Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Gobble Gobble Mother Fucker

It’s not that I hate the holidays.  I actually really like them.  I like them so much that I want everyone else to participate in my fucking joy. 

This is probably why I got pissed off at the two fucking Grinch douche canoe managers at my local grocery store last week.  I was shopping for charity and they wouldn't take all of my coupons.  Two managers came over to me in the checkout line (because I am obviously a bad ass couponing mother fucker who needs the fucking goon squad to make me back down) and informed me that regardless that the purchase was for charity I was not allowed to use the coupons.  I made them say it a few times just so the people in line behind me would know that they were complete asshats.  I wanted to say, “IT’S FOR FUCKING CHARITY YOU FUCKING COCK SUCKERS”, but I didn't because I’m classy. 

I also had to go to the mall and get the annual "terrorize the toddlers" photo for my collection.  I really think it gets better each year.  I'm pretty sure last years Santa retired or set himself on fire after my kids visited.  

I have wondered for awhile why both of my kids growl at me.  The other morning I found out why.  It was 4 a.m. on Christmas morning and Mike’s fucking phone alarm goes off.  Who the fuck sets their alarm for 4 a.m. on Christmas morning, you might ask?   My douche bag husband.  I don’t even know why he set an alarm in the first place since he has never used one and will never use one and even if the fire alarm were going off inside his ear in a an echo chamber with fire ants eating his genitals, he still wouldn't wake the fuck up.  Anyway, it was 4 fucking a.m. and I couldn't figure out where the noise was coming from and then I found it. And I growled.  I growled at my sleeping douche bag husband.  I was already pissed off from staying up until 1 a.m. playing Santa and getting the gifts wrapped and stockings filled and eating cookies.  I also knew that my youngest soul sucking child would be awake in two hours because that’s how he rolls. 

The first holiday meal I cooked for Mike.

I had bought a Turkey and cooked that bad ass bird for hours and it was fucking beautiful.   I made all the side dishes and a pumpkin pie.  Mike apparently named the turkey and fell in love with it for all the wrong reasons and wouldn't eat the fucking thing.  He said it was because the carcass was still in the shape of a bird and he could identify what he was eating.  NEWS FLASH DUMB ASS:  IT’S CALLED A TURKEY

After several years of nobody eating a damn thing I make for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Birthdays, etc… I have given up.  Last year I didn't cook a damn thing.  I really don’t think anyone noticed.  This year I announced I was ordering dinner.  My first thought was to call the Cracker Barrel and they told me they only did ham.  I hate ham.  Mike loves ham.  I called around.  Publix did a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.  I ordered it.  Then I lied to Mike and told him that I had called the cracker barrel too late to order their meal.  Gobble Gobble Mother Fucker. 

I’ll make it up to him next year by making a Pop Tart casserole or something. 


Monday, October 15, 2012

Effing Manners

Did you ever want to punch an elderly woman at a restaurant?  I have.  This weekend Jenny and I went to a local greasy spoon to eat some hot sauce with a side of food.  It was parent’s weekend in Tallahassee which meant a ton of out of town crank pants parents, trying to live vicariously through their children’s lives, dress in Garnet and Gold and take their adult children to Target to buy them a bunch of crap that they will return immediately on Monday morning so they can buy beer next weekend because nothing says I Love You like imitation Fiesta Wear and low thread count sheets.  I’m just talking from experience.   So, it was a little warm outside and the restaurant was packed.  We chose to sit outside.  The sun in Florida is like a blowtorch, so naturally we wanted an umbrella at our table.  There was an extra umbrella and stand by another table which, I might add, had a fully open large umbrella canvassing their table.    The umbrella I spotted wasn't even open, so I decided it was going to be our umbrella.  I went over and politely (for real) asked if I could take the unused umbrella.  Well, to my surprise the blue haired Betty sitting at the table says, “Well, WE could use it”, in a sassy pants voice.
This is where my mind goes:  I have 2 toddlers and I try to teach them about sharing every fucking day.  Over and over and over.  “If I have 2 fucking toy cars and you have no toy cars, the polite thing to do is for me to give one fucking toy car to you and if I don't, you can shove a toy car (or umbrella) up my ass.  It’s called sharing, you fucking geriatric cunt face.  I hope you choke on your fucking frittata and die”. 
I didn't say that, because I have principles.  I simply say, “Well, you’re not using it”, which apparently is just as rude as what I wanted to say because the bitch was pissed.   

This got me thinking about manners and society and crap like that.  Last week I took the kids to the local mall because they have in indoor toddler containment unit next to a Starbucks.  Heaven!!  

This is the indoor playground and the triple threat I had with me that day.  

Anyway, I have one kid in a stroller and two other kids roaming free range as I try to get from a very busy parking lot to the mall entrance.  So, this little blonde twenty something scurries in front of me just as I get to the door and promptly opens and closes the door in my face.  Hello, Douche Bag!  Could you prop open the door for someone who obviously could use a hand?  Fucking bitch.  If I had I free hand, I would grab your cheap ass hair extensions and slam that pretty little face in the door, repeatedly. I wanted to put a pox on her that she’ll be pregnant with triplets by the end of the year and they will be evil soul sucking demons.  But I didn't because the toddlers copy everything I do.  Instead I bite my lip and watch 10 fucking people stare at me and not open the door.  What - The - Fuck?!  Seriously!

When I was 5 months pregnant, I got laid off from my job with the State of Florida.  It was a perfect storm that day.  I got laid off and was told to pack my belongings from my desk.    First of all, what a fucking douche move to do to someone who is pregnant and then telling them to stop crying because I’m just embarrassing myself.  I’m fucking hormonal you fucking cunt.  Secondly, not one person in that fucking office helped me find a box or bag or anything helpful to get me out of there.  I get everything packed up and start to walk out of the office… on the 9th floor… of a 16 floor building… and the mother fucking fire alarm goes off.  The elevators are of course shut down and the stairs are the only option.  There I am, with 3 large boxes, two bags and a purse, in heals and very pregnant, crying, trying to walk down 9 flights of stairs with 1300 other people.  Not one fucking person offered to assist me.  NOT ONE.  I was obviously pregnant AND upset and not one fucking dick machine offered to help.  I wished at that moment that I could go into labor and my water would break so that I could soak some Jimmy Choo’s and cause a avalanche of people slipping on amniotic fluid and bloody show.  It would have been beautiful.  It would have been justice.  Looking back, I should have kept and bottled some of the amniotic fluid.  I'd keep it in a spray bottle and discipline rude inconsiderate people; like, when a cat jumps on a counter top.     

