Meanwhile, I'm getting a sewing machine for my birthday! Yessir. Because, fuck it. I'm a sellout, too. I will say, though, that although I plan to use the sewing machine to quilt the top to the backing....I will continue sewing the top squares/designs by hand. Because I'm awesome that way. And I'm not a granny. Yet.
Meanwhile, I'm getting a sewing machine for my birthday! Yessir. Because, fuck it. I'm a sellout, too. I will say, though, that although I plan to use the sewing machine to quilt the top to the backing....I will continue sewing the top squares/designs by hand. Because I'm awesome that way. And I'm not a granny. Yet.
I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing at work this week. The only email I'm getting is spam and the only phone call I got today so far was from my sister. My facebook farm is up-to-date. My facebook sorority is kicking all kinds of beeyotch ass. I'm all caught up on the blogs I like to follow. I skimmed the newspaper from cover to cover. I've had three cups of coffee. I took a long lunch. I painted my toenails. Twice. I cleaned out my inbox. And, it's barely 2:00. What a totally productive work day!
In other news, Christmas is behind us and we survived with minimal drama and maximum damage to the checkbook. So much for saving money for braces. Now, the new year is on its way and I'm hoping to ring it in with minimal debauchery and maximum rest and relaxation...preferably in front of a roaring fire with a hot mug of "coffee" in my hands and pure trash on TV.
This morning I woke up to a thump on the head. Not the soft buzzing of the alarm clock. Not the sweet, gentle massaging of Hubber's hands on my back. Not the warm sunshine spilling through the blinds. Not the dreamy voice of Elvis Presley. But a THUMP. On my forehead. Which left a mark.
Me: What the fuck, Hubber?! Oh, shit, what time is it?
Hubber: That was for being an evil, EVIL dream wife.
Me: A WHAT?!
Hubber: In my dream. You were an evil bitch.
Me: So, you thumped the real me? The one who bore your children? The one who washes your fucking laundry?! The one who scratches your back until it bleeds?
Hubber: You deserved it.
Me: What'd I do?
Hubber: You accepted and KEPT christmas gifts from male admirers....even when I asked you to get rid of that shit.
Me: What kind of gifts were they?
Hubber: Beef jerky and jellies.
Me: Jellies? Like the badass shoes I wore when I was 8?
Hubber: No, jellies, like the jars of JELLY that you EAT.
Me: Hmmm. I do like me some beef jerky and jellies. Were they from Woody's Smokehouse?
Me: What the fuck?!
Hubber: THAT was for being an evil REAL wife.
Me: I WOULD share my jerky with you if you'd quit thumping me.
Hubber: I asked the dream you to share and you said haaaell no.
Me: That sounds like something that evil wench would say. What a bitch. Here, I'll thump you and you can pass it on to her in your dream next time she appears. *thump*
I barely made it out of bed alive.
So, around this time every year for the past 12 years my employer has bestowed upon me lavish gifts of gold, frankencense and myrrh. And every year, I've pawned that shit for badass Christmas presents and shoes and handbags and panties and booze. I was even able to squirrel some of it away for a rainy day in June when all the junk I bought in December got old and I needed new shit to make me feel adequate and refreshed again. But this year, the economy has forced said employer to rape us and beat us upside our heads and whip us into submission and only reward us with copper pennies and half-assed pats on the back. And we bow our heads in thanks while we take whatever we can get, lest we shalt be unemployed on the streets begging for change.
So, now Hubber and I are scrounging, lying, cheating and stealing to celebrate the spirit of the season. My kids could give a rat's ass about baby Jesus and the three wise men and all that shit. Christmas is about the PRESENTS. Period. And they just don't want trinkets and whatnot, they want ponies and bulldogs and tiaras and mink stoles and cashmere sweaters and prada handbags! Oh, wait. Wrong list. They want Juicy Couture necklaces and James Avery rings and Abercrombie and Fitch hoodies and Wii games and iPhones! Mama's not made out of money, you upity wenches!!
I need to find ways to make more money. I would try loaning my kids out as maids, but they can't clean to save their damn lives. I think the most profitable way would be to auction Hubber off to the highest bidder. Need an escort? A pool man? A bartender? A foot massager? A fire starter? A jar opener? I roach stomper? Hubber's your man!
I don't usually do my Christmas shopping online because, contrary to popular belief, I am a gift buying procrastinator. I hate shopping. Let me take that back. I hate shopping for other people. Because, recall: I am a selfish bitch. And because I don't think other people are worth all the time and energy and EFFORT it takes for me to drag my fat ass through the crowds this time of year. Plus, I have this anxiety thing that attacks me if I'm around hoards of fucktards. So, to avoid the high drama, I decided to try to buy as much as possible online this year. And now, I have a few new found hatreds...because there isn't enough shit on the list of things I hate. First of all, shipping and handling fees are out of fucking control. And FREE shipping only applies to shit that is expected to arrive 23 days AFTER Christmas. WTF, internet stores?! Second of all, Amazon.com will TELL you they have 61 VTech Kiddiezoom cameras available in pink...so you'll put the shit in your cart and keep shopping. But when you go to check-out and they announce, "Hello, you gullible, dumbass bitch! We don't ACTUALLY have the camera in stock at the moment, but we'll have one on December 26 and can ship it to you on January 2." What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Put an I.O.U. under the tree for a toddler who CAN'T FUCKING READ? Bitches. Then, to make matters worse, Amazon.com does not let you remove shit from your cart once you've gotten to that point...so if you're not a nerd like me and you fail to read this little note about the "not currently in stock" bullshit at during check-out, you will be real sad when your shipment comes in and there will be many tears and hissy fits from your kid on Christmas morning. So....take heed, people. READ that shit before you click "process my order." You're welcome.
