Being Merry and Gay - It's Not Just For People With Holiday Spirit!

I try my best to avoid uncomfortable conversations with my kids.  I used to have a knack for changing the subject -- like pointing and shouting "LOOK, there's a monkey wearing pink pajamas over there!"  But, here lately, my brain doesn't seem to churn as quickly as it used to. 

Tiny Spawn: Momma, what does "gay" mean?

Me: Uhm.  Why?

Tiny Spawn: Just tell me.  I'm 7, I can handle it. 

Tiny Spawn: It depends on how it's used.  If you heard it in a Christmas song, it probably means "happy" or "joyful".

Tiny Spawn: At school, Devon said " you know there's a bad word for 'wife'?  and Jay said, "oh yeah, you mean 'gay'?"  and Kenny said, "yeah, Devon is gay!".... and we all laughed because Devon isn't even a girl... how can he be a wife?  But if "gay" means happy, then why is it a bad word?

<Hubber makes a bee-line to the bathroom>

Me: Well, it's NOT a bad word.  And, I think all of y'all are confused and don't know what the heck y'all are talking about!

Tiny Spawn:  That's why I'm asking you what "gay" means.  Duh.

Me: Ugh.  Well, sometimes gay means that instead of falling in love with someone opposite of you, you fall in love with someone who is the same as you -- like two women fall in love and get married, or two men fall in love and get married -- instead of a man and woman getting married.

Tiny Spawn: Oh!  Well, I guess I'm not gay then, because I'm gonna marry a RICH MAN when I grown up!

Me: Right on, sista. 

This kid makes me so proud.  Just when I think a conversation with her is going to hell and that the dreaded "sex talk" is eminent, she pulls some really smart shit outta her hat and impresses me.  She's gonna "marry a rich man"??  That's enough to bring a tear to any momma's eye.

Pigs are really super cute... but they're also yummy!

I've been a large gal most of my life.  And, y'all know at least once a year I go on my "this-is-it-I'ma-get-skinny-no-more-bullshitting" kicks where I go on diets (or stupid "lifestyle changes") and preach about how THIS time I'ma be SERIOUS about this shit.  Sure, I might lose weight... but then I quit because all that dieting shit is just too fucking hard to keep up with while maintaining a sane and happy disposition.

I think everyone prefers me sane and happy.

That being said, I've tried lots of different diets, y'all.  But never once have I gone on a diet that didn't allow me to eat meat.  Ever.  Why? Because, I'm a carnivore, people!  I need to feed my face with meat even if I know it might sit undigested in my belly for weeks.  I don't give a damn.  That's what they make detoxes and shit for.

Turns out, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree (duh).

This is the conversation that went down the other day as the littlest spawn was chowing down on some leftover Thanksgiving ham...

Spawn:  Momma... I forgot to tell you that the other day at school, we learned about how all the meat we eat used to be real live animals.

Me: That's right.

Spawn: When Cinna (that's actually some kid's name) found out that her burger used to be a cow she freaked out and said she was going to become a vegetarian.

Me: She's a weirdo.

Spawn:  I know, right? I love hamburgers!  Turns out cows taste great.  By the way, guess what I'm eating right now?

Me:  A piggie?

Spawn: Yeah!  Pigs are really super cute, but they're also yummy.  I just have to eat 'em all up!

Me: Amen, sista.

I mean, seriously, y'all... it's the circle of life.  Didn't grass have to die to feed the cows?  Didn't truffles have to die to feed the pigs?  You think that shit doesn't have feelings just because it has no face.  I can tell you right now that plants have feelings.  I know this because plants hate my sister.  Anytime a plant is anywhere near her, it keels over and dies so it doesn't have to breathe the same air she breathes.  If THAT ain't proof of plant feelings, I don't know what is!

We Can't All Be Angels

I'm really not sure how I get myself entwined in social circles that are either: 1) way out of my league, 2) full of batshit crazy douchebags, 3) lesbionic, 4) secret swingers mingling clubs, or 5) all of the above.  But, I do.  And, to my defense, I usually just stumble upon 'em accidentally as I do with much of the shit I write about here.  I can't make this shit up, y'all.  I'm not THAT clever.

So, I've given you a glimpse into what it's like for me in the waiting room at the the littlest spawn's new dance class, right?  Well, come to find out, there's more than just the one church lady in that group of moms.  There are four, to be exact.  (I sure miss the old class...where all the moms were just as fucked up and fabulous as I am.)  The other waiting moms, like me, just sit around and try not to listen to those righteous bitches yammer on about potlucks, homeschooling and bible studies.  I like to catch up on my reading, while the other "normal-ish" type moms like to talk on their phones, pretend to be busy checking emails/texts or plaster their noses up against the window into the dance studio.

