Our Quest to Find Big Foot: The Never-ending Saga

Our search for Big Foot began in 2005.  Sightings of the mysterious creature had been reported near Pike's Peak in Colorado, so naturally, that is where our search began.  As we entered Pike's Peak National Forest, the park ranger warned us to stay on the road, lest we shalt be mauled to death by the ferocious beast!  But, I've seen Harry and the Hendersons, y'all.  I know Big Foot ain't nothing but a big ol' cuddly teddy bear who stinks to high heaven; it ain't nothing that a gallon of Suave shampoo can't handle.  So, instead of heeding his warnings, we trampled through the forest in search of a potential pet and found this:

Yes! That's exactly what you think it is! Big Foot nests!  An entire colony lived there, we were sure of it.  We poked around for awhile and peeked inside each nest, but found nothing. We even staked the place out from our own makeshift nest, but those bastards never came home.  I'm convinced they must have some super smelling powers and they sniffed us out before they got too close.  To them, we smell like shit, I think.

We finally gave up our stake-out and made our way back to the main road. The spawn and I got separated from Hubber somehow and as luck would have it, we spotted this sasquatch disguised in men's clothing: 

How awesome is that shit?!  We were ecstatic!  Finally, someone captured a clear photo of Big Foot... and that someone was ME!  It wasn't until I lowered the camera, that I realized Harry was wearing HUBBER'S clothes!  HE ATE MY HUSBAND!

The spawn and I hopped into our car and headed back to the ranger's station.  That was about the time my cell phone rang. It was Hubber.

Hubber:  Where the hell are you going?!

Me:  You're alive!!!

Hubber:  <silence>

Me: You ARE alive, right??

Hubber: I'm gonna kick your ass.

Turned out Hubber was the Big Foot wearing Hubber's clothes. That tricky a-hole.  Anyway... that excursion in '05 was a fucking bust; but that shit didn't stop us from believing... and it certainly didn't stop us from searching for Big Foot when we went back to Pike's Peak in 2009.

Again, we captured a photo of what we thought was surely a sasquatch:

Turned out, it was just the oldest spawn, searching for Big Foot nests.  It was another wasted trip to Pike's Peak.  But, just when we had given up our search, we stumbled upon this guy at the Denver Zoo:

A baby sasquatch!  They grow those little fuckers at the zoo.  They train them to survive on their own and how to hide from humans.  Then, they let them go free in the mountains to drive us all batshit crazy. It's a conspiracy and the Denver Zoo is in on it!  I'm gonna crack this case and break it all open one day, y'all!  Just wait!  You're gonna see me on the Discovery Channel and you'll be all like, "Hey! I know that girl!"

Hubber:  You sure are obsessed with this Big Foot shit.

Me:  Yeah, well... I'm gonna be rich one day when I figure this shit out.

Hubber:  I have a theory.

Me:  Tell me.

Hubber:  I think YOU have some Big Foot blood in you.  That's what triggering this unnatural need of yours to find a real Big Foot.  You're being "called" by your people!  Like a Cylon!  You're a freakin' alien!

Me:  I like it.  Maybe I have special powers that'll kick in and I'll be able to blow shit up with my eyes!

Hubber:  Yeah.  I'm sure that'll happen.

So, on our 2012 trip to Colorado, we made another stop at Pike's Peak.  Evidently, the Big Foot sightings are out of control.  They even put up a life-size Big Foot statute so we'd know what it looked like when we saw it.  Naturally, we took a picture with the big guy:

Cute, huh?  He kinda looks like a naked, hairy Paul Bunyan. And, as luck would have it, they even had foot print castings at the park.  I stuck my foot on one to see if there were any similarities:

Nada.  I have a feeling Hubber's theory is a bunch of bullshit.  He got me all hyped up thinking I'm gonna rule the world like a fucking Cylon... just to find out I probably have nothing in common with Big Foot. Well, except for maybe the bushy eyebrows and crazy hairs that grow in weird places.

Aunt Flo, Cotton Picking, Flatulence, and Other Shit That Makes Long Road Trips Fun

When the Hancocks take a road trip, they go all out!  Rarely is there a dull moment in our lives, but when we hit the road, we really pull out all the stops.  this past trip was no exception.  For starters, I realized that the oldest spawn and I seem to have synced up our monthly cycles.  Two "women" with PMS in a confined space for 19 hours with a loud-mouthed 1st grader, a farting dog and a man with a stomach bug = a bloody good time, y'all.

Aside from dealing with the curse Mother Nature  has bestowed upon women, we always head north forgetting one simple fact: high altitude = gassy Hancocks.  Our dog, evidently, is no exception to the rule.  Even if she doesn't fart much.  She's just a great scapegoat for when you fart and want to blame someone else.  She can't speak...so she can't deny anything.  Some people, though, are too dumb let the dog take the blame...

Hubber: Please tell me that was the dog again.

Me: That was the dog again.  It's too foul to be human.  Wait.  Maybe it's a skunk.

Little Spawn:  You mean that fart?  That was me!  Hahahahaha! <fart, fart>

Big Spawn: Ewwww!  There's something rotting inside you!

But, if there was a bright side to the long road trip it would have to be the acres and acres of cotton fields.  That's right... people still grow cotton!  Who'da thunk it!?

Not only do they GROW the shit, they very rarely fence it in.  Huge mistake, cotton growers.  HUGE.  Because, if this heifer has a chance to pick some free cotton, you best believe she's gonna pull her large ass over to the side of the road and get to pickin'!  I love picking cotton!  I don't know what all those slaves complained about.   Cotton is soft and fluffy and fun to pick.

Me:  Hey, Hubber... look at all the cotton left on those crops.  Those cotton picking machines are slacking!  They need to get some slaves out there to finish picking that shit.  I wanna see those bushes picked dry!

Hubber: "Bushes picked dry"?  Really?

Me:  Perv.  But, seriously.  If we lived on a cotton farm, I'd make the girls go out every day to follow those machines around and pick all the cotton scraps.  They'd be my slaves.  I'd be all... "pick that cotton, slave child!"...  and, "spin that cotton into silk, slave girls!"...