Ok. I'm gonna get off my soap box now. Because, ya'll! It's almost Christmas! This is my favorite time of the year - well, second to my birthday week(s)! The weather in Houston has been surprisingly "wintery", too, which makes it even more fabulous because we've been able to turn the fireplace on...and drink spiked hot beverages...and walk around in fuzzy slippers...and put our really cold feet on Hubber's warm belly. It's awesome!
I wore my new boots (AKA: Ass-Jackers) for the first time today. And, although they look fucking fabulous and give my legs just the right incline to jack my ass up nicely, creating an optical illusion that says, "hey, this biznitch has a perfect toosh," they make my ankles hurt like a mofo. And they're tight, thus constricting the blood flow to my toes. So, I'm not sure if the numbness I'm feeling down there is due to the cold-ass weather or to my tight boots. Which, have I mentioned, are TIIIGHT...as in totally HOT? And spicy. I think I can deal with the lack of comfort, though, because it's only temporary. I need to wear them often to stretch them out and mold them to my legs. Ya know? It's like I tell J all the time, beauty = pain. And that ain't no lie. It takes a lot of hard, painful work to look this good! Tweezing, squeezing, trimming, poking, shaving...none of that shit is pretty. But, the end result is worth the pain. Usually. Unless you shave in anticipation for a hot night out on the town but instead end up doubled over in pain due to "something you ate" earlier. That shit sucks. And it totally isn't worth shaving for. Or even plucking, for that matter. In which case, I recommend that a gal NOT eat anything at least 4 hours prior to going out and rockin' the fab shoes and freshly tweezed brows. Not only does fasting pretty much guarantee you'll look your best, but it also allows the adult beverages to travel through the blood system exponentially faster than they would had you eaten....thus making you feel like you look waaay hotter than you did when you left the house...thus making you think EVERYONE thinks you're waaaay hot....thus making the purchase of your ass-jackers well worth every penny spent on them.
See how we went full circle there?
ooooh hellz yeeeah!
Harley is close to being the best dog in the whole wide world. The thing that keeps her from going straight to the top is the fact that she is terrified of Hubber....one of the kindest, most gentlest hubbers in existence today. Now, let me qualify Hubber's upstanding character traits by stating that he loves dogs possibly more than I do...if that IS possible...and it is, because, duh, I just said it was. So, basically, he's a dog smooching, belly rubbing, ear scratching kind of guy. But to Harley, he smells like evil. She doesn't trust the guy as far as she can throw him...and she has no hands, so you can imagine that she wouldn't be able to throw him very far. She's been a part of our family for an ENTIRE YEAR y'all....and she still hasn't gotten over this totally unfounded fear she has of him. He is to Harley as Freddie Krueger is to me. No exaggeration.
So, the other day, whilst piddling around outside getting all the bling on the house for the neighborhood Christmas decorating contest...which, sidenote: I am determined to win...even if it requires walking around the neighborhood with a baseball bat and a pocket knife to give me some leverage. So, we're decorating, right? And Harley, being the totally awesome dog that she is, was hanging out, sniffing around for squirrels to terrorize and looking all cute and adorable. When BAM, Hubber jumps out from behind a tree and screams "BOO!" and freaks the shit out of her. Or, he mighta just been walking gingerly down the driveway saying "hey Harley, what's shakin'?" But, either way, he sent that scaredy dog into a freaking tailspin! She bolted, tail between her legs, straight towards me, because, hello, I'm her mamma and I'm here on earth for the sole purpose of saving her ass from evil things, and for feeding her. But, I wasn't prepared for said bolting and she pounded into my legs and sent me, arms flailing with bling flying outta them, right into my car (Bubba - who is dressed like Rudolph for the season). Needless to say, I now have a very large bruise on my leg. Which makes wearing mini dresses out of the question. Unless I want to explain how, really, my Hubber doesn't kick my ass on a daily basis, but that I have a huge dog who thinks Hubber is the devil incarnate and takes off like a bolt of lightening every time he comes within 10 feet of her and will take down anything (or anyone) in her path as she's getting the hell out of dodge. So, then, people will think my Hubber really IS evil and that he beats me and that I use the dog as an excuse like some battered women use the stairs or door knobs.
So, basically, what I'm getting at here, is that I am in desperate need of a dog whisperer before Hubber gets carted off to prison for beating the shit out of me. I don't think he'd survive long in prison...he's too damn cute...and he has big hands and small-ish feet....and a juicy booty. I don't have money to spend on a dog whisperer, but I have booze...and boobies...and bling left over from the Christmas decorations. HEY! A fucking lightbulb just went off in my head! Maybe I should go on craigslist and do some bartering! I will probably have to take the "boobies" off the table, though, because, seriously y'all, there are some straight-up freaks out there on the internets.
My kids are fucking doomed, y'all. I don't think I should have ever spawned children given the the fact(s) that...
1. I don't even LIKE kids.
2. I fucking cuss all the damn time.
3. The smell of shit makes me GAG.
4. I'm a selfish bitch.
5. I have a very, VERY low tollerance for groups of kids (2 or more) congregating in one place.
6. I have an even lower tolerance for asshole parents who think their kids are more special than everyone elses.
7. I hate Chuck-e-Cheese (or any variation thereof).
8. I am useless with the whole "scared of the dark" calming-kids-down thing because I'm fucking scared of the dark, too! And monsters? Shit...I am scared of those, too! I ain't checking the damn closet or under the bed for those bastages. I don't even let my foot dangle off the edge of the bed for fear that fucking Freddie Krueger is going to have my ass for dinner. Although, I guess if Freddie wanted me...it wouldn't even matter if my foot was dangling or if it was covered
up because he'll get me in my dreams either way. Which also scares the living shit out of me. Ohh...and aliens. I hate them, too. That reminds me of our trip to Roswell, NM. Actually, we didn't go TO Roswell on purpose...we drove through it on the way home from Colorado and spent one night there. Those people are fucking weird. I think they've all been abducted and returned to scare tourists. We all plugged our assholes with ear plugs that night, just in case. And there were tons of bugs there... you know, like on Men in Black? Akk. Which leads me to the next fact that makes me a shitty parent...