But, you can't NOT hear what the church ladies are talking about... no matter how hard you try.  I even wore earbuds one day, blasting Dirty Heads, in an effort NOT to hear whatever the fuck they were saying. But, guess what... I still heard most of it.

Anyway... last week they were all excited about what their kids were going to be for Halloween (or All  Soul's Day, as one of them corrected).  From what I can remember, here were some of the costumes planned:
  • Mother Teresa
  • St. Francis of Assisi
  • Laura Ingels (from Little House on the Prairie)
  • St. Christopher
  • a shepherd
  • a vegetable from Veggie Tales
There were others I can't remember now, because my ears started bleeding as I tried not to listen.  Here's what my kid was for Halloween:

Hey.  If we're going to hell anyway, we might as well go down in style!  Amiright? 

Front Butts and Twatties

Four years ago when the littlest spawn was about 3, she walked in on Hubber in his birthday suit.  After he freaked the fuck out and pushed her out of the restroom and locked the door behind her, she scurried on over to me with wide eyes and said, "Daddy's front butt looks like an elephant trunk!"

And so was born the term, "front butt". 

Contrary to popular urban dictionary definitions of "front butt", here it's used to replace the word vajayjay or pooch-pie, or peepeepie or girly junk.  In my home, we embraced the term and learned quickly to throw it around in conversation like it's the most natural thing in the world.  Front butt this... front butt that... front butt wedgies.... you get the gist. 

So, a few days ago when the littlest spawn was talking to her friend about how front butts should be wiped from front to back, she learned something fantastic about front butts.

Littlest Spawn:  Momma, did you know that some people NAME their front butts?

Me: I'm afraid to ask where you're going with this.

Littlest Spawn:  Seriously!  Jackie named hers "Twatty."  Cute, huh?

Me:  Did you just say TWATTY?

Littlest Spawn:  Yeah!  But, that's a baby-ish name.  I think I'll call mine Samantha!

Me:  Oh, no you will not!  We do not name our body parts!  Our body parts are not toys!

Hubber:  <to me> Yours are.  They're my toys.

Me: You're not helping.

Littlest Spawn:  Excuse me, Samantha needs to pee...

If I Had a Nickel...

...for every time someone confused me with someone they actually know WHO IS NOT ME, I'd be a rich ass mofo.

Yesterday one of the new snooty moms at the littlest spawn's dance class kept staring at me, so I smiled and said, "HI!" Although what I really wanted to say was: "What the fuck are you staring at, heifer?  Do I have a zit on my nose?  A booger on my cheek? What?!"

Snooty Mom:  Hi... do I know you from somewhere?

Me:  Hmmm... No, I don't think so.

Snooty Mom:  Yeah, I think I do... what school does your daughter go to?

Me:  Moore... but I'm rarely ever there... so, that can't be it.

Snooty Mom:  Did you go to Baylor?

Me:   Ha!  Nope.  You don't know me.  I just have a familiar face.  I hear it all the time.

Snooty Mom:  Wait!  I know!  You're on the church festival committee!  Or choir?  At Prince of Peace?

Me:  Nope.

Snooty Mom:  But you do go to church?

Me: This feels like an interrogation.  Are you a cop?  I didn't do it! I swear.

This is how many encounters with strangers go for me.  Do I go to church??  HA!  But, being confused for a church lady ain't shit, y'all.  People are always thinking they know me from somewhere. I've been confused for a flight attendant, a circus performer (shut the fuck up), and even a Walmart employee (which isn't all that hard to believe).

Sometimes, my friends even spot one of my evil twins in odd places.  I'll randomly get a text from a friend that reads something like: Are you sitting at a bar in Miami right now? when I'm in bed blowing my nose and reading a trashy novel.  Sometimes I have to check my surroundings to make sure that I am NOT indeed in Miami... or in an airport... or at a blackjack table in Vegas... or wind surfing in Hawaii.  My evil twins get a lot more perks than I do.

And, one time, I had this very old lady walk right up to me, tilt her head and stare holes into my retinas, "you look just like my son's wife - she died of cancer two years ago."  Then, she just walked off.  All I could think was that THAT BITCH JUST GAVE ME OJO!  (for those of you who did not grow up around  Santeria and Mexican voodoo, ojo is the ultimate "evil-eye staring curse" you give people to jinx them for life... it can only be countered by being touched by the person doing the staring)... and that old hag didn't lay one finger on me.  She musta hated her dead daughter-in-law and she is now taking that shit out on innocent look-alikes!

To get that shit overturned, I had to pay $20 to a shady bruja who made me drink chicken blood and sleep with raw eggs in a jar of vinegar under my bed for 3 days.

What if it didn't work? Maybe that pain in the back of my head really IS a tumor!

It's a bird... it's a plane... NO... It's SUPER ME!