Hubber: You can't even get them to put their dirty panties in the hamper.

Me: It'd be different on a cotton farm. That's what I'm saying.  Oh... and look at all those hay bales all rolled up everywhere!

Hubber: You are easily sidetracked.

Me:  Yeah, well, I think I could totally be a country girl.  I'd be picking cotton and rolling around on those hay bales.

Hubber: I'd like to see you try to roll on one of those bales.

Me: They're round.  They roll. How hard can it be?

Hubber:  Not hard at all, until it takes one turn and SQUASHES the shit out of you.  Those things weigh a ton.

Me:  They're made of HAY, Hub.  HAY don't weigh shit.  But, just to be sure, maybe I'll let the girls try to roll on one first.

Hubber:  Now you're talkin'!

But, he wouldn't pull over and let the girls try to roll on a hay bale for me.  Something about cow patties and barbed wire fences and ranchers with shot guns.  Party pooper.

But... at least I got this:

I Humped a Reindeer Today

In the spirit of the holiday season, I did my motherly duty and humped a reindeer today.  It's the least I could do to ensure my kids get some good loot this year.  We all know that their questionable behavior all year hasn't earned them any brownie points with the big guy... and now that we're poorer than ever, these gals need all the help they can get. So, Hubber and I dragged them 999 miles north to Santa's Workshop in North Pole, Colorado to sit on Santa's lap.

It was Hubber's idea that I suck it up and hump a reindeer or two to increase our chances of having Santa make extra stops to our home on Christmas Eve.  Unfortunately, the pic posted here is pre-hump.  The good humpity pic was "accidentally" deleted by some a-hole kid.  You'd think they'd be more grateful for my extra efforts to get them a bunch of useless shit for Christmas.  But, noooooo. I even went the extra mile and whispered sweet nothings into this guy's ear:

The soul patch, Santa-face hoodie and hard hat are all proof that he's some big wig up there at the North Pole.  So, I'm pretty sure I covered all the bases.  

Well... almost.

Turns out Santa doesn't give out cell phones to little kids.  Thank the 6 lb, 8 oz baby Geezus for that!  I woulda kicked his fat, jolly ass if he had agreed to that shit when the littlest Spawn started spewing out all the ridiculous crap she wants for Christmas.  She didn't give HIM a hard time about it, though.  She saved that shit for ME when Santa was out of ear-shot.

Spawn:  Well, it's official.  Santa doesn't buy cell phones.  I guess YOU'LL have to get me one after all.

Me:  Maybe when you're 10.

Spawn:  But, I can't wait that long!  I'll DIE!  I'll fall over and DIIIIIE!

Me: I'm willing to take that risk.

Spawn: Why do you HATE me so much?!  I'm the only kid in my entire class that doesn't have a phone!  It's not fair!

Me:  Shut it, drama queen.  No 1st grader has a cell phone.  I promise. 

Spawn:  I can't even talk to you right now!

And, that's when she grabbed a sheet of paper out of the printer and stormed off.  Uh-oh.  Any time that little heifer snatches up a piece of paper, SOMEONE is gonna get a nasty note.  Here's what I got:

Yeah.  No cell phone = no love.  Just so you know.  Nevermind the fact that I degraded myself with giant elves and horny reindeer all day for her sake.  

Momma's the one that doesn't git no love around here!  

Home ownership is highly over-rated

There is a lot of shit I hate about owning a home.  At the top of the list is MAINTENANCE.  Yards need to be cut, pools need to be cleaned, roofs need to be repaired, plumbing issues need to be fixed, fucking siding needs to be replaced, weeds need to be pulled, ant mounds need to be killed, trees need to be pruned, A/C units need to be replaced... and the list goes on, and on, and ON.  My head hurts like the dickens just thinking about it.

And, when you belong to a Home Owner's Association with Nazi volunteer inspectors, you get regular "courtesy" notices asking that you kindly replace your leaning mailbox (leaning gives it character!), or paint the tarnished copper awning over your front door (copper is supposed to look like that, assholes!), or repave your cracked driveway (we LIKE crack!), or to power wash the north side of the house to remove traces of mold (mold, schmold... we live in fucking Houston, the humidity capital of the world!), or to remove the "truck with camper" from the driveway (it's a fucking RV, assholes... the Minnie Winnie was highly offended when that notice came).  They're adult bullies.  And, I hate them.

My point here is that our house has become a fucking money pit.  And, when you're poor like us, you just can't afford to keep up with that shit.  One step forward leads to five steps back.  It's always SOMETHING... something broken, something old, something dirty, etc.   Plus, it's annoying as fuck to spend money on things outside of vacations, booze, food and clothes.

So, we're finally giving up on the "American Dream" and moving back into the world of renting.  That's right... when shit goes wrong, we're calling the property managers to fix that shit!  I'ma sit on my fat ass sipping on a pina colada while someone else replaces the A/C filter or fixes the garage door opener.  Life is too damn short to spend every waking minute fixing broken shit and throwing perfectly good booze money away on maintenance repairs.  Screw that crap!  Momma needs a REAL vacation!

Are "Escorts" Just "Prostitutes" in Disguise?

I've been busy, y'all.  Those who know me personally know that although I'm a struggling writer, I'm also a gainfully employed (on a part-time basis) heifer who collects a steady pay check in spite of her bitchy attitude and poor interpersonal skills (maybe that's why they've banned me from the office unless there's a staff meeting).  But, the gravy train is running on empty.  At the end of the year, after fifteen years, they're giving me the boot.  Right in the ass.

So, I've been spending the last couple of months trying to figure out what the fuck I can do to make the same amount of money without going back to work in an office full time.  Freelance writing doesn't pay shit, y'all.  (Just sayin'... in case it wasn't obvious.)  Aside from prostitution, diaper changing or serving as a drug mule, I'm pretty much open to anything.  Running an escort service would be awesome... but then I'd be a pimp and probably end up in jail.  I'm too damn cute for jail.