9. I don't kill bugs....and I freak the fuck out around frogs and worms and lizard-type things of any kind. That includes geckos. And roaches. And beetles. And roaches. I HATE roaches! Especially the big, juicy, flying ones! I'll scream like a little baby if one tries to attack. Which, therefore makes me useless to my children.
10. I drink a lot of adult beverages.
11. I sneak money out of the Disney World fund bucket to buy coffee. And shoes. And girl scout cookies. (Just kidding on that last one....just thought I'd throw it in there to make me seem like less of an asshole.)
12. I rarely cook dinner.
13. I rarely cook lunch.
14. As a matter-of-fact, I rarely cook. Period. (But when I do, it's fucking awesome, y'all.)
15. And last, but certainly not least: I hate cleaning up after people. Including myself. In fact, the only "cleaning" I don't so much mind is doing laundry. Unless it smells like ass or rotten feet. In which case, I fucking hate doing laundry.
For awhile there, I was the queen of the internet....blogging, tweeting, myspacing, facebooking, texting, etc. I was even able to keep up with a web site and all the crap I get paid real money to do. Then, something happened. I lost my damn mind. The next thing I knew, all I had going for me was the work I get paid for, texting and my personal facebook page (yes, I have two accounts). All this internet shit is overwhelming. Remember when no one knew anything about you? Back in the day when you CARED how much postage stamps cost and cell phones weighed 15 pounds? Now, cell phones fit nicely under your bra strap and you can use rolls of postage stamps to wipe your ass because they aren't good for much else.
That wouldn't feel very nice, would it? And what if the stamps rolled off and stuck to your cheeks mid wipe? Ok, so maybe you wouldn't wipe your ass with them....maybe you'd give them to your three-year-old as a treat for going potty. Although, my kid would prefer to have "silver monies, please"....which is better than "paper monies" I suppose. Hell, if Lil J would poop in the goddamned toilet, I'd give her stamps, coinage AND duckage! But nooooo.....I keep throwing all my dough away on new panties from Target instead. Shit. Literally.
Anyway. I digress. What the hell was I saying?
Oh, yeah. Social media is kicking my ass.
I am fairly new to the whole psychotherapy thing. Is it just me or does everyone leave their therapist's office feeling like a total fuck-up? Don't get me wrong, I like my therapist, but I hate having all my faults and problems brought to the forefront. I liked it better when I could pack that shit away in a deep closet in the bowels of my brain....you know, back there where all the geniusness is screaming to be free. I'm actually paying money for someone to tell me I'm screwed up. Tell me something I don't know, damnit!
One of my girlfriends calls her therapist THE-RAPIST. Heh. That's something clever I would normally have come up with if it weren't for all the crap eating away at my geniusness. And, what the hell is the therapist writing down while we chat? I took a peek at the paper and it looked like she was mind-mapping a presentation on Newton's Law of Physics. I must really be fucked up. OR....maybe my geniusess was falling out of my ears as I talked and she was breathing it in?! That bitch! I bet that's how she made it through graduate school!
Also, it's funny how people in the waiting area all seem paranoid. I like to make up stories about why they're seeing shrinks. I was totally convinced that one guy at my last visit had obsessive compulsive disorder. He came in carrying a magazine...which I think he used to open the door, then he put it down on the seat and sat on it. When he got up for his appointment, he left the magazine there. Where his ass just sat. His ass is so nasty, HE wouldn't even touch the magazine after that. Yeah. And, y'all think I'm a screwball. Then there was this woman with shifty eyes and dirty, wrinkly clothes. I believe she was on crack... I'm thinking she stole shit from her family and they threw her ass out on the street. She pawned her wedding ring for enough money to buy a hit (is that what you call crack??), a bottle of Boone's Farm and a visit to her therapist. Smart.
To know me is to know that I am ALL about my birthday. My birthday season (which usually lasts approximately two weeks - or a month, depending on my mood that year) is my favorite time of the year. I expect those who love me to wish me a Happy Birthday Eve, Eve, Eve...then Happy Birthday Eve, Eve....then Happy Birthday Eve...then, of course HAPPY BIRTHDAY! During this season, they are to shower me with gifts, be at my beck and call and allow me to get away with murder if need be. My peeps absolutely LOVE it!
My daughters, however, are beginning to overshadow my favorite season with their own birthday celebrations. WTF? Who do these little heifers think they are?? No one's birthday is more special than mine!
Take lil J for example. She's only three years old and she's already in love with her own birthday...she sings "happy birthday" to herself at least once a week...all...year...long. I'm pretty sure it was the second song she learned to sing (after Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). And if I come home from shopping, she asks, "what did you buy me??" and although I remind her that it's not her damn birthday, she doesn't care. She thinks every day is her birthday and that any time I go to the store, I should come home with a gift for her. And, she asks me to make her a vanilla cake with strawberries in it randomly, months after her birthday!
Then there's J. She's 13 and she's a little more sneaky about stretching her birthday out by weeks. The weekend before her birthday, we had to go to a family dinner thing. The weekend after her birthday, we had to endure a slumber party (10 screaming, giggly girls). That's two cakes, people. TWO. And she's nowhere near MY age! But that isn't the end of it...two weeks after her birthday, I get to drag her and 3 of her closest, dearest friends (that she happens to not be hating at the moment) on a trip to the Kemah Boardwalk. I draw the line after that. This shit is getting totally out of hand.
I'm beginning to think I might be a bad influence on my children.