I have a superpower that I keep forgetting to tell y'all about. It's the power to tune shit out. This power didn't come naturally. It started out small... a spark here and there. But over the years, I have fine-tuned that shit into the superpower that it is now.

I can be in the noisiest environment imaginable... kids screaming, dog barking, TV blaring, nuclear bomb dropping... and I won't hear a fucking thing. I can type away on my computer and tune it all out. I can even read a book peacefully while thunder rolls, the neighbors beat on drums, my kids slam doors and the my dog howls. No problemo. Unless I hear the word "Mom" in all the commotion, I don't give a rat's ass what's going on around me. Sometimes, I don't even hear "Mom" when I'm deep down in the alternate universe of the superpower.

I can tune the shit out, is what I'm saying.

The only problem is... it falls dormant when I'm asleep.  The superpower gets confused when it's too quiet, I think, because it ain't nowhere to be found when I need it most.  I can hear a pin drop on a pillow 100 feet away behind a closed door WHEN I'M A-FUCKIN-SLEEP. I have a feeling the god doling out superpowers in Krypton is a really short man with a tiny penis who hates women.

Me: <bolting upright in bed, mid snore, startled beyond belief> What the fuck was that!? 

Hubber: You mean, this.... <puts finger on computer mouse and clicks> ?

Me: No... something is going on in the girls' room.

<Hubber goes to check>

Hubber: Your oldest spawn just flushed the toilet.  You want me to ground her?

Me: Yes. You people need to learn how to shut the fuck up when I'm trying to sleep!

The asshole neighbors don't make it any easier for me.  Hubber will make fun of the fact that I can fall asleep on demand... but what he never mentions is the fact that I wake up every 15 fucking minutes because the dicky god of superpowers put restrictions on my abilities.

Wait a minute.

I just thought of something.  Maybe the hearing-pins-dropping-mid-sleep is another superpower!  Maybe I'm one of those freak superheros who is burdened with managing TWO powers.  Beat that shit, x-men alumni!

I take comfort in the fact that my kids are still scared of Santa Claus

On a recent re-run of "Everybody Loves Raymond", Ray goes into his daughter's room in the middle of the night dressed up like Santa... he whispers his kid's name and she wakes up startled but then she's all like, "oh, hi, Santa!" all happy and welcoming... they proceed to have a nice conversation... he kisses her on the forehead and tucks her back into bed before he leaves.

Does no one else find this shit disturbing?!

If that shit woulda happened in my house, my kids woulda screamed bloody fucking murder, y'all!  When the oldest spawn was little, she had nightmares about Santa watching her while she slept. She used to sleep with scissors under her pillow just in case the mother fucker decided to pop in on her.  She was ready to stab a bitch...for real.  And, don't even get me started on the littlest spawn.  She doesn't trust anyone in a or no gifts, she ain't going anywhere near that shit.

Me:  It's a good thing our girls are scared of Santa.

Hubber:  Uh.... ok...

Me:  Because if Santa showed up in their bedroom in the middle of the night, they'd scream for us!

Hubber: You DO know Santa doesn't exist, right?

Me: I don't mean the real Santa, asshole!  I mean, one of those crazyass pedophiles dressed up like Santa!

Hubber: Oh.

Me: If I were a kid snatcher, that's what I would do!  It's the best disguise to lure kids!  I'd do all my dirty work on Christmas Eve.

Hubber:  This is the most fucked up conversation we've had all year.

Me: Seriously, Hub! Think about it!  Kids love Santa (well, most of the normal ones do)... they see Santa in their room on Christmas Eve, they're gonna trust that sonofabitch and go anywhere he tells them to.  Think of the Polar Fucking Express!!  Those kids got on the train in the middle of the night with a stranger!!

Hubber: You're dumb.

Me: Kids are dumb.  From now on, I'm gonna teach my kids to be scared of EVERYTHING!

Hubber: They're one step ahead of you.

And it's true... they're scared of a lot of dumb shit.  Don't you dare let the Chik-Fil-A cow wander anywhere near them... they'll flip their shit.  The littlest spawn is afraid of the dark... so, at night, she wears an eye mask to sleep in. So she can't SEE the dark.  With her eyes closed.  While she's fucking sleeping.

And you people wonder why I drink.

Kids Are Pigs - Let's Make Bacon

because bacon makes everything better

Just because I work at home doesn't mean I'm everyone's personal maid. Contrary to popular beliefs, I actually try to WORK all day. I don't have time to go around picking up shit my kids leave strewn about. On the surface, my girls are cute... they're funny... they're smart (this is a matter of opinion) and they appear to be clean and well groomed. What people don't know is that they are actually filthy pigs shat from the bowels of hell. 