Monday, October 8, 2012

For Shits and Giggles

I had to go to my husband’s boss’s birthday party this past weekend.  The drive on the way to the party was the highlight of the trip.  Immediately when I get in the car Mike snaps, “Is this my car charger for my phone”?  I told him no and then he says it was the one from his car and blab blab blab fart bla blarp.  I reply, “DOES IT FUCKING MATTER!”  Then he accuses me of stealing his phone charger and he knows it’s his and bla blarb fart woopie.  I tell him that yes, I did take that fucking charger out of his fucking car because it was my charger that I had put in his fucking car when I had to drive the fucking dirty 4-runner and that I took it out when I was done.   Anyway, when we got home I went directly to the fucking bag from Verizon on top of the fucking refrigerator and pulled out the fucking charger he never took out of the fucking box when he bought his fucking phone and I hand it to the ass hat.  And I win. 

And then I lost.  I’m pretty sure the host of the party tried to poison me as I spent the remainder of the day getting to know my toilet more intimately. I wasn't all that concerned with my health as I was the septic system that failed over a month ago and we are just waiting for a river of poop to flow downhill into our neighbor’s yard.  It’s okay, they’re renters and I really don’t like the landlords anyway because they moved away 2 years ago and left behind their mean ass cat, Simba, because according to the douche bag that lived there, “he’s a neighborhood cat anyway”.   Something I realize from almost dying at the hands of my husband’s boss’s wife’s choice in catering is, it was probably the scallops and it wasn't as bad as the time my grandma tried to kill me with zucchini.  That was the first time I ever got food poisoning  and I just started to eat zucchini again after 30 years; but let me just say that if you are ever going to be poisoned by someone it better be your grandma because you might kill anyone else.  
There were a few rules at grandparent’s house.  
Not rules imposed by my grandparents, rather my mom and dad. 

  1.  Never drink out of an open container.  That’s grandma’s special OJ/fruit juice/soda in the fridge.  Especially since the time my brother took a big swig of OJ from the fridge and had to sleep it off for the remainder of the weekend. 
  2. Used pipe cleaners are acceptable toys.
  3. If you are near the tennis court and you don’t have a tennis racket you are automatically the ball boy/girl and you better get the fuck out of the way during a match.
  4. Don’t change the channel.  It’s been on the same channel for 50 years.  You’ll watch golf or tennis and you’ll like it.
  5. The only safe food to eat in the house is in the oven.  The oven is never used.  It’s where the windmill cookies are.  It might actually be the only food in the house. 
  6. The cast iron ice crusher will be the closest thing to the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine you will ever have so deal and get grandpa another drink.    
  7. Any time grandma takes you out in the woods to “transplant” flowers you are committing a federal offence.  Those are endangered wild orchids so don’t get caught. 

I was born on my grandma’s birthday and she insisted that I be named Viola, after her.  Mom and Dad named me Susan.  It made for some pretty awesome birthdays though, well at least until she started to lose her marbles.  She started to give used birthday and holiday cards and she would just cross out the other person’s signature and sign it.  One time she gave me a pink box of baking flour with a swan on it.  It was opened and old and had dead bugs in it. My mom was pretty sure they hadn’t made that brand in 20 or more years.  One time my mom agreed to let grandma prepare and bring the Christmas dinner to our house.  This, we all thought, was the biggest mistake ever as the only thing we ever saw grandma actually make was a mixed drink.  She lost the entire Christmas dinner, trimmings and all, on the hour long drive to our house.  My dad thinks they probably left it on the top of the car.  

Me and my grandma on our birthday.  
Now that I look at her, she kind of reminds me of the Queen.  

I bet the car ride home that night for grandma and grandpa was pretty close to the car ride Mike and I had on the way to the party.  I also think that my husband underestimates my extremely short northern girl temper.   Sure; There wasn't a snow storm and it wasn't Christmas and I didn't lose Christmas dinner; it was my fucking phone charger and I was fucking poisoned and I was right. Close enough.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

My Dr. Sucks

I realized the other day when I went to the grocery store in my yoga pants and tank top all stinky from cleaning a house and un-showered from the day before, that I might actually look kind of scary … or homeless.  I've been a stay at home mom for over 2 years now and I think the boys are finally getting to me.  Sometimes I leave the house wearing slippers and a sweater in 95 degree weather and I have dreams about an octopus-bear hybrids that work at Starbucks part time for the benefits.    That octopus-bear has it made.
Sometimes I just drive around in my car so that the ankle biters will fall asleep.  Then I slip the Veggie Tales CD out of the player and insert Tori Amos or the Avett Brothers or anything but the fucking Veggie Tales.  

My friend Rob, whom I used to work with at a fiber optics company which we affectionately nicknamed halitosis because of our deep seeded resentment of the place, called the other night.  He told me that he was going to have a baby.  I congratulated him in an exaggerated apathetic voice and then began to laugh the evil scientist laugh.  He let me know that they are going to hire a nanny.  I then cried myself to sleep.  I cried because I just went to the Dr.’s office to get my medication adjusted so that my family can live another day.  I also stole all the coupons out of the magazines in the waiting room because that’s how I roll.  The Dr. asked my some basic questions:

Dr:  Are you getting enough sleep?
Me:  Not in 3 years (as my two toddler boys grab his post it notes and start wall papering the room).
Dr:  Have you had a change in appetite?
Me:  Well, since I no longer prepare meals for myself and eat the leftovers from my toddlers buffet, yes.
Dr:  Are you having frequent anxiety or panic attacks (at this moment my 3 year old is smashing the keys on the Dr.’s laptop)?
Me:  As a matter of fact, yes!  Right at this moment, douche bag. 

Dr:  Do you no longer enjoy activities you used to find enjoyable?
Me:  I no longer do activities I enjoy, ass hat. 

Dr:  Do you ever have thought about hurting yourself or other?
Me: (out loud) Nope.  (in my head) are you fucking kidding me?  There is a fine line between reality and fantasy.  For example:  at this moment I want to punch you in the throat and bury you next to my husband in the backyard and make a crude memorial to you out of tongue depressors which would be a really good distraction for the two kids about to ruin your office and cost me 2k for your cute little laptop they are about the throw off the table, mother fucker.  Now give me stronger meds!

So, I leave the doctor’s office with both kids screaming because they didn't have any fucking lollipops and one of the kids decided he didn't have any legs so I had to drag him across the parking lot while the other one declared his hatred of me.  I was pretty much homicidal by the time I left but I have to give myself a little credit.  After all, I did wear a bra and shoes and I scored some great coupons in the lobby.  

Friday, September 28, 2012

Man Slave: A Girl Can Dream.