Most people around here pray to the 8 lb, 6 oz baby jesus for rain - they're sick of all the yard watering and low rivers and shit like that. Me? I could give a rat's hairy ass if it rains or not. I'll tell you why. First of all, I love the rain. Just about as much as I love doggies! I love it when I'm comfy, cozy, snuggled up under a stack of blankets, indoors watching tv, fireplace going, A/C turned down to freezing....or I love it when I can be carefree, outside, letting the rain slide down my bare skin. That's nice. But, that is not my point. My point is this: people that live in Houston drive like idiots in the rain. IDIOTS. It's like some of them are a bunch of desert people who have never seen precipitation fall from the sky and land on their cars and on the road...they go 20 miles an hour in a 60 and ride the breaks, their noses plastered to the windshield. There are others who like to scare the desert people into shit fits so they swerve around them and gun it, making them go even slower. Then, there are my favorite jackasses. You know, the ones in the huuuge trucks? The ones that like to jet through rising waters, causing those around them to stall from flooding? The ones who like to jump on and off the freeway via the grassy knolls instead of the exits intended for such nonsense?
And you know when the worst possible time is for rain? Rush hour. Which in Houston lasts from 6:00 - 9:00 a.m. and again from 3:00 to 7:00 p.m. Rush HOURS. Monday through Friday. No exceptions. Unless an accident occurs, of course. Accidents have been known to increase these time frames up to an hour or more. If that sweet baby jesus really loved us, he'd save the rain for the middle of the night. Which could also work for me in that it's easier to stand out in my backyard in the rain in my birthday suit when everyone else is asleep.
Lil J is full of....wisdom. Today, she said, "Snakes are extremely shy creatures. You can't just walk up to them and go 'coochie-coo' or you might frighten them."
I bet y'all didn't know that shit, did you?! You can thank Lil J next time you find yourself in the company of a snake and you feel the sudden urge to say, "coochie-coo" to it. I'm pretty sure that goes for anteaters, too.
My sister remembers all sorts of crazy shit, but tends to forget the biggest details. That shit gets on my nerves, because then she gets my mind all twisted up trying to figure out whatever it is she's talking about. I especially hate when she brings up stuff that happened when I was in high school and college, because, frankly, I spent most of those years in a drunken stupor, my life full of all kinds of debauchery. How the hell am I supposed to remember shit that I probably didn't even realize was happening at the time? I sometimes find myself going through old boxes, reading letters, looking for pictures and crap like that because she gets a thought in my head that starts driving me nuts.
Sis: What was the name of that restaurant you and Mel went to in 1992 that had the really good noodles?
Sis: Remember? It was over there around Shepherd....near that Sears.
Me: 1992, really?! I have no fucking clue.
Sis: But I remember you pointing it out to Mom when we were going to Sears one day.
Me: We haven't gone to Sears with Mom since we were kids.
Sis: Yeah, like 1992.
Me: You're a freak of nature.
Sis: So, you don't remember?
Me: No, but now I want some noodles!!!!
That's how our conversations go. I have been thinking about Vietnamese noodles now non-stop for days! And for some reason, I just HAVE to have the ones from whatever fucking place she was talking about me going to in 1992. So, I call my friend, Mel, and that bitch thinks I've lost my mind. And Mom can't remember what she had for dinner yesterday, much less what noodle place I talked to her about in 1992. I'd really like to find these damn noodles and strangle my sister with them.
My mom convinced me to go to church on Sunday. Wait. Actually, she GUILTED me into going to church (typical Catholic bullshit). Evidently, it was my aunt and uncle's 40th wedding anniversary and they were going to get blessed or something. And, as if it weren't bad enough that mass started at 8:00 a.m. (which meant waking up at 5:30 to pick Mom up at 7:00 to be there on time), Mom conveniently forgot to tell us that the shit would be in SPANISH and that we had to sit in the second goddamned pew (which meant no texting or bubble game playing). When my sister and I spotted the damn mariachis approaching, we knew right away that they weren't planning on singing shit in English. Sis gave me a terrified look and I glared at Mom, who acted dumb founded like she had noooo idea what our problem was. See, we don't mind going to mass once in a while, but when we are tricked into it, that shit better be low key and in ENGLISH. If you've never been to a Spanish mass, those people get all crazy nuts with the singing and crying. And they like to hug and kiss and whatnot. It ain't fun, y'all. It borders on being creepy and twilight zone-y. And, when your fluently spanish-speaking mother leans over to you and asks if you understand what the fuck the priest just said, you know you're in trouble. Needless to say, it was the longest hour E-V-E-R. And we couldn't even sneak out of there after the damn wedding blessing because the damn priest saved that shit for the end of the service to torture the hell out of us. He must have know we have the devil in us... I bet he was trying to exorcise us or someshit with all the mumbo jumbo that even Mom couldn't understand. And who the hell stays married for FORTY effing years these days?! WTF is my aunt/uncle's deal? They haven't even lived together for an entire year straight through at a time...so I don't think it counts. They just friggen lied to baby Jesus about the big 4-0. And one of my other uncles FELL ASLEEP during the homily. My mom poked ME and pointed over to him so that I could see he was asleep (and snoring softly) and she smiled. Like she thought that shit was cute or something. I asked her if she thought I should tap him or something...and she was all...noooo...leave him alone, poor thing. WTF?! When we were kids and we fell asleep in church or acted up, we got pinched. And I ain't talking a soft gentle pinch, I'm talking one of the titty-twister pinches that bring tears to your eyes and makes you pee your panties a little. It was payback time, damnit! So, I reached over and pinched the shit out of his arm...and twisted. Heh. I didn't expect him to scream and let out a fart, though. Yeah. I hadn't figured on that happening. Then one of my cousin's kids laughs his ass off and the whole goddamned congregation stared at us. My mom was mortified. My sister acted like she wasn't related to us. Then, my grandma let out some snoring snorts because that bitch was asleep, too!