Anyway... I've been dabbling in some genius-ass stuff, y'all.  If it all works out, I'll fill you guys in on it.  Until then, we'll be munching on Ramen Noodles, Lone Star beer and generic peanut butter in a mobile home park that smells like piss.  Feel free to send us some charity.

My spawns get tired of me complaining about our lack of money.  The youngest spawn has even VOWED to never find herself in my pitiful situation when she's an adult....

Spawn:  I'm going to have lots of money when I'm grown up!  I'm going to be able to buy everything I want all the time!

Me:  That would be awesome.  You could even buy me a bunch of stuff.

Spawn: Yeah!  I'm going to marry a billionaire.

Me: Huh?

Spawn: Billionaires have a hundred bazillion dollars.  They never run out of money.  That's the kind of husband I'm gonna need to get me all the stuff I want.  And, I won't ever have to tell MY kids that they can't have all the awesome stuff THEY want.

Me: Sounds like a plan!  But I would rather YOU were the rich one... go to college and become some great, fancy doctor or something.

Spawn:  Oh, I'll be rich, too... but I'll save all my money in case my husband dies.

Me: Nice.  Well, it's good to have goals.

I have raised that heifer well.  My work here is done.

Celebrate Good Times, C'mon!

I've been celebrating all week! Celebrating the fact that my kids are finally back at school.  It was the longest fucking summer break in history; and I survived!  That shit was cause for celebration.  There were many times during the past couple of months that I thought I was fixenta lose my shit, y'all.  Once, when my medication reached it's maximum threshold for patience, I had to lock myself up in the closet under the stairs (like Harry Potter) to cry my ass off. If the NFL Pre-Season hadn't started when it did, I'm pretty sure I'd have flipped my lid and gone homicidal up in here. Those football booties saved some fucking lives.  I'm really not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I guess it's good because I didn't end up in jail.  I'm too cute for jail.

So now, my life is "back to normal"... meaning I'm back to regular "work" hours.  I've taken on a few new projects which I hope prove to be lucrative; but in the meantime, I'm still writing boring-ass bullshit for idiots who think they're smarter than I am. I'm also still working part-time for "the man".  But... AT LEAST MY KIDS ARE BACK IN SCHOOL!  I thank the 6lb 8oz baby Geezus for that shit every day.

Did I mention that football season has started?

Don't move, Honey, I'll be right there!!

Yes, I'm STILL broke... don't let the fancy vacation fool ya

Tomorrow we leave for Panama City Beach, Florida. NO, that does not mean that we suddenly came into a windfall of cash.  No one died and left us their fortune.  We did not finally hit it big in the lotto.  Hubber isn't faking his death so we can collect his life insurance money.  And, no one suddenly decided to pay real money for my writing.  That's not the kind of luck we're having.  But... we are lucky, y'all.  Lucky to have some awesome family members who love us enough to foot the bill for our portion of a fancy beach house rental.  Woot, woot!

Don't be jealous.

Or, do be.  I don't give a shit.  Alls I know is that I'm fixenta get the fuck outta dodge for a few days.  I'ma be sitting my large behind in some soft, powdery white sand this time tomorrow.  Yes-sir-ee.  Know what I say?  I say FUCK the murky waters of Galveston!  Momma's gonna soak up some sun with an adult beverage in tow only 2 feet away from crystal clear, blue ocean water... complete with dolphins, boobs, pirate ships and whatnot!

If it rains one drop on this trip, I'm going to use the Lord's name in vain. Twice. And, I'm not going to apologize. End of story.

Weiner Cleaner and other shit that's kept me from blogging...

Yes, I'm still alive.  The spawns have been yanking on every nerve this summer, but they haven't broken me yet. Medication helps.  A lot. Well, at least until you run out and the pharmacy screws up your prescriptions and you turn into a crazed lunatic and get kicked out of Walgreen's.

I didn't really get kicked out.  But, I will wear a disguise next time I go in, just in case. I need one of those nifty mustaches that are so popular now.  And, a little orphan annie wig. I wonder if my sister will let me borrow some of her ass-jackin' hooker heels?  Hmmmm.

Anyway... my point here is that my kids are driving me bat shit crazy, but I'm still functioning on some level.  Summer seems to be taking for fucking ever to be over, though.  I've been trying to busy myself with working, writing, daydreaming, drinking adult beverages and soaking up some rays.  Although, I think I overdid it with the sunbathing because my belly button is burned to a crisp right now.  It ain't a pretty sight.  It looked pretty gnarly before - all caved in with fat rolls and decorated in bright white stretch marks.... now it's bright red and stinging.  And, to top it all off, the fucking stretch marks didn't change color.  That shit doesn't tan??  WTF?!  What's the use in tanning to look 10 pounds thinner if those mofos stand out worse than they did when the skin around them was ghostly white?! If I get skin cancer, I'ma be really pissed.

The combinatin of motherhood and poor dieting has fucked my body all up.

But, I digress.

In my "spare" time, I've been busying myself by whipping up homemade facial creams and body wash concoctions. (This Pinterest shit is the devil.)  My family members have served as guinea pigs in testing out my products; and so far, none of them have died or contracted that oily, anal discharge that seems to be a common side affect of shit sold on TV.  As a matter of fact, the face cream seems to be "selling" like hotcakes. (I put that shit in quotations because nary one of these biznatches have actually traded CASH for the stuff. Yet.)  One batch of the body wash was awesome.  But, another one turned out kinda slimy.  I have 2 gallons of the slimy stuff.  And, no one seems to want it anymore.  SOOOO.... I'm repackaging that shit (I do have a background in marketing, y'all) and selling it as....


....because every weiner needs a good cleaning.  Plus, you don't need a washcloth or spongee thing to get the job done.  Simply, squirt some slimy weiner cleaner into the palm of your hand and get to strokin' that bad boy clean! 

Wanna buy some?  Momma's selling that shit here:  GET YOUR BOTTLE OF WEINER CLEANER TODAY!

Summer is almost here. Shoot me now.