I was watching the morning news and saw a story about a wife in a bitter divorce battle who hired a hit man to take out her husband.  Son of a bitch probably didn't do the dishes.  I know, because I immediately looked over at my kitchen sink and saw the empty promise sitting in the stainless steel abyss.  One night this week.  One fucking night off this week.  Not even a whole night, just 3 precious hours and the dishes went undone.  Doesn't my husband realize that this is why I’m absolutely psychotic?  What Mike doesn't understand is that me getting out of the house and some light household chores on his part is a fantastic insurance policy.  It’s mostly free and guarantees personal protection for up to 24 hours. Then I asked myself, why isn't my husband more afraid of me?   I do some pretty damned crazy shit and he should be crying himself to sleep every night. I even accidentally dyed my hair black, but it just looks like I'm trying too hard.  

The toy industry is obviously run by a single man with no children.  (Trust me. This is going somewhere)  Noah had a little motorcycle toy with no volume control that talks.  It doesn't just talk, it screams “NINJA WHEELY TIME”.  One night there was a pretty fierce thunderstorm and I had just about been pushed over the edge by my family.  The motorcycle was repeating the fucking phrase over and over and over again.  I grabbed that fucking toy, ran out the back porch, and like something out of an old sci-fi movie, hurled the mother fucker over the privacy fence as lightning crashed around me.  That is not the only thing that has ended up over the fence:   A watch that my step-son set an alarm on that went off every fucking night at 3 a.m., an alarm clock that would randomly play music, a Backyardigans microphone toy with no volume setting.  All kinds of crap has been slung over that fence.   I even tried selling some stuff in a garage sale, but those garage sale people were onto me and no one would take that crap.  Sometimes I wonder if the toys will want to take revenge on me.  I've watched Toy Story about 2 million fucking times now and I am fully aware that toys are fucking evil bastards bent on vengeance.  I keep one eye on that fence at all times.  
And to all the fucking hippie mother fuckers who think I'm littering, it's called free range.  

Sometimes wish I had super human powers so I could lift Mike over the fence or just will him over the fence or use my awesome mind powers to turn him into a man slave.  Yes!  I want a man slave.  He could be my very own personal Princess Leia.  Now, a dumb ass hole who clearly does not value his genitals will say, “Would that make you Jabba the Hutt?”  No ass hat, that makes me a bad ass mother fucker with mind control.   I would still need a whip and some iron restraints for him in the event he tried to run away.  I could just use my mind control, but toys can be fun too.  I kind of think I already have a little mind control of Mike.  I mean, he’s still alive and I give myself 100% credit for that.  

I know what you're thinking.  Yes, they are real.

Graphics by Karey Mortimer.   
 If you are interested in her awesome powers of graphic shenanigans, let me know.  
She does commission work!

Monday, September 24, 2012

Voodoo, Zombies, and Getting Groovy

When I was pregnant with my first kid I was so super excited and everything was going to be wonderful and there was sunshine and rainbows and mother fucking unicorns with glitter and all kinds of happy shit.

Then, I went into labor. 

So, Lamaze is a bunch of voodoo bullshit.  For real.  8 weeks of Lamaze classes and breathing and holding onto little bags of ice to experience the pain of labor and “don’t take the drugs, it will harm the baby”.  Really?  Freaks.  Let me tell you something you natural-ass stinky mother fuckers;  if I were alive during the middle ages and had to go thru 24 hours of what I went thru with my first born, I would have died and so would my child and fuck you all and your delusional hippie ways.  Fuck you.  As I went into my sixth hour of contractions I grabbed the attending nurses’ hand and with tears streaming down my face I looked into her eyes and said, “I don’t wanna be a hero, give me the fucking drugs”.  The drugs don’t even work that well either, but at least it’s something. 

Then the baby is born.  Babies are really creepy and look like zombies when they are born. My baby was sucked out of my vagina by a vacuum so looked like a zombie gumby.  His head was, and still is in the shape of the exact pattern bowling pins should be placed.  We thought it would morph back to a “normal” shape.  Nope!  Don’t get me wrong, he is beautiful and I love him to pieces, but his skull is really messed up.

I didn't even know what planet I was on in this picture.  
Look at the shape of that kids head!  Whoa.

I went through all the cliché new parent crap about everything must be sterile and blarg bloop blarg.  So, our cats killed a mouse and left it on the porch.  Dead animal removal is not on my household chore list so I told Mike to take care of it.  He didn’t.  I asked him over and over and over again to remove the mouse from the porch.  Eventually it was on the porch so long that the mouse was now flat and petrified and still on the mother fucking porch.  It must have gotten stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe and tracked into the house because the flat dead mouse ended up in my infant’s mouth.  WHAT THE FUCK!  Seriously, my baby boy was sucking on a mouse carcass.  I have never wanted to kill someone as badly as that moment when I pulled the decaying rodent from my baby’s mouth.

Now I have to deal with 2 toddlers who like to mimic everything.  It’s not just the swearing and I do a lot of that.  You know when you’re in Target and your kid starts chanting, “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK”?  I do.  I keep telling Mike to stop trying to be all sexy in the house.  You know, like when I’m bent over loading dishes into the dishwasher and Mike thinks it’s time to do some club dancing in the kitchen and he comes up behind me because for some reason he thinks that I’m going to be turned on while I’m doing household chores because he is a fucking dumb ass and all he’s really doing is coming closer to getting his eye gouged out with the ice cream scoop because it’s the only weapon I have available to fight off his advances.  The toddlers think it’s funny and so they do the same thing to me.  Do you get that?  Yeah?  Because Mike doesn’t seem to get it when I tell him that the kids mimic every single fucking thing we do and that includes getting groovy with mom. 

Now that I’m thinking about it, here is a list of *activities that are not sexy nor are they in anyway intended to be flirtatious or a sexual advance:

Doing the dishes
Loading the washer and/or dryer
Folding laundry
Shaving legs, armpits, etc
Changing dirty diapers
Cleaning ceiling fan blades
Mopping the floor
Putting groceries away
Mowing the lawn
Decorating the Christmas tree
Scrubbing the toilet
*The above list IS IN FACT sexy if a MAN is doing it.  I repeat… A MAN 

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Fear The Wookie

When I was little, my parents would tell me the tale of the Mad Chipmunk of Lovells.  It was an angry rodent that lived at the edge of my parent’s property and apparently it would chew your fucking face off it you ventured too far away from the house.  They probably should have just been honest with me and told me about the bears or wild cats or any of the other actual man eating creatures that live in the woods.  Honestly though, the chipmunk really did the trick and to this day the little fuckers creep me out.  There were a bunch of bears living around our house and we even had one that would hibernate under a neighbor’s trampoline.  That trampoline was so fucking awesome. It wasn’t like today’s trampolines. This one was built into the ground, surrounded by a concrete border with big metal springs holding the trampoline over a giant hole (That’s where the bear lived) and I’m honestly surprised that any of us kids survived playing on that thing but it doesn’t really matter because it was that awesome.   