I'm soooo sorry, 8 pound, 6 ounce baby Jesus. I didn't mean to offend the sanctity of the mass, but shit! Those fuckers weren't even paying attention to the gospel...someone had to do something about it. It's just a shame it had to be me. You're welcome. I did my duty for the year. Don't expect me there at Christmas.
Each night, at the dinner table, I ask members of my family how their day went. The best stories, come from Lil J, of course.
Me: Lil J, what did you do at school today?
Lil J: I went to my new class and played and I was very nice to my teacher. (I take this to mean that sometimes she isn't so nice)
Me: Did you have fun?
Lil J: Yeah, except Justin didn't want to share with me. (Which means she probably snatched a toy out of that poor kid's hands and made him cry)
Me: Ohhhh, is Justin your boyfriend?
Lil J: NOOOOO! I don't like boys, I like girls!
At this point in the conversation, J choked on her drink, I laughed and Hubber was all, "yeah, that's good!" He obviously was thinking like a daddy who didn't want his little girl to like boys because boys are trouble. J and I immediately took it to mean that maybe Lil J is gay... like a lipstick lesbian who likes tutu's and dresses and make-up and purses, but who also has a strong attachment to tractors and dump trucks and fire engines and toy cars. I don't care, either way. I think she'd make a good lesbian.
Over lunch today, a friend and I chatted about what we thought the best punishment would be for our a common enemy. We decided that if we prayed hard enough, maybe he would come down with a serious case of explosive diareah. This would make us so happy we'd consider going to church more than once a year. But, should this bout of squirts occur on a plane, mid-flight, we would be so ecstatic we might even put up a nativity set at Christmas!
His experience would be compounded in the air due to the altitude and cramped quarters. We pictured him, sweating his ass off, tortured, on a tiny toilet seat, trying to steady himself as the plane experienced turbulence. Then, as he tried to return to his seat and everyone was staring at the culprit who stunk the place up, an explosion would occur in his pants and drip down his leg. Then, people all around would start vomiting on him as he tried to reach his seat.
And we'd be thanking 8lb, 6oz baby Jesus for answering our prayer!
Hello, reader! And I mean that quite literally, as I’m afraid I only have one reader. Besides myself, of course. I’m not THAT pathetic. Geez.
Anyway, I’m going to try something different for this post by following the instructions of one of my favorite bloggers. On Thursdays, she asks people to share a story that others might consider to be TMI (too much information).
Someone using the ladies room at my place of employment love, Love, LOVES to deposit DNA samples on the toilet seats for others to admire. And, I ain’t just talking blood here, people – although the culprit has left globs of red, gooey chunks on the seats, too – I’m talking HAIRS. Not head hairs. Gnarly, pube hairs. Long ones. Which makes me wonder, first of all, why the hell are these hairs so long? And secondly, how do they just FALL out onto the seat? I don’t get it. Does this person rub on their doodah as their standing to button their pants? I have also found shit streaks on the toilet seats. SHIT STREAKS. Like right where an ass crack would be. So, either someone pooped standing up and missed the hole, or they didn’t wipe properly and their shitty ass rubbed up against the seat as they were standing. Who the hell does these things?! One day I walked around the office sniffing everyone to see if any of them smelled like shit. Also, before I sit in ANY office chair, I check for stray pubes. No sense taking chances.
I'm SOOO Classy with the Sex, I Amaze Even Me
I think the REAL reason Hubber married me is because I had instituted sexual implications for each day of the week (SDOTW = Sex Days of the Week).
- Bottoms-up Sunday (_*_)
- Eat-me Monday :-p(l)
- Boobie Tuesday ( . )( . )
- Humpday – this one didn’t take much creativity (<)===
- BJ Thursday :-p<======
- 69 Friday (not sure how to draw that)
- Free-for-all Saturday (that’s like a free spin on Wheel of Fortune)
Now don’t get all excited thinking that we get it on every night of the week…because we do not. I repeat: WE DO NOT. And, not that doing so would be such a bad thing, but a girl needs leverage these days. When the hubber isn’t behaving to my satisfaction, I can say, “Alright Hubber, Humpday is out and BJ Thursday isn’t looking very good for you.” This sometimes gets me two helpings of Mondays…which is AWESOME. But, it’s even better when it gets me new shoes, handbags and cold hard cash. Money starts falling out of the damn sky when BJs are involved. Men will pretty much pay anything for them. They’d give up their first born child for the prospect of getting weekly BJs. Am I right? Dang, I just noticed how long the peepee is in my BJ Thursday drawing up there. Wow. And it’s skinny, too. Kinda like a pencil. Hmmm. Maybe if I would have drawn it like this <[[[[[[[[[ it might have looked more real. But, that looks too much like condom ridges. We don’t need no stinkin condoms in this here house, people. Hurray for TUBAL LIGATION! I’ll stick with the pencil pecker.
So anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, we don’t bump uglies daily. I just like to talk like I do. Makes me feel more attractive. (As I needed help in that department). But, having an SDOTW schedule helps us decide what activity would be appropriate for that day, should we decide to partake in the nasties.
I hope this post helps someone turn their sex life into something more classy. You’re welcome. Happy Tuesday – let the boobies free!
Update: I've had some time to think about this post and I think I may be guilty of soliciation and false advertising. I'm badass.
