SHOW. EVER.

7. At 5 years old, he's smarter than me.

8. He remembers everything you've ever told him since he was in utero. And where he was when it was said. And who said it. And why.

9. He loves his brother more than anything on earth, and will share everything he has with him. When he's not socking him in the stomach as he walks by.

10. He is very, very, VERY strong-willed. Right now, that makes me want to smother him, but when he's older, it may actually do him some good.

11. He believes in God and Jesus, always, no questions asked. There is no faith with him, it's just fact.

12. He's the slowest eater ever.

13. He looks like my family. Not me, so much, but my family...especially my mom, and that's a nice little reminder now that she's gone.

14. He has absolutely no impulse control. He says whatever pops into his head and does whatever seems like a good idea at the time. About 98% of the time, it gets him in trouble.

15. He's the sweetest little boy in the world...unless he's the meanest. But mostly the sweetest. Sometimes.

And that, my friends, is why The Dictator kicks ass. And why I love him forever, no matter what, more than anything in the whole wide world.

Happy Birthday Dictator!

From The Dictator's mouth

2008-09-30T23:33:00.000-07:00

This is a direct quote from The Dictator earlier this evening:

"It doesn't look like a lot in the toilet, but it would in the bed."

And that was only one sentence of the conversation...just imagine the possibilities.

Skinny jeans and menstruation

2008-09-30T23:05:00.001-07:00

Sorry to offend all your delicate little ears out there, but PPT is becoming a bitch.

He's 10 1/2. He likes sports, money, the military, girls (kill me), and singing in a pitch so shrill and loud that stray dogs come running. Your typical boy, right?

Wrong. My son woke up about a month ago, and I realized HE IS TOTALLY BECOMING A GIRL. In fact, I expect he'll start menstruating any day now.

It all started with skinny jeans.

PPT: Mom, when can I get skinny jeans?

M: Did you just use the words skinny and jeans together? You're so not my kid.

PPT: You know, like all the cool skater kids wear? Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-

M: For the love of God, I'll buy you anything if you cease that horrid sound.

PPT: (Dancing around the room) I get skinny jeans, I get skinny jeans!

M: Go take a shower. And get that ginormous booger hanging out of your nose, or I'll do it for you.

PPT: Mom, gross!

M: I pushed that giant head of yours out, I can pick your nose. Now go! (Note: the giant head comment is one I use at least twice a week. It makes him shiver every time.)

Now, let me explain something to those of you who may not know what PPT looks like...he's about 4 feet tall and all of 59 pounds soaking wet. In fifth grade. Skinny jeans, it turns out, aren't skinny on him...they're just jeans that fit.

And his newfound interest in fashion and picking his own style is new to me. Honestly, he's never cared what he wore or how he looked...in fact, up until about a month ago, I was still picking his clothes out for him. (I have good taste, shut up.)

So I got him his damn skinny jeans. And they're skinny. Like S-K-I-N-N-Y. They're so skinny that when I put my arm in them to turn them right side out after drying, it usually gets stuck. I'm fat, but I'm not that fat...these bastards are just tight. How do his balls breathe? Your guess is as good as mine.

Last week, PPT spent a good 7 minutes in the bathroom doing his hair. Again, if you don't know what PPT looks like, here's a visual aid:

(That's him, on the left. On the right is The Dictator, who looks so sweet and pure you'd never guess a demon spawn lives inside him.)

If you look at the photo closely, you'll notice one tiny detail that makes it difficult to figure out why he spent 7 minutes perfecting his coif...HE DOESN'T HAVE HAIR.

What does a 10-year old boy do in the bathroom for 7 minutes with hair gel and no hair? Wait, never mind. That mental image is going to burn a hole in my brain.