Fuck.  School is almost out for the summer and I still have no plans for the littlest spawn.  What the fuck am I gonna do, y'all?  I have no money and no imagination.  And, pretty soon, I'm going to have no sobriety. Not that THAT is a huge departure from my normal life, but I may be sprawled out on the floor, drunk off my ass, foaming at the mouth with pee running down my leg in two weeks if I don't figure something out quick.  The spawn is cute...but she was put on this earth with the sole purpose of torturing me.  I like her best when she's sleeping or raising hell at least 1 mile away from me.  I can't even talk to her. Every conversation we have turns into a plea for her own cell phone.  She's five.  She's out of her mind.  And, she never shuts her mouth.  She yammers on and on and on and on until my ears start bleeding and my eyes roll around to the back of my head.

This is what someone without
a cell phone looks like.
My stomach hurts just thinking about the 3 months of togetherness I have to look forward to.

Spawn:  Mommy!  You and I are going to have the best Summer ever!

Me: Uhm. ??

Spawn: I can't wait to hang out with you EVERY day... we can go to the park, we can have play dates, we can buy me my own phone so we can text each other!  It's going to be awesome!
Me: You are not getting a phone.

Spawn: That's not fair! Even my pretend friend has a phone! 

Me: Yeah, well, borrow HER phone!

Spawn: I just did.  Did you get my text?

Me: Nope. 

Spawn: It SAYS, "Mom, I need my own phone." I'm the only person in this entire house that doesn't have a phone!

Me: You're also the only person in this house without a job.  Get a job and you can have a phone.

Spawn: I'm too small to get a job.  Look at me!  I'm tiny.  Who's gonna give me a job?  The only thing I know how to do is play!  Who's gonna pay me to play?!

Me: Maybe you can go to work with your Dad and play with the old folks.

Spawn: I bet the OLD FOLKS all have phones!  And, none of them have a job.  All they do is sit around and drool all day! They don't even have to wipe their own butts!

This is how our conversations go, y'all. They never end.  How the hell am I supposed to survive an entire Summer with this little heifer?  HOW?! 

As I type this blog, she's sitting under my desk singing, "I like big butts and I cannot lie... blah blahdy blah blah blah deny... when a girl walks by with a itty bitty waist with a round thing in your face you get SPRUNG!"  She just stopped to ask me how she can get sprung like the guy from the song. 

Shoot me now.

Shit You SHOULD NOT Buy Your Mother for Mother's Day

It's hard buying shit for your mother... I know.  I have one, too.  Moms always seem to have EVERYTHING, right?  But, if you listen closely (without trying to read between the lines), she'll tell you exactly what kind of gifts she would love.  But, don't read too much into what she says.  She's usually quite blunt with her wishes.  For instance, when she says, "I sure would love a face lift," it does NOT mean she'll settle for one of those widely popular Japanese Face Slimmers:

This doesn't say, "here's a great way to get a face lift,
Mom!", it says, "here, Mom, start giving blow jobs for
a living to raise your own money for a face lift."

This shit is NOT jewelry! 
Instead, take up a fucking collection...or have a barbecue plate benefit event to raise the money it'll take to send her to get a real face lift, or botox, or a fucking gift certificate for a spa day. Splurge a little, for crissakes!  I mean, she probably needs a face lift because YOU aged her beyond her years!  Show a little gratitude!
And, whatever you do, DO NOT buy your mother crap that she can "use" around the house.  If she wants a new vacuum cleaner or a fancy feather duster, she will buy that shit for herself.  If you want to contribute to her household, shower her instead with gifts of wine, cocktail mixers, ice cream and bacon.  You could even throw in a maid service if you're so inclined.

The Slipper Genie?  This shit will
not fly unless you plan on scooting
your ass around her house cleaning
the damn floors yourself.
Yes, a weekly pre-paid maid service will ensure that you will be (without a doubt) her favorite kid for the rest of her life.

Here are a few other things NOT to buy your mother for Mother's Day:
  1. Exercise videos/equipment (this is a no-brainer)
  2. Clothes (let's face it, you don't know what the fuck her size is, let alone what she likes)
  3. Generic lotion/body wash gift sets (she knows you bought that shit at Walmart for $1!)
  4. Fake flowers (just because "they never die" doesn't mean she wants that shit collecting dust in her house)
  5. Cleaning products (unless a free french maid comes along with that shit)

Chinese Restaurant Websites - Shit proofreaders' wet dreams are made of...

This shit was just too much of a sparkly gem not to share it with my peeps.  Let's break this bad boy down line by line.

Welcome to Chin Tao Restaurant!

Located in the beautiful city of HOUSTON,our restaurant has been dedicated to offering the most memorable dining experience for you.

We pick ingredients carefully and use only the freshest and nature ones to prepare every dish, and have been trying to cook them in a healthier way to provide the most nutritious food. Much attention has been attached to ensure you a cozy and inviting ambiance where you could enjoy not only the great meal but also the authentic atmosphere.
The owner and all staffs in Chin Tao Restaurant will greet you with the warmest welcome, whether you are a habitual patron or come for the first time. We have made painstaking efforts to create the tidiest and cleanest dining place, and guarantee you with friendly and timely service. Every of your demand and feeling will be cared in our restaurant.

If you have any commend or suggestion, or want to get more specific information about us, feel free to contact us at 281-469-0103,or browse our's Website 'www.chintaochineserestaurant.com',we will be delight to hear from you any time!

Welcome to experience the best meals in our fairyland!


Turns out my parents are into some kinky, sadistic shit!

The older I get, the more I wish I was still an ignorant kid.  For some fucked up reason, my parents feel the need to share WAY too much information about their personal lives.  Overhearing a conversation between me and my sister about lady boners and taco rubbing isn't an invitation for my mother to share her favorite foreplay activities.  I do not want to know that old people bump uglies. That's the shit nightmares are made of!  (Or blog posts, as the case may be.)  I also don't want to see my dad squeeze my mom's boob or smack her ass while we are ALL in the kitchen preparing MEALS FOR CHILDREN!  Get a room, mofos!!