Having a large, lazy dog is the bomb-diggity. I remember years ago when J was a baby and we were living in a 4-plex in the Heights, a friend of mine thought we needed a dog…a puppy, no less…one that J could “grow up” with or “bond” with…whatever. We were presented with a rat terrier. I didn’t know a whole lot about dog breeds back then, but if I knew then what I know now, I would have told this friend to stuff the terrier where the sun don’t shine. We named him Cosmo, or as J used to say, “Choocho.” His name should have been Satan, though. He was soooo hyper…and annoying as hell… yip-yapping at all hours of the day and jumping around like a goddamned retard. And damn, that dog tore up everything! I mean EVERYTHING (my bras were his favorite….and I don’t know HOW the hell he got a hold of them most of the time). Wait, not everything. He had this little stuffed animal (a bear) that he dragged around everywhere…he didn’t tear that thing up. Anyway, to limit the damage, we used to lock him up in the bathroom when we weren’t home. But, my cousin thought it was cruel because there were no windows in there. So, we bought a baby gate. We would leave the bathroom door open and prop the baby gate there instead so he could “see out”. One day, after returning from work and such, we entered the apartment and stepped into WATER. There was water everywhere! I stared at that little fucker with murder in my eyes as he sat in a kitchen chair licking his ass. Turns out he had chewed through the hose connecting the toilet to the wall and water was gushing all over the place! In his haste to save himself and his teddy bear, he chewed a hole through the baby gate. He saved himself, but he couldn’t get his bear out – so there it was stuck in the hole in the gate, half in half out with its head almost completely decapitated from all the pulling and yanking Choocho had done to try to save it from the flood. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or kick him in the ass. Needless to say, that was the end of Choocho.
I swore off pets for a long time after that. Well, as long as it took to erase the hate. Which, as it happens, was about 3 years. That’s when we got Kali…a calico from the SPCA. Kali was not hyper like Choocho. Instead, she was anxiety-ridden. That cat would lose her hair if ANYTHING changed. I mean, seriously…if you moved a piece of furniture, that freak cat wouldn’t eat or drink or sleep for DAYS and her hair would fall out and leave these gross bald spots. God forbid you introduce her to another animal! Which, we did, of course, because we love to punish the weak. We adopted, Rosie, who looked like a cat but acted like a dog sometimes and a squirrel at others. Oh, those were the days.
So, now all the cats are gone and we have Harley. She’s the ideal dog…big, loveable and obedient. The only problem is that she is scared shitless of Hubber. We still haven’t been able to figure out why. I think it’s because he smells like evil. And, dogs can sense that sort of shit.
We're getting ready for a little family vacation in Destin and a lot of shit has to come together just perfectly to make everyone happy. First off, mama's gotta be happy and get everything she wants or NO ONE will be happy. So, I stocked up on coconut rum, flip flops, swim suit cover-ups and summer dresses because I plan on spending the week half naked on the beach with a book in one hand and a very VERY alcoholic beverage in the other hand. My fat ass will not be going on a snorkeling excursion, nor will it be jumping off a damn boat to swim with slimy dolphins. It will be firmly planted in a sturdy lounge chair on the beach where it belongs. End of story.
Secondly, J had to have a $60 swim suit from Pink, which by the way, is a Victoria's Secret spin-off... so that little fact pretty much sent Hubber through the roof because:
Hubber: What 12-year-old buys ANYTHING from Victoria's Secret?! Isn't that place for sexy lingerie, dildos and lube?!
Me: Hubber. Seriously? Just because they sell panties doesn't mean they're an adult novelty store.
Hubber: I've seen the catalogs! The boobs! The toys!
Me: You're delusional. I don't think bras and panties constitute TOYS.
I think he was confusing it with Zone D'erotica or Cindie's or something. The man needs to get out more. Anyway, so then I had to argue with J, because, REALLY, what friggen 12-year old buys ANYTHING from Victoria's Secret?! I sucked at the argument... and lost it actually, because she's a master negotiator and the bathing suit she wanted was pretty darn cute. She convinced me that it wouldn't cost much because she had half of the money saved (which turned out NOT to be half, but I didn't find this out until we were at the damn checkout and she pulls out a $20 bill and a $1 bill...thinking the $1 was a $10...because she's dyslexic or some shit....that or a genius manipulator!). Anyway. Throw in $20 sandals from Pac Sun and she pretty much got her way. Now SHE'S all ready for spring break.
Thirdly, Hubber needed new swim trunks because, seriously, the ones from 1997 died five years ago even though he refuses to admit it. So, I guess his needs are actually my needs for him to get with the program, but whatever...he has no mind of his own. That's why he married me. He also needed a frisbee. Oh, and road trip snacks. Damn, he's so high maintenance!
Finally, there's lil J who now has more sand castle building tools than three kids deserve to have. And let me just say...her bathing suit only cost $10 at Target. And her flip flops were 2 for $5 at The Children's Place. Now, THAT really makes Mama happy.
We're spending spring break in Destin, FL again this year. We were there a few years ago (Pre-lil J) and we did the whole touristy thing...which, let me just say, sucked hairy ass. Hairy, greasy, warty ass. We were huge nerds about the whole thing...planned it all out in advance...scheduled a pirate ship trip which included snorkeling...rented a pontoon boat for cruising...shit like that.
The pirate ship was super bumpy and I'm seriously lucky to still have both boobs attached to my body, albeit a little droopier after the experience. The pirate ship also include a snorkeling adventure. But what they don't tell you ahead of time is that the ship anchors in water levels over 50 feet deep and you have to jump off the ship which sits 10 feet above the water and SWIM into shallow water to snorkel. You have to swim AGAINST ocean currents, too. Which is not the most ideal situation for a super paranoid mother of a 7-year-old with only two summer swimming lessons at the YMCA under her belt. When J jumped off the ship ahead of me and started drifting AWAY from the shallow water and into deep, dark ocean, I nearly had a heart attack right there on the deck. I jumped off and caught up with her but couldn't fight the current to get us both back safely. Hubber saved our lives. He deserves a medal.