I was thinking about that damned chipmunk in the shower this morning.  I had just dyed my hair and I was rinsing out the holy-crap-black I apparently bought.  It was on sale and I had a coupon.  Sometimes we have to live with these choices.  The manufacturers of hair dye really need to take into consideration that some people have really long dry hair that soaks up most of the tiny bottle of dye on just a very small portion of hair.  I am now sporting a 3 toned style of Goth black, kind of red, and gray. 

Anyway, anytime I get in the shower or brush my hair or get pissed off at the kids; a ton of fucking hair falls out of my skull.  It is really fucking amazing how much hair I lose in one day and still I am able to maintain a full head of hair.  I do fear that my days are numbered though especially since one of my nervous habits is pulling out individual stands of hair with I deem to be “crunchy” and thus unworthy to reside on my scalp. 
I like to leave little surprises around the house for my husband.  One of those gems is the shower wookie.  

As my gift to Mike today, I pulled the shower wookie out and left it in the bottom of the tub. 

All women know what the shower wookie is and all men fear the shower wookie.  Mike even went down to the hardware store and bought a special shower wookie extraction tool.  He doesn’t hunt deer or bears or gators, but damn if he isn’t proud when he hunts down and kills a shower wookie.  He likes to show off the shower wookie to me as if I don’t know that I am capable of producing such a hideous creature.  I am fully aware of it.  I am also totally grossed out by my own hair once it leaves my head.  Mike is grossed out by it too but in a completely fascinated way.  He will call the entire family into the bathroom so we can view the fresh kill. Now that I think about it, maybe the shower wookie contributed to the fail of our septic system.  It is that fucking evil looking. 
Mike would probably like if I ended things here, but I have to tell you about his fucking gross ass hair too.  Not his ass hair literally.  I don’t think I ever want to go there.  We will leave his mangina out of this.  I finally got him to shave the dead squirrel that has been eating all of his food off his face.  He loves to MANipulate his facial hair and by that, I mean; he likes to shave weird shapes into his face and he thinks it’s sexy.  Let me tell you something:  THERE IS NOTHING SEXY ABOUT A DEAD SQUIRREL ON YOUR FACE!  Once anyone begins to grow facial hair I can assume one of three things:  
1.        You are a depressed ass hat
2.        You are a fucking ass hat bent on taking out revenge
3.        You are a fucking lazy ass hat

Mike will go for weeks, even months without shaving, usually just to piss me off.  He’ll say he’s going to shave and then create chops or a goatee.  My friend Jenny has a special name for a goatee.  She calls it Prison Pussy.   Then, as if the facial hair isn’t enough, when he does shave it off, he leaves me this mess around the sink.

                                    Mother Fucker.  That’s dove soap, bitch. 

At least the shower wookie clings together with its peeps in some kind of cult like solidarity.  Mikes fucking facial hair likes to divide and conquer making it impossible to clean up.  

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Aqua Bug Net

So, I was going through my old pictures trying to remember why on earth I would ever have done the hideous things to my hair that I did.  Not only did I probably single handedly create a small ozone hole over Northern Michigan, I also left an impenetrable layer of Aqua Net on my parents bathroom floor.  The thing I realized was that people must have thought I was a total fucking bitch.  For real!  My face was so sarcastic and snarky.  The braces didn’t help and kind of added a demonic touch.  I admit though that I was, in fact, a total fucking bitch in grade school. 
I remember spending hours in my bedroom, curling iron plugged in, mixed tape blaring, trying to get the perfect ratio of lift and width.  I would turn off the lights and light a candle completely unaware of the fire hazard perched on top of my head and I would imagine that the members of White Lion were serenading When the Children Cry to me as I made pouty faces in the mirror. Occasionally I was able to come up with a single tear which would cascade down my face trailing a black smear of mascara and pain.   Oh to be a teenager again.

Moving to Florida may have been my worst hair decision to date.  Maybe other parts of Florida aren’t this humid, but I live in the scrotum of Florida and it’s basically a stagnant swamp land with no breeze and 100% chance of ass hat.  I fully blame the move on my now ex husband who promised we could use the AC in the house when we moved down here but then became a giant douche bag who tried to convince me that we were better off with the windows open.   Do you know what kind of horrible bugs live in Florida? Really big fucking horrible bugs, that what! 
  There is this thing called a Palmetto Bug but let me tell you the truth:  

Actual size of Palmetto Bug.  Please note the terror on the T-Rex's face.  

They are everywhere.  They are strong.  They will fight you to the death and then some. They can swim, squeeze into small places, and hotwire a car.  We had a pool at my old house and while trying to cool off from the inferno of Florida, the giant bugs would fall out of the trees and try to drown me while I practice my homemade kung fu in a struggle to survive.   I can only imagine how my sister, Julie, felt when that squirrel fell out the tree during an ice storm and got caught in her super curly hair   It is kind of like that, but way worse because the Palmetto Bugs also poop when agitated and that shit really stinks.    They don’t die either.  You can poison, stomp, and puree a palmetto but and they don’t die.   My friend Shea said that she dropped a phone book on one and them stomped on the phone book a bunch of times and then left it there for hours until her mom came home to dispose of the carcass.  When her mom moved the phone book, that mother fucking palmetto bug scurried away…. shaking its little palmetto bug fist in the air…. vowing vengeance. 
Who the fuck has a phone book anymore anyway?

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Botox and Jesus

I went to lunch on Saturday with my friends Suzanne and Jenny.  Don’t fucking judge me either.    I know I don’t have any money to be spending on fancy lunches because of the whole poop tank thing and that’s why I first pimped myself out to Suzanne to clean her house so that I could eat Truffle Fries and Mango Cheesecake on her bill.  And it was worth it.  I should have probably done a better job cleaning but that is what she gets for feeding me first.  She’ll learn next time. 

It doesn’t take long for our conversation to end up in the gutter.  It all started with Suzanne saying she wanted to get Botox done on her forehead and 2 hours later Jenny says the exact same thing.  What the fuck?  Seriously??  So we all start talking about where we would get Botox done on ourselves and Suzanne wants to host a Botox party in her house because you would only have to pay for the injections and not the doctor and I’m thinking that it sounds all shady and I decide I would Botox my upper lip then Jenny says “Botox your hole” and she meant my mouth but we were all thinking asshole.   What better place to try out Botox?  I mean, if you really want to see if that shit works, why not paralyze your pooper to see?  Plus, if it gets all fucked up, you just have to wear some adult diapers for a few months.  I’d rather try that first. 