But it wasn't until the other day that I first realized that my parents are a lot freakier than I could ever have imagined.  It all started when my mom, sister and I were waiting for my dad to be wheeled back into his hospital room.  He had just had spinal surgery.  When they brought him in, he was still dopey from the anesthesia.  Sis and I were all like, 'oh, poor dad...'.  But not mom.  Oh, no.  That heifer waddled (she uses a cane) over to his bedside and started thumping him all over his face saying, "Babe, are you awake <thump>.... Helloooo <thump>.... can you hear me <thump>?" 

Sis and I just stood there shocked, mouths gaping open.  WTF?!  She was THUMPING him!

Sis:  Uh.  Mom?

Mom: <ignoring us>  Baaaabe... can you hear me?


Sis:  Mom, why are you thumping him??

Mom: What?  Oh, you mean this: <thump>?  That's not a thump, that's a love tap. 

A. LOVE. TAP.  On a man who just had spinal surgery and was laying there all pathetic and helpless.

That's when I first thought, 'something just ain't right' with those two.

But, it's what happened the next day that made me realize I was raised by sexual sadists! 

So, there I was sitting in Dad's room chatting about how he was feeling.  He was out of bed, sitting in a chair.  He was feeling great!  Then, Mom and Sis walk into the room.  We say all our "hi's" and "good morning's".  That's when Mom waddled over to hug Dad.  We weren't concerned for his life or anything... it's not like she's some serial killer... she's just a 4'11", cute, petite little thing.... what kind of damage can her hug cause?  I mean, really.  But, she had it in for him.  She went right over, hugged him and patted him on this back. Hard.  Four times.


He screamed out in pain and she was all like, "What's wrong??"  We had to tell her that she just patted him roughly on his back WHERE HE HAD SURGERY.  "Oh. Sorry, Babe," she said and thumped him on the cheek.

And, y'all wonder why I'm all fucked up.

Is it weird that I want a mounted jackalope head?

It's not animal cruelty if an animal dies naturally BEFORE you whack his head off and mount it on a plaque.  Am I right? And by naturally, I mean, accidentally shot by a stray bullet meant for a wild boar or some other nasty animal.  Because, I can't imagine ANYONE purposely killing any of these little fellas:

The center ones were murdered whilst humping, I think.
That's what one of the walls looks like at our neighborhood Ace Hardware store.  I immediately fell in love!  I wanna hang one up in the Winnie... and one in my office... and one over the fireplace.  Hubber wouldn't buy me one though.  He's an a-hole when it comes to adopting new furry things.

Me:  It's not like I want the ones posing for a rape scene!

Hubber: Don't you have enough pets?

Me: Yeah, but THESE pets don't pee and shit all over the place... AND they don't require feeding!

Hubber: AND, they don't make any noise...

Me: See? You get it!  Now buy me three!

Hubber: Hell no, they're too creepy.  What the hell IS a jackalope, anyway?  Have YOU ever seen one?

Me: I'm seeing a shitload of 'em right now.  And, they're not creepy! The're cute... and oh, so soft!  Ahhhh.... Here, pet 'em!

I believe that's when he walked off and left me there, all dreamy-eyed, petting each jackalope an equal amount of strokes so as not to make the others jealous.

One of these little guys WILL be mine!

Shaving incidents and other shit that happens when you're poor

So... you know now that I'm being frugal and all, I've had to cut back on some things.  Things like regular shopping trips for shoes/handbags/panties, uppidy hair stylists, massages, professional pedicures, and..... waxing.  And by waxing, I am referring to the waxing of unsightly body hairs. The kind of hairs that have been known to cause rug burn... the kind of hairs that will poke your husband's eye out in the middle of the night.

Yes, now that I'm a poor, starving writer... I'm hairier than I used to be.  So, once a week (or so) I perform the world's longest shaving ritual.  First the pits... then the legs... then the nether regions.  I've survived mostly unscathed for over a year now - until today.  Today I was destined for pain and suffering.... and lots of blood. 

I shaved a quarter of my left pinky nail off accidently.  Don't ask me how that shit happened.  IT JUST DID, mofos.  I need two hands when I'm grooming down there... and that darned pinky just kinda got in the way.
I think I lost two pints of blood. And, some of my sanity.
I'm convinced that some other snarky bitch had it in for me and made a voodoo doll outta my hair and boogers with every intention of shaving off my entire hoo-ha from the inside out!  But, I am more powerful than that bitch.  I sensed that evil shit coming my way and I thwarted it with my left pinky!  Cheap-ass voodoo is no match for my pinky.  No, sir.

Although, now I'm afraid that my hoo-ha will be a little gun shy about having a razor get too close.  I might have to start a waxing fund on my blog.  Would YOU contribute?
proof that no matter how much pain I'm in,
Hubber can still find a way to be a perv

Sex Pornstar Coupon

According to my blog stats, searches on google for "sex pornstar coupon" directed people to my blog a total of 5 times last month. Not only do I not provide pornstar sex, if I did, I wouldn't be giving out coupons for that shit! I would charge a premium!  I wonder how sad these pervs were when they landed on my bullshitty blog full of parental bitching and moaning and starving artist rants?  Oh, well... fuck 'em.  If they don't like it, they can keep moving.

Also, WTF is a sex pornstar coupon? 

If I were ever to attempt to make money in the sex industry, I've already decided that I'd take a clue from Irena Palm.  Except, I'll be the pimp.  I'd drill a hole in my garage door and let pervs stick their peckers in for a lubed-up handjob performed by senior citizens looking to supplement their social security income.  I'd disguise them as Betty White for that "star" quality.

How much would YOU pay to stick your pecker in a hole for a handjob from Betty White?!

Other interesting google searches that led folks to my blog last month:
  • black sucking bitches
  • skittles not shittles
  • spring break 2012 asses
  • zombie princesses
  • kids are assholes
  • mommy juice
  • go rving

Foul-Mouthed Bitches

We've been helping my sister and brother-in-law move all weekend.  About an hour into Day 2, the BIL stops me mid-sentence to inform me that using the words "bitch" and "fuck" as often as I do is unnecessary and completely inappropriate.  That a-hole has some nerve, y'all.  There I was, sweating my ass off helping him move his shit and he feels the need to ask me to filter what comes out of my mouth?!