The pontoon boat ride was a lot nicer. And we had it all to ourselves because evidently, Hubber was a sea captain in a previous life and has a nose for direction and such. The problem with the pontoon boat came when we got the brilliant idea of anchoring the boat in shallow water and jumping off to swim in the ocean...where we might bump into dolphins who would kiss and and snuggle with us and become our friends for life. But, there were no dolphins. There were plenty of piranahas, though...nibbling at my skin and trying like hell to get under my bathing suit! Needless to say, the swimming didn't last very long...what with me and J screaming at the fish nibbles every 24 seconds, Hubber's entire experience was ruined. The other problem we discovered with jumping OFF of a pontoon boat was that you had to eventually climb back ON to the boat to leave. First, Hubber made it up after three attempts at hoisting himself up.... J and I giggling uncontrollably at his attempts. Then, J tried to climb up...but she couldn't do it. And, until I tried to do the same, I couldn't understand for the life of me why she couldn't get her skinny little ass back on the boat! I pretty much had to shove her back on to the boat with my head but not without her kicking me in the face TWICE! When it was my turn, I reached up and jumped and tried to lift myself out of the water, but try as I might, my fat ass wasn't going anywhere! Hubber pulled and yanked on my arms as I held in my stomach, trying to make myself as skinny and light as possible, but all I managed to do was get my ass higher in the air. I could hear the snickers of other boat riders all around us. It was humiliating. I vowed at that moment to NEVER jump off a boat into water ever again.
This year's trip to Destin includes only one plan...reservations at a condo right on the beach. That's it. No extra-curricular activities for this here lady. I plan on leaving the condo/beach as little as possible. Unless the outing includes liquor, lobster, or fried pickles, count me out!
I heard this thing on the radio this morning about how all dreams MEAN something. It got me to thinking about this recurring dream I have of Freddy Kruger and Nightmare on Elm Street. First of all, let me just say that I fucking hate talking about this damn dream. The more I talk about it, the more it lingers in my mind, and the more scared I am to fall asleep...because in case you have been living on another damn planet and don’t know about what Freddy does, he slaughters you in your god damned sleep….and it’s a dream, but it’s real…like you really, truly, friggen die, people! So, instead of writing all the details of the dream here and making it all more real in my mind…let’s just say that in the dream, Freddy would like me to die…there is much running and hiding and screaming and fiery hells involved. Enough said.
Anyway, I went to dreamzone.com which is supposed to have this free dream dictionary. I type in Freddy Kruger. I get nothing. I type in dying and get this:
Death/Dead/Dying: Change, the old dying off in order to make way for the new. The end of an issue or relationship. A part of yourself, a part of your life, something in your world coming to a close. Fear not. Rebirth is around the corner. Dead people in a dream usually refer to issues that are dead, that you should no longer give any energy to. Ask yourself if you are holding a grudge that you need to let die. Actual dead people you once knew often refer to that point in your life when they were around. Is there anything about who you were then that you need to bring back to life now?Then, I type in fiery hell and get this:
Hell: May symbolize a very difficult time you are having to go through. Fears, anxieties, feeling trapped. An evil force.Then, I type in fire, because evidently the phrase FIERY HELL is not in the dictionary -- and I get this:
Fire: Often means rage and anger or burning passion. If house is on fire it's a warning of frazzled nerves, a nervous breakdown. A destructive force in your life.Hmmmm….well, I do a lot of running in this dream, too, so I type in running and get this:
Fleeing/Chased/Running: Running from an issue. What or who are you avoiding right now? The message of this dream is "stop running, the more you run from this issue the longer it will last."I type in screaming, but as it turns out, I’m the only fool who screams in her dreams because the word was not in the dictionary. I make one last search…the word hiding…I get this:
Running: Do you need to pick up the pace somewhere in your life? Are you trying to keep up? Things may be going too fast. Slow down. If you are running from something then you are probably avoiding something or someone in your waking life.
Hiding/Hide/Hid: A good indication you are avoiding an issue, you are afraid of confrontation or perhaps you are hiding a secret? What is it you don't want to be "found" out?
So, in case you are having a hard time keeping up, this dreamzone chic is basically saying I feel trapped, angry, and nervous and that I’m running away from something (or avoiding something…or things are moving too fast for me or some shit) and that there’s some big fat secret in my life that I’m keeping. And that something in me is dying to make room for something new. Huh? Yes, I'm confused, too. (That part about death said something about dead people in your life...and sometimes I dream non-Freddy dreams about my great Aunt - Tia Julia. I see her head sitting on the on the bathroom counter of my grandma's old house, her eyes following me across the room. Tia Julia used to spank the shit out of us when we were kids. She'd sit in this scary little chair and every time we'd pass by her, we'd run so she couldn't swat us...sometimes with a rolled up church bulletin. But, that's a whole other dream to dissect.)It's all very interesting, though. The only things I agree with are the anger and the frazzled nerves. I can be one angry bitch! And nerves!!! Holy Crapoly! I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown every day at 4:30 p.m., Monday through Friday!
I have this exact same dream at least 2 or 3 times a year…and when I’m dreaming the dream, I try telling myself to do something different so that the dream isn’t the same, but part of me LIKES being fucking scared out of my god damned mind so I do the same things anyway… knowing damn well that the end will be the same. Which reminds me, I forgot to look up the word burning. Oh, fuck me – that word isn’t in the dictionary, either. I’m the only loser who burns in her dreams, too.I’m totally screwed up.
I should totally be medicated.
I'm talking shit, but I find myself opening my own doors....opening my own jars...getting my oil changed in my car...buying car batteries and getting car brake checks. I find myself buying my own damn flowers...hoisting my own heavy boxes up and down stairs. There is something wrong with this picture. Now, if the men in my life were answering my phone for me...taking my messages...washing my clothes...buying my groceries...bathing my kids...scrubbing my toilet, etc. etc. then I wouldn't be complaining so much. I would be accepting this flip flop in expectations and moving on with my damn life. But, shit is NOT going down like that. Shit is all messed up. And men are lazy fucktards. And we're dumb ass bitches for letting them get away with it. We need to start a new movement...one involving men on their knees, groveling, ready to be at our beck and call. Yes. That's what we need.