It got me thinking a lot about down there.  Not about assholes, rather vaginas.  For some reason, once you have a kid, your vagina comes up in conversations more than you would think (maybe it’s just me).  Even my mom talks about my vagina which is really disturbing.  My husband, Mike, likes to say romantic things like “you could drive an 18 wheeler thru there” and “nice meat curtain”.   Today when we were out on a date he said that our first born would probably be really bad at math because his head is all crooked, probably from the hideous birth that lasted 24 hours causing severe trauma A.K.A, my vagina.  I informed Mike that he would probably be bad at math because I am bad at math and that he should keep my vagina out of it. But now that I think about it, the second kid just kind of fell out and his head is all round and perfect so maybe the first born was kind of like a pioneer and someone has to eat the poisoned berries and fight a bear so that we can build a FroYo next to the Alamo. 

This is my first born Davy Crockett.  Just kidding, look at the Gumby head though.  
(the glasses aren't his.  Just added for drama.)

Just the other night at dinner, somehow episiotomies came up and Suzanne remarked that after my 2 episiotomies my vagina tells time and it’s always 3:30 down there.   I told her that is exactly why it now has the nickname Frankenpussy.  I haven’t told my mom that though because she’s a Mormon and she doesn't even drink caffeine so saying Frankenpussy to her might kill her and then when she goes to Heaven or the planet or whatever the what Mormons go to she would have to tell Jesus that her daughter said Frankenpussy and then Jesus would be all pissed off at me and It’s not like I don’t have enough shit going on right now that I don’t need a plague frogs.  But then again, God made vagina's so  it's not like he didn't have "the talk" with Jesus about that stuff and I'm sure he's heard worse things said about vagina's anyway.  

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Red Dawn a.k.a. Russian Poop Dog Lady

When I was growing up there was never a time when we didn’t have a pet.  Usually dogs, once in awhile a cat (my mom fucking hates cats because my grandma Vi had 2 Siamese cats that scared the shit out of her and then one of them gave birth under her chair while she was eating dinner), and 2 fish (they committed suicide by jumping out of their bowl which was placed on the fireplace mantle and slowly cooked themselves to death on the woodstove). We had this awesome Old English Sheep Dog named George.  He really was a great dog.   We could attach him to a snow sled and he would drag us around the yard like a horse and carriage ride.  He once ate our front door when a burglar tried to break in the house.  There were 4 kids in my family so we went thru a ton of food.  My mom started freaking out one winter and complaining that we were eating more than a loaf of Butternut bread  each day and the grocery bill was bla bla bla and she was going to have to sell one of us to the gypsies to afford to pay the utility bill.  I remember distinctly that it was Butternut bread because it always came with Snoopy stickers in each bag which caused bloody battles between my sister and I.  She loved Snoopy.  So, the bread continued to disappear along with occasional whole apple pie and we evil children continued to get blamed for our excessive eating habits.  I don’t blame my mom for thinking this.  Each of my brothers could eat an entire box of Captain Crunch every morning which is why she started buying Grape Nuts out of spite.  We still ate that shit; we just put a cup of sugar on it.  Eventually summer came (we could still have snow as late as May).  That’s when we had to do poop patrol.  As the snow pack melted in various layers, 6 months of dog crap would be revealed.  We were like archeologists, out in the yard armed with shovels picking up poop.  Upon a new layer slowly being exposed, it was revealed to all of us where exactly all the Butternut Bread had gone to and who had eaten it; including the entire wrapper.  Mangled poop twisted the the iconic blue and white checker board pattern littered our lawn.  So fucking gross. 
Needless to say, I'm not a fan of dogs or poop or dog poop.  

When you’re pregnant just about anything can and will send you into a blinding rage.  For example:  when your husband locks you out of the car during a severe thunderstorm at 6 a.m. just so he can see the look on your face or your neighbor repeatedly letting her big ass dog crap in your yard and not picking it up. 
For months I kept finding or stepping in dog shit in my yard.  Not just little dog turds.  No, these were from a big dog.  Luckily, I get super obsessed and move the furniture around in my living room so that I could drink my morning coffee and watch out the window for the shit bandit.  Then I saw her.  It was the fucking Russian lady who lives down the street and her big ass designer dog.  I wanted my rage to build and wait for the right moment to politely ask her to pick up her dogs crap and then I got my opportunity.  I was pulling out of the driveway on my way to the grocery store when I saw her walking her dog, in my yard, as it squatted and took a dump.  She saw me pulling out and quickly kicked some leaves over the pile of steaming hot shit.  I rolled my window down and asked her if she would please pick up the offending poop because I have children who play in my yard.  She just stared at me and then motioned as is she had no idea what I was saying.  Then I realized that she was pretending that she didn’t speak English which is complete bullshit because she talks to my husband all the fucking time.  So then I tell her that I would be glad to bring a plastic bag out for her to pick it up and all of a sudden she speaks English and tells me that she usually always carries a bag but she just didn’t today.  I once again offer to go get her a bag and she starts yelling at me.  Well, she obviously didn’t know what a fucking cunt I can be and that’s when I snapped.  I honestly don’t remember what I said or if it even made sense.  I may have said something about rubbing her fucking nose in it.  This began my personal Red Dawn.
 I, of course, am Patrick Swayze's Character, Jed.  Leader of the Wolverines.  

This wasn’t the end of it.  The poop kept coming.  She was walking her dog earlier and earlier, trying to bypass my checkpoint.  As I grew more pregnant, I grew even angrier.  Soon my passive aggressive side kicked in (blame the hormones).  I put a sign by the mailbox with baggies.  I was trying to be fucking nice.  Mike said I was being a bitch and asked me to remove the sign.  It stayed for a month. 