The oldest spawn will be 17 years old this year. Over the years, she has struggled with lifting a fucking finger to help make my life a little easier. She isn't interested in making my life easier. All she is interested in is living like a slob. When she was 13, she used to hoard dirty dishes in her room. I kept buying tumblers and bowls thinking some serial dish robber was sneaking in through my kitchen window to snatch my shit up. I even made a booby trap out of broken wine bottles on the windowsill to try to catch that motherfucker once and for all. But, when I found a bowl of moldy, stinky, milk swollen cheerios stashed away in her bathroom cabinet while searching desperately for a tampon, I knew who the real thief was. My fucking kid.

So, what did I do? I put Hubber on the case. He turned that room upside down and found crusty forks under mattresses, cups stacked behind books, petrified pizza crusts in file cabinet drawers, and bowls growing science experiments under the bed and in the closet. The craziest thing (because evidently, that shit isn't crazy enough), was that when we questioned her about it, she acted completely dumbfounded like she had no clue where all that shit came from.

Me: What the fuck were you thinking? How long has this been going on?

1st Spawn: I didn't do it. I swear! I don't know where any of that stuff came from.

Hubber: I'll tell you where it came from! It came from you dragging shit up to your room and hiding it because you were too damn lazy to bring it back down to the kitchen... or throw it in the trash.

1st Spawn: Daddy, I swear! I didn't do it!

Hubber: Well then WHO did?

1st Spawn: I don't know. Maybe it was a ghost. I told you there are ghosts in this house! (find more on the pesky ghost here)

Yeah, that's how the conversation went. And, Hubber kept arguing with her because that's what he does. And, do you think the dish stashing stopped after that argument? It didn't. It went on for the next few months (or years... as it turns out because we found fresh stashes of shit when we moved out of the house last year). Even the contraction of staph infections didn't change her lazy ways.

After we moved and the route between her bedroom and the kitchen became almost non-existent, the hording of dirty dishes seemed to get better but other slobbish habits took over.

  1. She can't seem to close a drawer.  The clothes in the drawers aren't even overflowing.  It would take literally 2 seconds to shove them closed with a hip while walking by. 
    WTF? Just close the damn drawers!
  2. She can't seem to toss empty toilet paper rolls in the trash can that sits right under the toilet paper roll holder.
  3. She collects hair on her shower wall.  Hair. Long, gnarly strands of hair.  Her logic to collecting hair there is that it's better than clogging the drain.  Never mind the fact there is a trash can right next to the fucking tub.
  4. She co-mingles clean clothes with dirty clothes and can't keep track of what is clean and what is dirty, so when she's getting dressed in the morning, she tosses a shirt and a pair of jeans into the dryer with a dryer sheet to "dewrinkle" it, she says.  More like "freshen it up" so she doesn't smell like sweaty cooch and gym socks.
But it's not just her pig pen lifestyle that drives me nuts, she's also a lazy heifer who will fall over dead if she has to help do anything remotely related to housework.  It takes her 2 hours to wash 4 plates, 4 forks and 4 cups because she suddenly has to take a shit, then she cuts herself on the tip of a fork and starts bleeding profusely, then she bumps her head on the razor sharp edge of an open cabinet door and blood starts pooling in her eye, then she slips on dog drool and strains a hamstring which prohibits the ability to bend and load the dishwasher.

Her sister has officially started following in her footsteps.  I've tried to instill in the littlest spawn the importance of proper hygiene and picking up after her damn self. Has she learned one fucking thing? No.  She wears Depends-for-Kids because she has bladder issues at night and I got tired of washing pee-soaked sheets every fucking day.  But, can she remove the pull-up and place it in the garbage?  No.  She removes it, then leaves it in the middle of the bedroom floor where it transfers pee stink into the carpet and into the air.  She will make games of jumping over the damn thing.  She will build barriers around it so that the dog doesn't snatch it up.  But, she will not pick it up without a fight.

Why?  Because "it's gross, Moooom!", and she doesn't want to get pee on her fingers.  This from the same kid who to this day will pluck boogers out of her nose and eat them for snacks throughout the day.  The same kid who will take a shit, NOT wipe properly a wear shit encrusted panties all day.  The same kid who will scratch her ass and sniff her fingers.  The same kid who chews on her own fucking toenails. 
Turns out the dog is grossed out, too.
The other day when the girls' toilet was clogged beyond Hubber's ability to remedy it, the plumber came in, stepped over two swollen pull-ups, around a pile of clothes lying on the floor next to an empty laundry basket, and past a drawer full of teenager thongs.  Behind the toilet, he spotted an empty popcorn bag and a glass half-full of green muck that was once a banana smoothie. 

And you people wonder why I drink.
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5 Perfect Mother's Day Gifts For Needy Moms

Do you know a needy mom?  