I know we can't change them all overnight, though. But, we can start small...using Hubber.
I can't think of one damn thing to write about except for my new favorite word, "fucktard" (thanks, Clay!). Everything is now fucktarded and everyone is now a fucktard. (Except, of course, for me and anything I do. But, that probably went without saying...since I'm perfect and my shit don't stink. Duh.)
The jackass in the black truck who blocked two lanes of traffic on Jones Rd. this afternoon trying to make an illegal left turn, causing me to swerve and almost friggen kill myself due to being smashed to bits by oncoming traffic....fucktard.
The cop who thought it was prudent to ride up my ass for 5 miles just waiting for me to goof up so he could flash his lights (which let's face it, might as well be his big blue balls up there waiting to explode around his pencil dick)....fucktard.
The pimple-faced-idiot working the cash register at the pharmacy who thought it was ok to ask if the tampons I was buying "work good"....fucktarded fucktard.
The doctor (and master of the friggen obvious) who likes to point out that I'm overweight like I'm so goddamned delusional that I couldn't figure that one out for myself....fucktard.
And finally, the genius with the wrong number who keeps calling my cellphone just in case it magically turns into the number of the poor bitch he's desperate to talk to...fucktard:
Me: Hello, again.
Me: Nope, you STILL have the wrong number. Face it, buddy, that chic played you.
Genius: Are you sure there's no Jennifer there?
Me: Uhm...let me check AGAIN....yes, I'm sure.
Genius: But this is the number she gave me.
Me: Ok...well, she gave you the wrong number. Sorry.
Genius: Really? I don't think so. Let me try it again. *click*
WTF!? Is this fucktard for real? Maybe he has some loose screws...the lights are on but no one's home...he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer....
Me: Dude. YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER.
Genius: Is Jennifer there?
Me: AHHHHHHHHH! You're a fucktard.
Me: A fucktard.
Genius: Is Jennifer there?
Me: *sigh* Nope, she died yesterday....she had massive hemorrhoid flare ups that ruptured and killed her.
Genius: Oh my god. I'm so sorry. Is she going to be ok?
Me: Yeah, she's chillin up there with baby Jesus. She said to tell you to fuck off.
Genius: Can I leave a message for her?
Me: Not with me, honey...I'm probably going to hell. *click*
I blocked him from calling when I finally gave up trying to convince him that he's a fucktard. Some people are simply clueless and don't have the capacity to understand just how fucktardish they really are. A guess that's why I'm here...to enlighten all the fucktards. Hell must be a million dollar mansion full of super hot men and bad ass fat chics with tattoos and killer handbags.
If it weren't for the fact that Hubber works for an old folks home....excuse me, "assisted living community"...coupled with the fact that because he works with these people I get to hear all about how INSANE they are which scares the crap out of me because this is what we will all become some day and I need to give them a break because when I grow looney, I would expect the same the same kind of break...if it weren't for all that, those damn Amber Alerts on the freeway signs during rush hour would send my ass over the edge.
For some reason it doesn't bother me when the signs relay messages about missing or kidnapped children, but when the "elderly missing" signs are flashing at 5:15 p.m. just as I'm determining whether to get on the freeway ramp or take the feeder or back route home, it gets me all worked up! Why can't those damn old farts stay put? Why the hell do they get the urge to wander all over creation at the precise time I'm counting on the traffic signs to actually relay TRAFFIC news?! And it sure seems like they're getting loose more frequently these days.
I blame Hubber for this sudden surge of awol old farts. Everything is his fault. He's letting them loose just to drive me nuts and make me late to work and late coming home...he gets his kicks when I'm all crazy pissed and mad at the world.
Me: Tie those fuckers up, damnit!
Hubber: What the heck?
Me: Tie their wrinkly asses to their bed posts so that I can make it through traffic without losing my damn mind. Shit!
Hubber: I believe all our residents are accounted for.
Me: Nope...one's loose, driving a blue Buick LeSabre evidently, and heading towards friggen Austin on 290!
Hubber: I didn't think Buick LeSabres still existed.
Me: Who cares! Get your ass on the phone and tell Transtar you found the guy so they can clear the signs!
Hubber: I'm sure the missing guy's family wouldn't appreciate that.
Me: He's probably dead in a ditch or something anyway...you'd be doing half of Houston a favor.
Hubber: What if it were your mom missing?
Me: My mom can't DRIVE.
Hubber: Or my mom?
Me: Seriously? Don't make me answer that.
Hubber: good bye. *click*
Uhm...so, I guess I hit a dead end. I can always count on Hubber to ruin my day by working for old farts.
Further Proof That I Like Dogs
Would an obsessively paranoid mother who hated dogs allow her child to get this close to the face of a 70 lb Mastiff?
Meet Harley, the newest member of our completely insane family. She's only 9 months old and is already weighing in at over 70 lbs! I know, I know...after all the ranting and raving about poop in my yard (see previous poop stinks like shit post), here I am, contributing to the cause. The only way Hubber would agree to such nonsense was if I promised on a stack of bibles that I would be in charge of poop scooping. I've decided that once scooped, I'll either fling it over the fence into the yard of a clueless neighbor or stockpile it and spread it ever so generously in the yard of the yip-yapper-dog-neighbor who I detest....I will call it returning the favor. Just when I thought lil J's poopy diapers would suffice, along came the largest dog EVER...who, in a matter of months will bless us with the hugest, most stinkiest, closest to the size of elephant dung mountains a girl could only dream of. It will be the sweetest revenge.