Actual picture of sign I put by the mailbox.  I'd say the sign is pretty nice considering it was the second one I put out.  In the first one I threatened to follow people home.  
(also, two separate neighbors came to me and complimented my sign so kiss my ass, Mike)

Then, when I was 9 months pregnant, my friend Sarah came over to help out and clean my house because the bowling ball which had descended into my who-who was making it impossible to anything useful around the house.  While Sarah was cleaning the living room I glanced out the window.  There she was, is broad daylight, letting that fucking dog shit in my yard.  I snapped.  I opened the front door and let loose.  Sarah, unaware of what was happening, stood there flabbergasted at the demon which possessed my body.  I know for a fact I did an impersonation of Robert DeNiro doing "I'm watching you" with the hand gestures and all.  I’m pretty sure I threatened to poop in her mailbox, her yard, her front stoop, and make her life a living hell.  I also called her every name I could possible think of and I even made up a few.  Sarah was okay with the whole incident though.  I know because she lets me watch her kid now. 
A year later I decide to have a garage sale.  I wake up super fucking early because garage sale people are fucking nuts.  The garage sale isn’t even important though.  I had to park our cars down the street so that I would have room for garage sale traffic.  Anyway, I park on the right of way of the street near the Russian Poop Lady’s house.  She comes out of her house with the fucking dog and walks right up to me.  She asks me if I know whose cars are in front of her house and I look at her dumbfounded.  Of course I fucking know and you do too, you dumb bitch.  You just saw me get out of the fucking car.  I didn’t say that but I should have.  I did tell her that they were mine and she says I have to move them or she’s calling the cops.  I inform her that I’m parked on the street in the fucking right of way ... 5 a.m. and I’m yelling profanities in the street.  I moved the cars, but only because Mike made me.  As I drove away I yelled “WOLVERINES” out my window.  Take that you crazy ass bitch.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

The Great Dirty Underwear Caper

I started playing Bingo a couple of months ago with my girlfriend Jenny at the local elks lodge with all the geriatrics and compulsive gamblers.  I’m not sure if I like this so much because I’m a crazy stay at home mom, a crazy gambling addict, or both.  At any rate, it gets me out of the house for a few hours and raises my blood pressure which in turn probably raises my metabolism so it’s probably really healthy.  Bingo is the new cardio.  So, it costs a mere $12.50 to play but when your septic tank is broken and you have to shell out 10K to get your shit pipes hooked up to the city system because your home owners association is a bunch of ass clowns and your hospital bills make you scared to go to your mailbox because having to make your health insurance payment each month AND pay a hospital bill which now rivals your student loans makes you want to crawl under your desk at work and cry yourself into a coma but you can’t even do that because you no longer have a desk at work because you were laid off from the state when you were 5 months pregnant and no one would hire your ass because they knew at any moment you would be popping out a baby and even though that is against the law it happens and then because you were unemployed for awhile no one will hire you because you have a Masters in Fine Art and what the fuck is good for anyway.  Phew… 

Don’t you just love when a casual dinner with girlfriends turns into a pyramid scheme to sell used panties online to strangers with an odd fetish for dirty underwear?  I do too!  When I get together with my friends, odd thing happen and this includes last night’s dinner at Sahara (they should pay me for this because I’m totally going to boost their business). 

Meet the players

Jenny:  nurse in training and bingo enabler.
Suzanne:  crippled designer shoe addict who ironically can no longer wear shoes on her right foot.
Kelly:  lover of Oreo cookies, Kayaking, and she also once owned New Kids on the Block bed sheets.
Susan E.:  will do anything, and I mean ANYTHING, to raise money to get to Spain and lover of Diet Coke with Lime.
Heather:  snarky waitress who likes to buy things at the flea market and I’m pretty sure she would date a carny. 
Susan (me):  desperate broken septic tank owner, lover of Bingo, and hater of cats.

So, we are all sitting at the table and enjoying our food.  Heather requested no ass cheese (feta) with her meal which I think is crazy because if you’re going to eat at Sahara, you have to eat the ass cheese. By the way:  the waiter is not aware that feta is also called ass cheese which made for a very awkward silent moment when ordering. Jenny tries to strike up a conversation by asking what’s new in people’s lives.  This is what got the ball rolling.  Apparently I am not the only one desperate for large amounts of cash right now.   I know what you’re thinking:  Stop playing bingo and save the money.  Well, when you are a stay at home mom it is vitally necessary to get out of your house at least once a week so that your family isn’t discovered in shallow graves in your back yard.  Plus, Suzanne paid for dinner so, bite me.  Jenny then mentions that there are people who will pay money to buy used underwear.  Really?  Gross!  But then we all realized it was genius and very doable.  Thank you smart phones!  We all start searching the interwebs for selling used underwear and it’s not only real, it’s super popular.  Who knew? (Jenny) (perv). 

I don’t think I should put the actual websites here because they are really pornographic and I don’t want to pay any royalties to anyone.  Plus, Google has banned me from accepting advertisers because I’m already breaking the rules with my fucking potty mouth (fucking ass hats). 

Susan E. says that maybe we could just go to Walmart and buy a bunch of bulk underwear to keep cost down, but we all agree that probably not the kind of underwear people have a fetish for and after seeing the websites, I have to agree.  So I suggest that because our friend Maddi (sorry for dragging you into this Maddi) works in the lingerie department of a large department store that she must have a pile of defective underwear that they just throw away.   That way we could get the underwear for free.  Also, don't think I'm opposed to dumpster diving.  I've done it before and I'll do it again.  After further research we discover that the going price for the dirty britches is $75!  HOLY SHIT!  So, if we each wear 2 pairs per day we could be rich!  Rich I tells ya!   Heather is even down with this idea and she hasn’t worn underwear since her training pants when she was a toddler.  Kelly, the doe eyed innocent one, and probably the youngest in the group, is unwilling to sell her dirty underwear.  Jenny, even though she was the brain child of the group, won’t do it either.  Whatever Jenny, there are ways to get your undies.  I know where you live.  That leaves 4 of us willing to sell our dirty underwear to perverts all over the world.  I told them that was like 60% of the dinner party but smarty pants Kelly tries to correct me and I tell her that I’m bad at math and that’s why I’m now forced to sell my dirty underwear online.  So, Kelly gets to be the accountant. 
We were all very excited at this point and probably talking a little louder than we should have.  Suzanne is so excited that she had to take off her bionic boot that keeps her rotten foot from falling off her body because she was probably getting a little sweaty and I imagine that thing starts to itch when it gets hot.  She had been pretty quiet up to this point and then I realized that she was engrossed in her phone and probably setting up her dirty panty account right then and there.  The group somehow decides that I will be modeling the underwear but I quickly turn that idea down as I have given birth to two children in the past 3 years and I’m probably not the best candidate.   We need a model.  Let’s just say that we made a decision on who would model, but I’m not going to put her name here because she would probably kill me.   

There are a lot of other things we talked about, but they are way too graphic so I’ll just leave you with a short list of key phrases:
Ass Floss
Flavor Savor
Time of the month
Ziplock baggies
If it fits, it ships

Monday, September 10, 2012

Porno Pinball Christmas

We all have super memorable family holidays. On Easter mornings, my dad would calmly tell us that once again he bagged the bunny as he would point to my mom who was frying up bunny strips (bacon) on the stove. There were the Fourth of July’s when my Grandpa Joe, drunk off Jack Daniels, would light a roman candle off his cigar and point it in our direction as he yelled, “Run, you little bastards. Run”! It’s how I learned to run serpentine and treat 3rd degree burns.