If you're not sure... look around.  Do you see a mom whose hair is perpetually disheveled?  Are her gray roots in desperate need of coloring? Does she need to pluck a few stray eyebrows?  Does she have coffee stains on her t-shirt?  Does her left eye twitch every few minutes?  Does she carry mini vodka bottles in her handbag?  Is she always popping "vitamins"?  Does she sometimes cry for no fucking reason?  Yeah.  You know at least one of those moms.

This year, let's give needy moms Mother's Day gifts they would really love.

They deserve it, you ungrateful mofos.  They carried bowling balls around in their uteruses for 9 long, gruesome months.  They spewed real, live human beings from their loins.  And, that my friends, is no small feat.  It's a miracle, motherfuckers.  And, their bodies will never be the same again.  So, the least YOU can do is treat them to something super nice this year.  Fuck the dumb candy and flowers.  Dig a little deeper and consider a gift from the following list:

1. No! No! Hair Removal System

Every needy mom has unwanted hair.  Some, more than others.  Either way, it's a bitch maintaining smooth, hairless skin.  Every mom need's a No! No! for Mother's Day.  Look how happy the heifer in this picture looks:

no-no hair removal
You think she could have attracted that little hottie she's hanging on to if she had beard stubble?  I think not.

2. Poo-Pourri

Although my shit doesn't stink, I know a shit load of people who have some really foul smelling poop.  And, let's face it, people... ladies are dainty.  They don't want people smelling their shit and talking about them behind their backs.  It's bad enough that their hair is matted and they're growing random two-inch hairs on their chins... they don't need a stinky ass on top of everything else that's wrong with them.  So, do all needy moms a favor, and get them a Crap Shooter from Poo-Pourri.  It's a gift the entire family can enjoy. 

3. Jock Strap Maid Service

No woman would turn down this service.  Even gay women appreciate a hard body... and a bare booty. Every needy mom needs this guy in her house once a month to scrub her toilets.  Plus, you'll be killing two birds with one stone - helping an needy mom AND helping a poor, sexy guy make his way through college.  It's a win-win, if you ask me.  
jock strap maid

4. A Spec's Gift Card. You can never go wrong with booze...

Unless she doesn't drink.  Then, you're screwed.  And, you're suddenly an asshole because you bought booze for a recovered alcoholic or a Jehovah's Witness... or a Baptist, for crying out loud!  But, if in fact she is a drinker, she's got an expensive habit that needs supporting.  Look at what a good son this guy is:
his mama loves him for boozin' her up!

5. Summer Day Camp for Kids

Needy moms are usually on very tight budgets.  They usually work from home.  They get most of their work done while the kids are in school or in the middle of the night when the kids are sleeping.  But, what do they do when school lets out for the Summer? Some of them literally go insane.  Help a needy mom out, y'all!  Contribute to a worthy cause and send [at least] her [most annoying] kid to day camp at the Y.  Not sure how to contribute?  In a quick search, I found someone you can help!  Go here: Send Jessica to YMCA Summer Day Camp.
send jessica to summer camp

Hey, Bitches! Someone Thinks I'm Inspirational!

Imagine my shock and amazement when I found a comment on my site announcing that I had won an award.  That shit wasn't spam, y'all.  It was for real.  I nearly shit my pants!  So, thanks to the lovely, talented, gorgeously beautiful and superbly intelligent and funny Ellen at Bad Word Mama, I was presented with this:

If you don't believe that she actually DID nominate me for the award, here's the page where I'm listed: Holy Shitballs.  What an appropriate title to a blog post with a reference to me.  Fuck it, I'm honored!  But, as my luck would have it, this award isn't just one of those "here ya go have a nice day" kind of awards. There were strings attached. Kinda like getting married.  And, having children.  This is the story of my life.  Anyway... I have to follow some award acceptance rules lest I shalt be guilt ridden to the point of insanity by the Blog Gods and my left boob will fall off.  That would make me lopsided.  We can't have that, now can we? So, here's what I have to do:  Thank the person who nominated me for the award (done.), write a blog post containing seven interesting things about myself (ugh), and nominate 10 other bloggers for the same award (easy breezy).  So, without further adieu, here's some shit you may or may not know about me:

1. I don't wear bras or panties unless I absolutely, positively have to.  We're talking gun to the head kinda shit.  I don't go sans drawers because I think it's sexy or my coochie needs to be aired out or I'm one of the leftovers from Woodstock.  I go without because those contraptions are just too constricting and they make me feel claustrophobic. When I get claustrophobic, I tend to get stabby.  You wouldn't like me when I'm stabby.

2. I'm anal about "even stevens".  Shit has to be balanced or I start seeing spots and my tongue starts to swell.  If there's an end table on one side of the sofa, there better damn well be another one on the other side.  And, if you're gonna hang a TV on the wall, it better be right in the middle of the wall or I'll lose my shit. This is why I can't eat an open-faced sandwich or wear my hair like Deb on Napoleon Dynamite.