Well, I'll show him! 

I listened carefully to every word that he and my lovely (and seemingly always appropriate) sister spewed out all fucking day....  and lo' and behold, it was chock full of inappropriate shit.  So, I took notes and I'm going to share THEIR inappropriateness here with the entire world.  Enjoy.

Shit that came out of Sis's mouth:
  • I would if I could, but I just can't push it out.
  • He likes to stick hard things in his mouth.
  • What is penis elbow?
  • Just shake it till it comes out.
  • Suck on this.
  • I think he was black in another life.

Shit BIL said:
  • Just the tip, I promise.
  • Quit yanking on it!
  • My belly is full of Dave.
  • Someone smells like ass.  Oh, wait... that's me.
  • My elbow is so sore.
  • Everyone's sucking on something but me.
  • He LOOKS like he owns a mini-van.

My peeps have got some nasty-ass potty mouths, don't they?!  And they wonder why the hell I'm full of "bitches" and "fucks."  It's THEIR fault!

I'm going to the grave kicking and screaming

Today is my birthday and unlike SOME of my friends (mainly THIS one), I'm loving every minute of it.  As most of you know, I've been celebrating all month... because you only live once, bitches! Sure, I'm one more year closer to death, my hair is graying, my skin is aging and my bank account is dwindling... but I'M ALIVE and I have access to fruity, alcoholic beverages, beef jerky and air conditioning.  What more could a girl ask for?!

Honestly, it's the only time I can make my peeps feel guilty enough to do shit for me:  "Hand me the remote, it's my birthday month!".... "Get me a glass of water, it's my birthday week!".... "Rub my feet, it's my birthday eve, eve!"... "Scratch my back, it's my birthday eve!"  "Throw some coconut ice cubes in my rum, it's my birthday!"

That shit works like a charm for me all month.  The rest of the year, they spend most of the time avoiding me, so I have to milk it for all it's worth.

As I type, my girls are cleaning my kitchen and baking their momma a cake.  Hubber is tidying up the living room and ordering the children around (which is equivalent to porn in my book).  I'm sipping on a beverage at my desk, listening to the Beastie Boys and rubbing my feet on my dog's back.  It's like God is actually smiling down on me and saying, "sure you're a bitch, but I still like you."

While I celebrate the anniversary of the day I was born, I can't help but thank my lucky stars that I survived another year without killing myself or someone else (and that shit ain't easy to do when you're me).  I'm happy, I'm healthy and I have the best group of family and friends anyone could ever hope for.  I'm beginning to think they love me, snark and all.

Ok, time for cake... 

Buses, Booze and Fruit Roll-Ups

The youngest spawn thinks that all the cool kids ride the bus.  But, to torture her, I forbade it.  I insisted that I drop her off every morning... waiting in the car line for 10-15 excrutiating minutes behind idiot parents that can't read/see/hear, just so that I can watch her walk into the building.  It gave me the assurance that she actually made it to school and that she didn't skip out to drink Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill and smoke Camel cigarettes behind the school with all the other derelicts. But it wasn't until a few days ago that I realized that the piece of mind I get from dropping her off myself isn't worth the time and aggravation it costs me to deal with the dreaded CAR LINE.  Also, I got banned from the car line for shooting the bird at the crossing guard.  Twice.  

Me: Hey, baby... wouldn't it be fun to ride the bus in the mornings?

Spawn:  Really?!  Yes!!  I can sneak in some fruit roll-up so me and Tyler can eat them together BEFORE the teacher takes them away from us!

Me: You can eat on the bus?

Spawn: No.  I mean, yes.

Me: Whatever... just don't get in trouble!

So, she's been catching the bus every morning this week and so far she hasn't gotten in trouble for sneaking contraband onto school property.  How much harm can fruit roll-ups cause, really?

There's Nothing Like Pap-Smears and Hot, Mexican Soup

(Forewarning: Do not read this post if you are easily offended by medical procedures or the word vagina)

What goes great with hot, mexican soup, you ask?  If you're me (and I know you wish you were), the answer is a pap-smear.  After confessing to my sister that I hadn't had my annual "Well Woman" exam since my tubal ligation 5 years ago, I've been getting nagged to fucking death about going to the damn doctor.  I just haven't felt the need.  What with no need for birth control and no "flare-ups" in the nether regions, I just figured: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Sis: it's called PREVENTATIVE treatment. You could be walking around all ignorant with cervical cancer... or breast cancer... or a million other different kids of cancers and not even know it!

Me: pffffft... you're just jealous because you still need to worry about birth control.

Sis: I don't need to worry, I AM pregnant.

Me: No wonder you need a vagina swab.

Sis: C'mon, I'll buy you lunch.

Me: Free lunch? I'm in!

Because seriously, y'all... I don't turn down a free meal.  Poor folks gotta take handouts when they can get 'em.  So, I offered my body over to science for 30 minutes in exchange for Mexico City Style Chicken and Rice Soup from Pappasitos.  They sprinkle crack in that shit.  And the little leaves floating on top?  Those aren't cilantro... they're weed.  I know this because after eating a bowl of this shit, I'm delirious with the need for a nap.  And chocolate. 

Who the hell drove me home?!

Addicted to Yet ANOTHER Teenie-Bopper Series

So, before I left on my trip, a good friend suggested that I read The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins.

Friend:  Do yourself a favor and read The Hunger Games when you're on your roadtrip.

Me: The WHAT?  Please don't get me started on another teenie-bopper book series.  I'm still trying to get over Bella's stupid ass from Twilight... and Dumbledor dying in Harry Potter... and Artemis Fowl, the badass, never ending saga...

Friend: OK, stop.  Seriously.  You will love it.  I promise there is no miserable teen angst and all the shit that goes along with it.... I pinky promise.

Me: No fucking way I'm buying the book.

Friend: You're a dumbass.