Then there was Porno Pinball Christmas. 

I couldn't get a picture of this Christmas (see end of story) These are my siblings and myself. I am the adorable, glowing child, with the Dorothy Hamill haircut. Then there are my 2 brothers and my sister. My sister is at the head of the table (no, really, that's a girl).

 We all LOVED Christmas mornings. Ok, not just Christmas mornings, but the entire time leading up to Christmas morning including finding all of the gifts and trying to figure out what went to who and why. My dad decided one year that it would be awesome for us to have a real arcade pinball machine in our living room. On Christmas Eve, when all of us had gone to bed, dad set up the most fabulous.. glorious… mother fucking fantastic pinball machine EVER! My dad didn’t really think this through as my mom and dad’s bedroom was directly above the living room and my mom is a holy fucking terror if you wake her up before 9 a.m. Anyway, my brothers woke up first and discovered the pinball machine, immediately turned it on, and began playing it…. At 4 a.m. Of course my sister and I were downstairs pissing our pants and jumping up and down in less than 10 seconds of hearing the first ping of the ball. My dad was next to arrive, trying his hardest to rip the mother fucking power cord out of the fucking wall before the she devil was awaken. My dad knew at that moment that any mistake he had made in his marriage could never be outdone by this one poor error in judgement. Sure, this is the guy who got my mom a lint brush for their 10th wedding anniversary, but this was shit town baby. It was too late. She was up. She was coming down the stairs. She saw the pinball machine. My mom is silently terrifying.  What my mom saw was completely different from what we saw. We kids (kids include grown man-child called dad) saw a light filled wonderland of blinky blinkity blinks and noise. My mom saw the naked Egyptian ladies down the side panels of the machine and the light up orgy scene that distracted from the score. It was the best present EVER. It was the worst Christmas ever... for my dad.

I called my parents the other day to ask if they had any pictures of that Christmas morning. My mom was adamant that none existed and then coached my dad into the same scripted answer. If anyone knows my dad, they know that he took a fucking picture of every moment of our lives with a 35 mm camera with 6 different lenses so by the time the picture was taken we all looked like we were in pain, because we were, and wanted to shove the fucking camera up his ass even though we were saying “smile” under our breath. I know there is a picture out there somewhere. They also told me that it was not a porno pinball machine and I was probably too young to remember anyway. Too Young? Whatever! I know what I saw. I also know that shortly after that Christmas the pinball machine was moved out to the barn, only to be visited when we were waxing skis or burying a dead dog.
I also know that a button nose is super adorable on a child but not an adult.

Friday, September 7, 2012

French Bidets and Chick-Fil-A

Today was a big day for AB. AB is my friend Sarah’s boy and I watch him during the day because I love torture. It’s not that AB is torture to watch, it’s just that when you have 3 toddler boys running around your house all day it’s a good idea to hide any lighters and ladders. Back to AB. The poor kid hasn’t pooped for 5 day. FIVE DAYS! I mean holy shit! That cannot be comfortable. It’s not that he can’t either, that little ankle biter is holding it in on purpose. So, I caved today and resorted to bribery. I told AB that if he would poop, and show it to me, we could go to Chick-Fil-A.


Don’t fucking judge me:

1. It’s right down the fucking street from the house

2. It has an indoor toddler cage with slides and colorful crap that can keep the ankle biters busy for hours.

3. It’s air conditioned and this is god damned Florida. Some days it’s just to fucking hot to be outside. Have I mentioned the big as bugs and reptiles? And I’m not talking frogs, no; we have poisonous snakes and alligators.

4. My mom always told me NEVER to play with my food, and that includes playing politics.

Back to AB. So, as soon as I make the deal with the devil, he runs to the bathroom and assumes the position. 5 minutes in, he calls me to the thunder box and requests some reading material. 40 minutes later:  

I know its super gross but if you’ve never seen poops, then you have a problem. Call me. We can work out a deal.

It really got me thinking about stupid shit kids do and I realized that I am not an angel. I don't think I ever held my poop in on purpose, but if it would have guaranteed a Happy Meal, I probably would have done it.  When I was growing up, one of my best childhood friends was the girl in the next neighborhood over. Valorie and I were about as dumb and dangerous together as they come.

Me and Valorie and our unfortunate haircuts

Besides setting a field on fire, snow sledding Russian Roulette Style towards an icy river, and tempting our fate with quicksand; there was the Barbie Day Spa. You see, Valorie’s dad owned and plumbing kitchen and bath type store. Their house was all kinds of awesome with a totally decked out basement with one of those rocking horses on springs that if you tried to use today your kids would be taken out of the home and placed with drug dealers because anything is safer than that fucking horse. She also had a really fancy Barbie Day Spa in the upstairs bathroom. For hours we would let Barbie, Skipper, and Ken lounge poolside while other scantily clad Barbie friends brought them cocktails and finger foods. Sometimes the volcano in the middle of the pool would spray them all with a cool mist of water. It was so much fun. Valorie’s older sister would look at us in total disgust and yell at us to stop playing in the bidet. It sounded so exotic, so French, so……. Barbie Day Spa. It was a fucking French toilet. I played for years in a fucking toilet. If my fucking mom and dad had gotten me the fucking barbie dream house that I had begged for this would never have happened, .... maybe.  I admit this only because I now have dumb ass kids and I know that they will probably do far worse things. I also kind of hope it helped build my immune system.

Monday, September 3, 2012


This morning, while Mike was taking his fucking bubble bath, I was changing dirty diapers, feeding angry toddlers, and losing my mind.

Let me tell you a little bit about the fucking bubble baths. That is really what they are called because it pisses me off beyond anything else on this universe. When I first met Mike he didn’t have a shower curtain on his shower. I thought that was really weird until I realized he didn’t take showers, he only took bubble baths. He also only ate Pop Tarts, but that is for another story. Anyway, I eventually moved into his apartment. One night at about 3 in the morning I realized that Mike wasn’t in bed. I stumbled into the bathroom and to my horror found my boyfriend dead in the bathtub. Or, that’s what I thought as I tried to pull his wet, lifeless, naked body out of the bathtub. I swear to God, his head was underwater. He was on his side, curled up, with half of his fucking face underwater. So, he was alive and we both scared the shit out of each other. The Ass Hat sleeps in the bathtub… all the fucking time. He even takes what he calls the shbath. This is when he puts the plug in the tub and runs the shower as he sits in the bottom of the tub. I really think he did too many drugs when he was a kid.