3. I once stole a Cover Girl mascara from Woolworth's.  I had no intentions of stealing it.  I was planning on having my brother steal it for me in exchange for a stack of Garbage Pail Kids trading cards, but that mofo wanted to charge me $2 cash for the steal (he was an entrepreneur at an early age).  Fuck that shit. So... I swiped it myself.  Afterwards, I broke out into hives and kept watching my back thinking the FBI was going to bust me at any moment.  I suck at guilt-free thievery.  

4. My shit don't stink.  Literally.  It smells beautiful no matter what I eat.  It's like honey suckle with a hint  of citrus.  I get compliments from Hubber all the time. I'm all, "I just took a dump, do not go in the bathroom"... and he goes in anyway and is all, "Baby, it smells awesome in there.  It's all flowery and nice."  True story.

5. I shave my arm hair.  And, I don't mean just my pits.  I mean my ARM hair, too.  I can't afford to wax and I'm a hairy motherfucker. I don't want to be confused for a sasquatch, so I put a razor to that shit on a regular basis.  I blame my heritage.  Mexican women are hairy, ya'll.  Thanks a lot, Mom!  If I had $300 right now, I'd go by myself a No-no.  

6. Unlike most geniuses, I do NOT suffer from insomnia.  You'd think that with an IQ like mine and a brain as big and juicy as mine is, I'd have the burden of too much thought - so much so that I'd stay up all night thinking and thinking and thinking of shit.  You'd be wrong.  When I hit my pillow, I pass out, y'all.  I can sleep and sleep and sleep.  I love to sleep.  And, I can pretty much sleep anywhere and under almost any condition.  Except, under water.  I tried that and I almost drowned.  

7. I have been watching The Young and the Restless for 25 years.  It all started when I was 13 years old and I went to spend the summer in the valley with my cousins.  They got me hooked on that shit and I haven't missed an episode in 25 years.  I love to hate Victor Newman.  It amazes me that Katherine Chancelor is still alive...she's gotta be pushing 100.  And, I'm not loving the new Abby.  They really should consult me before making cast changes

Whew.  That was tough.  But, I'm done exposing myself to y'all.  For now, anyway.  While you're anxiously awaiting my next post, why not go and check out some of these other blogs more worthy of the "Very Inspiring Blogger Award" than I am:

the goes to ...

  1. Mommy Wants Vodka - Aunt Becky will have you rolling
  2. We Band of Mothers - Marianne's kids will be in therapy soon just like mine
  3. Bad Advice from My Brother - his brother is the most cleverly fucked up person alive
  4. Inside the Mind of a Ghetto Genius - 'nuff said
  5. Motherhood WTF? - I ask myself the same question every single day
  6. Let Me Start By Saying... - Check out her new table manners for kids
  7. My Dirty Kitchen Floor - this heifer can really carry a tune!
  8. Diary of an Accidental Dad - he drinks a lot, too
  9. Oscar Barnes - the company he works for is BIG
  10. Oh, NOA - funnier than your grandma
Enjoy your award, you badass bitches!

Who wants turtle soup?

I'm not sure how it happens, but every pet I've ever owned has always had some psychological disorder.  They start out as cute quirks... but then the grow and evolve into completely psychotic mental disorders that even pet whisperers can't cure.  I once had a dog who loved to flood my apartment by biting through toilet bowl water lines.  That little bastard would break through a fucking door to attack a water line.  He was a rat terrier.  I hate rat fucking terriers now.  I had a cat that was perpetually stressed out.  She'd lose her hair over the dumbest shit.  Move her food bowl 10 feet in one direction?  Bald head.

Now I have a big, mean-looking dog who is afraid of her own shadow.  She goes without peeing and pooping for DAYS if it's raining outside. She's got a strong bladder, y'all.  And she's always nervous.  She jumps with any little noise. Close a door, the dog jumps.  Flush the toilet, she runs to her bed.  Knock at the door, she hides.  When she's feeling extra nervous, she walks laps around the coffee table.  If anyone ever broke into our house, that bitch ain't protecting her family...she's gonna save the shit out of her own damn life and leave us there to get stabbed to death.  She's the worst watch-dog ever.

My point here is that now I have a crazy ass turtle.  She's an aquatic turtle...requiring both water for swimming and dry land with hot lamps for vacationing.  It was expensive putting her habitat thingy together. Does that bitch give a shit?  No, she does not.  She uses the pool every other day for about an hour to eat and shit in... and the rest of the time, she digs her way down under the rocks and sand and stays buried.  What kind of AQUATIC animals hates water?  One belonging to me... that's what kind.

Do YOU see a fucking turtle in here? No.
That's because she was under a fucking rock!