So, I bought the fucking book because I am NO dumbass.  And I read it.  Every last word of it.  In two days.  It was really good, y'all.  So, of course, NOW I have to see the movie and buy the shirt and all that crap.  I just can't get enough.  Part of me is pissed off that my friend knows me so well... and part of me wants to smack her upside the head for getting me all wrapped up in a new series of books when I have tons of others [supposedly more stimulating] sitting on my bookshelves still unread.

And to make matters worse, fucking Woody Harrelson is in the movie.  I love that guy.  White boys CAN jump! And LENNY KRAVITZ?! Holy Shit, Lenny Kravitz is playing Cinna.  I wanna jump his bones. And, I mean that in a sexual way.

Spring Break 2012: Day 5

The natives started getting restless on Day 5, so we drove them up to the mountains in search of snow.  The entire state of Colorado has been blaming Texans for bringing record high temps with them from Texas on Spring Break.  We were bound and determined to prove to those bastages that it wasn’t our fault by finding a patch of snow and playing in that shit. 
So, up we drove; but alas, to no avail.

Sledding on a two-foot patch of slush wasn’t as fun as it promised to be swimming around in my head.  Also, it was mostly yellow and I vaguely remember my mother warning me about yellow snow.  Instead of taking chances with our health, we stopped for lunch.

...and beverages.
Now, we’re on our way home.  We’re going a different route this time… We just survived the Raton Pass between Colorado and New Mexico.  The Winnie took it like a champ uphill at 35 mph (on a 75 mph speed limit).  I’ll never ever curse large, slow moving vehicles again.  From now on, I’ll just politely go around those bitches and flash the peace sign at ‘em.  And, maybe a boob (if they’re lucky and I’m feeling frisky).

Spring Break 2012: Days 2-4

We're now in Colorado.  All is well, but the roadtrip up was definitely a learning experience.  Here are a few things we learned along the way:
  • Driving through Kansas (the state of Kans-assholes) is not fun when you're 10ft tall and winds are 65 mph.  The Winnie got a whopping 6 miles per gallon across the entire fucking state. Never again. We'll avoid Kansas at all costs on future roadtrips.
  • Storm water grates located in rest stops in Kansas = Redneck dumpstations.  You don't want to know.
  • Rocky Mountain gas isn't the stuff you put in your car.  It's what your body experiences due to the high altitude.  It's 10x worse for dogs.  It can smell like: death, skunk squirt or dairy farm (or a combination of these).
  • Driving uphill in the Winnie will cause all those behind you to curse the day you were born. Twice.
I'm sure we learned other things; but I've already forgotten them.  I need to take notes next time.


The Hancocks are now officially boondocking (that's RVing-speak for freeloading) in my sister-in-law's driveway in Parker, CO. We're even hooked up to power and water.  We did, however, get rid of the kids in the evenings... they're sleeping IN the house while Hubber and I rough it in the front yard.  During the day, though, I sure wish I could drop their asses off at school.  Vacation ain't so fun when you spend the entire time trying to entertain two girls who are not easily satisfied unless you spend your life savings along with an arm and a leg everywhere you go.  When did these little heifers become such divas?!  I haven't consumed nearly enough adult beverages to stay sane.  I feel a bloody mary night coming on.

Spring Break 2012: Day 1

We are currently on the longest road trip we’ve ever taken in the Minnie Winnie.  Here was the scenario when we left the house an hour late:
  • It was pouring down rain.
  • We got stuck in rush hour traffic leaving the house.
  • Everyone was hungry.
  • I had the nagging feeling that I had forgotten to do something at home. Unplug the iron?  Turn off the coffee pot? Lock the backdoor?  Fuck.
  • The oldest spawn was hacking up lungs and spreading germs in a small, confined space; we’re all liable to be sick before we get to Colorado.
  • SOMEONE was gassy.
  • And apparently, Aunt Flow decided to tag along on the trip.  Oh, joy!
Two hours later, we were finally out of Houston with a stock pile of Kleenex, NyQuil and feminine hygiene products; but I still hadn’t popped my laptop open to get sme "work" done.

Then, to make things WAY more enjoyable, Hubber had it in his head that he wanted to drive all night. This was fine until he woke ME up from my narcotics-induced slumber to take over as pilot so he could rest.  It’s not so bad driving in the middle of the night when things are quiet and not any people are on the road; that is until the youngest spawn (who had already gotten 6 great hours of sleep) decided that it’s her calling in life to be a co-pilot.  Needless to say, it got loud quickly.   But for once, her annoying little cackle didn’t send me all in a tizzy; it was comforting.  It was also entertaining and educational. I learned a few historical facts that I have never been privy to before.  I’ll share them here with you so that we’re all “in the know.”
  • Abraham Lincoln came to Texas to fight for freedom.  He won the battle and Texas became a State.
  • If it weren’t for Abraham Lincoln, people that live in Texas wouldn’t speak English; they’d speak Chinese (like they do in Virginia).
  • These are all facts; which means they are non-fiction.  Fiction is like when dogs talk or houses fly.
This heifer is a genius, I tell ya!  I should charge people to hear some of the shit that comes out of her mouth.  Seriously.

Wait.   I wonder if it was all a dream? But, then how do you explain this picture I found on my phone?

"... four score and seven years ago, our forefathers..."
sent Abe Lincoln to Texas to kick some ass!

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures

I got bitched out yesterday by my brother-in-law who thinks I take too much time between blog posts.

Me: (bitching, as usual): Kids suck all the fun out of anything remotely entertaining.

BIL: Hey!  That could be the topic of your next blog.

Me: Nah, that's old news, buddy.

BIL: Well, you need to fucking write about something soon or you're going to start losing loyal readers.

Me: I have loyal readers?

BIL: Well, I'm the only one that counts, but YEAH.  WTF is taking so long?  You always seem to have so much to say. 

Me: I've been making curtains for the Minnie Winnie!

BIL: excuses, excuses.  GET TO BLOGGING!

So, here I am.  Writing a guilt-infested blog post.  But, lucky for you people, I'm not going to complain about my kids again (at least not today).  I have better shit to write about.  Plus, I'm afraid child protective services might be on to me... and I'm too cute to go to jail.