Denver, the destroyer of all that is nice, was coloring with crayons. I lost sight of him for a few seconds and he took aim at the fridge. I know it was Denver because he’s not even two yet so all he can draw are circles and cool 80’s hair styles. When Sir Michael got out of his fucking bubble bath and dressed himself (good boy), I pointed at the new artwork and said, “Look what Denver did”. Mike casually replied, “Oh, that should come off easy enough” and walked away. Apparently he didn’t understand me when I shot poisoned darts out of my eye sockets into his nipples. In my brain I was saying, “Since you just soaked in the fucking tub for an hour, maybe your pruned ass could get the fucking magic eraser and get the fucking crayon off the fucking refrigerator. The same thing happened when Mike pointed out the food on the wall next to the dining room table and just about any other mess in this house. He and the stinky teen also think that the end of the kitchen counter is the trash can. I have pointed out several times that if they simply look four feet to the left, they will find a 3 foot stainless steel cylinder with a lid and plastic liner. It’s called a fucking trash can.

Please note:  Portrait of Mike above the crayon mess. 

The crayon is still on the fridge. I’m not budging.

So, yesterday I escaped the house with my friends Jenny and Heather. We went to brunch and then Jenny suggested we head over to the local flea market. I had never been and I thought it would be a nice Sunday outing. About five minutes into the flea market I was praying for an industrial sized vat of Purell and a lighter. There was so much crap. I am fairly certain I saw some of the stuff we threw out when the cats peed all over our garage. We put a pile of stuff out at the curb for the garbage men to take away. A couple of hours later, some dude in a pickup truck loaded all of it up and drove away. I wanted to tell him that everything was soaked in cat piss, but I was kind of happy the stuff was gone. There was a wide selection of crap from cancer causing kids toys, knock off sharpie markers, and maggot infested chickens (they were still alive). Heather and Jenny both bought sunglasses. I’m still waiting to see who gets a rash first. My money’s on Heather; she tried on a few pairs before buying. 

 My favorite vendor (by favorite I mean most fucked up) was the warehouse hoarder. It was literally like walking through an episode of Hoarders and Intervention and Swamp People. I walked away feeling confident that Mike would never leave me. He needs me. He needs my organizational skills. He needs clean underwear. He needs to not be found dead in a pile of his own crap that collapsed on him while he was soaking in the shbath. I’m still trying to figure out what I need from him. He should think about that too. Don’t get me wrong. I really do love the dumb ass; he just irritates the shit out of me.

Mikes Future death bed. 

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Ass Cats, Pterodactyls, and Furry Cocks

When one person gives you a fucking cat figurine, the rest of the world feels the obligation to give you cat figurines for the rest of your life; hence, my kitchen window and the ass cat. When Mike and I met he had 2 cats (real live cats) and I had 3. Our blended cat families made people think we were stinky cat people. The truth is: we were stinky cat people. Since that time we have given 2 cats away and one (Dicki, Mike’s prize cat and secret lover) left us for a better home down the street. At first, Mike thought Dicki was lost and he would roam our neighborhood at night, on foot and by car, yelling out Dicki’s name. I told him he had to stop because sooner or later, someone was going to call the cops and he would be arrested for solicitation. Mike eventually found Dicki living down the street and after several attempts to kidnap the cat, has given up on his beloved Dick ever coming home.  I can't say I'm not guilty of this.  When I lived with my now ex husband, the dumb ass left the sliding glass door open one night.  He wouldn't run the AC even though we live in fucking Florida. So, he would leave all the windows and door open so that the hot air, bugs, and murderers could get in. Anyway, Dicki got out and there was a thunderstorm so there I am in the rain in my underwear climbing my neighbors fence calling out DICKI.  I was probably a little drunk too. 

Anyway, back to the ass cat. It is a detailed cat figurine in a very common, but unfortunate, cat pose. My mother in law thought I would love it. She had good intentions and I have to give her credit because my ex-mother in law once sent me a used hairbrush and an uncooked loaf of banana bread for my birthday, so really, the cat was a good present. For some reason, Mike is fascinated with posing the ass cat in various positions in the kitchen window with other cat figurines. It wouldn’t be so bad if the kids didn’t ask questions.

Mike also has a toy pterodactyl (it’s not actually a pterodactyl and I keep telling his it’s a parasaurolophus but he is really fucking stupid and he also thinks pterodactyl starts with the letter T, fucking dumb ass). It’s his. Its name is Terry. He gets very mad if you touch or move his toy pterodactyl (parasaurolophus). It apparently guards our front door from intruders and is the official greeter. He makes all of the kids say goodbye to it in the morning. I thought for a long time that my 3 year old, Noah, had a speech delay, but he can say pterodactyl so whatever. He cannot, however, say four o’clock. It comes out “furry cock” which has made for some very embarrassing trips to the grocery store and my impending fear the CPS will be called on me at any time. Noah also wants to play with his brother’s orange butt hole. It took me about a week to figure out he wanted to play with the basketball.

I’m not sure how to wrap this one up so I’ll just say: If one more person gets me a fucking cat figurine, I’m dropping the two remaining live cats off at their house. The end

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Suck It!

I've never thought more about becoming a prostitute than I have today.  Our septic system failed and due to our HOA rules, we cannot repair it.  Instead, the city of Tallahassee wants to hook our poop pipes up to their system for around Ten Thousand Dollars.  As if the news about our shit tank wasn't bad enough, I had to stand over a hole full of MY POOP in my front yard and talk to a kid just out of his teens about MY POOP while three irritating toddlers scream "POOP" out the window at me.  All this time a giant hose is sucking up my poop into a giant truck and I'm having images of the hose exploding and I'm drenched in my own poop and the kids think it's awesome and I kill them.  Then the poop man tells me to go inside and flush the toilet, just to make sure it's all flushed out.  So, I go inside and flush the toilet and apparently it opened the portal to hell and it overflowed and I couldn't find the plunger or a towel so basically my vision came true and I was covered in shit. 

It wouldn't be so bad if we weren't dirt poor right now. That's why the prostitution thing sounds so attractive.  I tried to save some money this week by taking our vacuum cleaner into the repair shop.  It smelled like a dead raccoon and vomit taco each time we turned it on.  Mike wanted to buy a new one but I told him it was a good vacuum and we shouldn't give up on it.   So I loaded up the kids in the car and drove them to the French Town section of Tallahassee to give my vacuum a day at the vacuum spa.  If you're not familiar with French Town, it is where you can buy crack, get a BJ by a toothless gypsy, and get your vacuum repaired.  I text my husband right away and told him how good the vacuum smelled and how it sucked real good now.  My sister reminded me that I probably should not have told him that because he would probably leave me for the vacuum.  But, I'm pretty sure the vacuum is a metaphor for me.

Dear Mike,

 Don't throw your old wife away and get a new one.  She probably just needs a day at the spa.