You're fat and I know it. Click the damn link.

In case you heifers haven't noticed, there's something different about my blog.  Over there in that right sidebar are new advertisements.  Momma's trying to make some money, y'all.  Hubber's about to kick my ass to the curb if some of my writing projects don't start making money.  Go click on some of that shit.  I know some of you heifers must need to lose some weight... or build a website... or buy a domain... or stock up on sex toys... or some similar shit like that.

C'mon... I know you're fat.  You need a how-to-lose-weight plan, right?  Go click on that shit and buy a guide or some supplements or whatever.  Thank you. And, you're welcome.

How NOT Drinking Alcohol Can Kill a Mofo

Much to Patsy's dismay, I recently fell off the wagon.  Well, it wasn't really to her dismay in that I never actually TOLD her I started boozing it up again.  But, if she DID know, that heifer would be dismayed for sure.  Know what I say to that?  Fuck it.  Fuck Patsy and her skinny ass self.  I did my research, bitch!  A single shot of straight vodka only contains 100 calories... and ZERO sugars.  That's right.  NO SUGAR.  And, according to Lance Armstrong's peeps, wine has even fewer calories.  At first I was like, "should I trust Lance's peeps?  Lance is a crack whore... maybe I should do some fact checking"... so I dug a little deeper and found some amazing news from the Calorie King. Only 96 calories in 80 proof vodka!  If the fucking king of calories says it, it must be so!

Also, 96 upside down is 69.  My lucky number! And... I made it six weeks without consuming alcohol. That's gotta be some kind of world record or something.  Where's my fucking prize?

During this time, I learned a very important fact: Being sober for long periods of time will give you homicidal tendencies.  No joke, people.  Why do you think sober people are so fucking loony?  It's because they are fighting hard, every second of their lives, not to kill a mother fucker.  When you consume adult beverages (in moderation, of course), you enjoy that "I don't really give a fuck" attitude.  Which is nice when you're like me, genetically prone to craziness.

My excessive sobriety almost made me kill:

  1. my neighbors for being inconsiderate assholes every fucking day
  2. a waiter for accidentally looking like that creepy red-headed guy on CSI Miami
  3. my daughter's friend for suggesting that I was too fat for my jacket because it wasn't zipped up
  4. my sister for suggesting that I am fat by asking me to go to the gym with her
  5. my dog for taking a gazillion hours to find the perfect spot to take a shit
  6. my nail lady for suggesting that my entire face needed waxing
  7. the ice cream truck man for charging $2.25 for a fucking popsicle
  8. the snow plow driver who splashed me with slush when I was scraping ice off my windshield in a fucking blizzard
...and that's just to name a few.  So the fact that I'm officially off the bandwagon pretty much means that I bought a one-way ticket to heaven.  I'm like Mother Teresa - except way hotter.

Parenting: I think I'm doing it wrong. Again.

I don't know how the hell it happens...

...but every time I punish my kids "for their own good", I end up punishing my damn self, too!  When the little spawn gets in trouble, she is punished by not being allowed play dates, not being able to watch TV, and not being able to play with her toys or "do artwork".  That only leaves books.  And when the books get old, that heifer is all up in my shit....talking my ears off and driving me up the wall.  There isn't enough medication and booze in the world to get me through those days without going insane.  If I duct tape her mouth shut and tie her to a chair, it's considered child abuse.  What about parent abuse?!  Where are the laws for that shit?!

And, don't even get me started on the teenage punishment.  Along with telephone/internet curfews and no extra-curricular outings with friends, the oldest spawn has currently been punished by actually having to read.  That's right.  Books = Punishment.  The problem is: I have to read the damn books, too, because how else will I know what the fuck she's reading in order to quiz her on it?

Spawn:  Can I pick the book this time?

Me:  It has to be a chapter book and it cannot contain illustrations.

Spawn:  So, Calvin and Hobbes is out?

Me: .....

Spawn: Mooooom!  You know I haaaaaate to read!  Why do you torture me?!

Me:  How are we even related?  I'm ashamed to call you my daughter right now.  There are 693 books in this house, how many have you even attempted to read?

Spawn:  I read the first part of Twilight, remember?

Me: One chapter of the first book hardly counts.

Spawn: I saw all the movies... it's the same thing.  Besides, I read books at school all the time.  Smart books by famous, dead authors.

Me:  Name one.

Spawn: ......

Me: Exactly.

So, here's what she picked:
Who the fuck is being punished here?!

They don't make Clif's Notes for the Pretty Little Liars books, y'all (believe me, I've looked).  My eyes are bleeding just thinking about all the teen angst and drama that I'm about to endure with this round of punishment.  Kill me now.  Put the barrel of your gun right in my face and blow my head away to smithereens. Twice.  Just to be sure I'm good and dead.