I wasn't lying when I said I'd been working on curtains.  No, I did not finally learn how to use my damn sewing machine.  Even better:  I found a snazzy how-to project on Pinterest for making curtains without sewing!  They turned out fatastical!
See?!  Damn, I'm good. 

And while we're on the topic of pinning - the most ingenious internet creation EVER, I finally put some of the shit I've learned there to good use.  As a freelance writer with not enough writing assignments, I have to find clever ways to save money without starving my family or skipping on my sanity juice.  So, when some really frugal pinners shared their recipes for homemade household products, I jumped on that shit!  And, it works!!  So, I spent most of today concocting a bunch of shit....
Yes, I made my own labels.  I'm clever that way.
I guess if I can't make money WRITING, I could make money selling my own line of household cleaning products.  Anyone interested?  Anyone?

I'm making body/hand soap now.  My house has never smelled so clean! Now if only it weren't so dusty.  I'll trade someone a batch of laundry detergent if you'll come dust and scrub my house for me.

Fuck it. The gray hair stays.

I have made many sacrifices in order to work from home and be more accessible to my family. For instance, I don't go shoe shopping much at all anymore.  The last pair of shoes I bought was a $5 pair of flip flops when we went RVing in Galveston.  But, do I complain?  No.  (Ok, maybe a little.) I'm just grateful that my foot hasn't grown in the last year.  I also gave up eating lunch out every day.  Although I miss my lunch buddies dearly, fighting the traffic into/outta town is a total buzz kill which I am now happy to avoid most of the time.

I also gave up my hairstylist. 

At first, I thought, "how fucking hard can this haircoloring shit be?"  I went to the drugstore and bought hair color in a box.  That bitch on the front of the box looked awesome and SHE used the same shit... so it had to be good! Right?


I followed the instructions... but my hair felt like cardboard afterwards. I piled on the conditioning treatments and tried to make that shit work.  Then, just when it seemed the texture was back to normal, guess what I found?  Gray hairs. WTF?!  So, I waited the the recommended six weeks and tried again with a different brand.  Same results.  Then, for shits and giggles, I tried it ONE MORE TIME (with a more expensive box of color).  But, alas, the gray hairs proved to be stubborn little bitches.

So, I stopped trying.  After a few weeks, the tears quit falling and I realized something... the gray hair isn't so bad.  If men can pull this shit off under the guise that they "seem more distinguished," then I can, too! 

Xena, Get Your Gun: Anything you can do, I can do better! (so, suck it, mofos!)

I suck royally at consistent parenting.

This face doesn't scare anyone!
This is a sad, SAD fact.  My kids have figured me out.  They know that "No." doesn't mean "NO."  It means, "if you bug the living shit out of me for long enough, I will eventually give in because I am weak and pathetic and I don't put up much of a fight."

Before I had kids, I was famous for talking trash about other people's parenting skills.  Parents who couldn't keep their kids quiet or still in public got on my nerves like nobody's business.  Now?  I'm one of "THOSE" parents.  What the hell happened to me?  I don't even LIKE children!  You'd think that a hateful bitch like me would be a strict mom whose kids are well behaved because they're filled with the fear of God.  But, sadly, no.  That isn't the case.  It's not that I'm really all that much of a push-over, though.  Mostly, I just live in a made-up world in my head where I am blissfully unaware of what my kids are doing around me.  It's full of happy pills and adult beverages and hulky man-booties.  It keeps me sane.  I'm probably not doing my kids any favors by giving into their whims, but MY sanity is at stake here, people!  And no one likes me when I'm insane. 

My point here is that it's Valentine's Day and you're probably wondering what this lushy, sex kitten has planned for the evening, right?  Well...

I am waiting for Hubber to get home.  When he does, we will pile up in the car, pick up the teen spawn's boyfriend and drop the two lovebirds off on THEIR fucking date.  Then, we will have Valentine's dinner at Chuck-e-Cheese's (where they do NOT serve "mommy drinks") with an extra hyper, chatter-mouthed kindergartener.

Why, you ask?  Because "NO." doesn't fucking mean "HELL NO."  Shoot me now.

I hope I don't lose my AWESOME when I'm skinny.

So, if you are a part of my inner circle of trust (if you're reading this, you ARE, so simma down), then you already know that I've made some changes in my life.  I had to somehow fill my down time (since good writing gigs seem to be few and far between) so I decided to get my fat ass healthy.  Being large and in charge is one thing.  Being a lazy, unhealthy sloth is another.  Sure, doing nothing and eating anything/everything is fun and yummy... but Momma needs to get control of this shit already.  Also, I can't afford the medication it takes to maintain this carefree lifestyle.

Anyway.  I've been surprising the hell out of myself lately. 

For starters... SEVEN days straight of exercising.  WHAT?!  Yes.  Every fucking day.  At first, it was hard as hell.  Then, yesterday, I actually had this conversation with a friend after lunch:

Friend: Let's just sit here and chat, I don't have to be back to the office any time soon.

Me: I have to get home and work-out before picking my kid up from school.

Friend: Did you just say "work OUT"  as in exercise?  I knew there was something different about you!

Me: Why do you look so shocked?

Friend: You would be the last person I'd ever imagine working out!

Me: Fuck you.  I'ma be a skinny, fit bitch this time next year!

Friend: hahahahahahaaha!

I'ma make a voo-doo doll outta that bitch right after I snatch some hair off her head and buy a roll of twine.

But seriously... I'm working out, people! For real!  Now, it's only 30 minutes a day....but as each day comes, I find myself kinda craving some exercise.  It's the weirdest feeling ever.  Today, I went an extra 15 minutes just because I wasn't tired yet.  Who the hell is this new person inside me?  I'm kinda terrified of her...she's taking over my life. I guess as long as she doesn't deplete my cool-ness factor or make me some kind of stuck-up skank, I'm gonna be ok.

I know this sounds like a public service announcement or an infomercial at 2:00 a.m., but I feel good, y'all.  If any of you fellow heifers want to join in on this shit, let's do it!  I have found a great support system, and I would be happy to share that shit with you.