I'd swear she was switched at birth if it weren't for the fact that she was the only white baby born at the county hospital the week of September 7, 1996. There was one Vietnamese baby and the rest were black.  I bet all those kids read!

To make matters worse, she has to bring her Geometry book home twice a week for studying.  GEOMETRY.  I don't know shit about Geometry except for pie-r-square.  Oh, wait... I can probably decipher all the basic shapes unless they have more than 5 sides.  And, even then, it's a crap shoot, what with all the parallellagrams and other similar bullshit that is absolutely useless in real life.

High school math makes me feel like a goddamned idiot.  Those teachers need to step it up and earn their keep so I don't have to do this shit at home!  I specifically chose NOT to be a school teacher because:

1. I hate kids
2. I hate math
3. I hate people in general
4. I refuse to wear panty hose; and
5. Cafeteria food sucks.

My point here is that parenting is a bitch.  When you do it "right", you suffer like a mofo.  When you do it "wrong", you end up in a prison for the criminally insane.  Either way, you're screwed.  Both literally and figuratively.  Neither of which would be considered a pleasant experience in my book.

What's the proper protocol for telling your neighbors they're a buncha assholes?

Until now, I had never lived in an apartment complex.  I take that back.  When Hubber and I first got hitched, we leased a swanky condo in the Medical Center.  But that place doesn't count because it was badass and the neighbors weren't assholes. Our neighbors were doctors and scientists and geniuses who went to bed at reasonable hours and minded their own fucking business on a regular basis.

Those were the days.

Back then, we were cool in our multi-family residential community.  Now, we're just a tired married couple with kids that drive us batshit crazy living in a shoebox apartment in the suburbs under the assholiest neighbors in the universe.  Not all our neighbors are assholes.  Most of these peeps are nice and quiet.  But the mofos directly above us need to be hung by their balls from the rafters.

Seeing how I'm not all that experienced at sharing my ceiling and walls with others, I'm not privy to the proper protocol for telling the three guys living above me that I'd like them to all die horrible, bloody deaths.  Do I just knock on the door and when they open up, simply punch them in the face with the pointy end of Hubber's ninja sword?  Last night I dreamed that a tornado struck all Wizard of Oz style and took out their apartment.  I looked out of my window and saw all of those assholes swirling around in the tornado on their way to back to Kansas (the land of Kansasholes, a place they are obviously from).

Wanna know why I hate them so much?  Let me lay it out for you:

1. Their fucking dog is an asshole. He whines/cries/barks non-stop when they aren't home (if Bobo the Sasquatch hunter lived here, he'd swear the dog was a squatch in disguise). These episodes usual occur during the day at my most optimal writing times. Which, NATURALLY, makes me want to kill a mother fucker.

2. They skateboard in the house above our living room and down the stairs right outside my bedroom.  Why they haven't fallen down the stairs proves that the universe is against me and I must take matters into my own hands.  An invisible wire strewn across the top flight of stairs might do the trick.

3. They sit on their patio and smoke and toss cigarettes down onto my car.  This tells me they might enjoy being blown to smithereens by an anonymous package of dynamite delivered to their door.

4. They think they're UFC fighters.  They wrestle around all night... banging into walls, slamming doors, screaming and pounding the floor. ALL. NIGHT. Or maybe they're a gay trio and they're just into kinky shit.  Either way, I'd like them to keel over and die.

5. One of those mofos is so heavy-footed our dishes rattle any time he moves.  This is the same mofo that has to get up to pee every night at 2:30 am.  You can set your clock to him. I don't want to set my fucking clock to him.  I want to sleep!

6. They don't scoop their dog's poop. You might think I'm hating on their dog, too... but I'm not.  It's not that crybaby dog's fault that his owners are inconsiderate assholes.

7. Sometimes they smoke the most potent weed in all of creation; leaving our apartment smelling like dead skunk for days.  Try explaining that shit to a 6-year-old.

So, those are my grievances, in no particular order.  All our other neighbors are fine.  I don't wish explosive diarrhea on any of them.  But the assholes upstairs have got to go!

I should get my mom to start a petition.

The One-Eyed African Tigers Can Kiss My Ass!

My mom has a lot of time on her hands... she has time for things like cleaning bird cages, pampering plants, collecting dead insects, clipping coupons and reading.  And by reading, I don't mean how-to books or novels or great American literature.  She's filling her brain up with all the injustices of the world.  She has become the know-it-all of every political/social/economic problem of every country in the world.  Let's not leave out animal rights.  She knows all about that shit, too.  The knowledge she has gained from her internet browsing is overflowing her brain's capacity and is literally oozing out of every orifice.  Ok, maybe not literally.  But, she is definitely burdened with finding ways to save the world from itself.  And, I think that shit is contagious because now the littlest spawn feels like she needs to start doing shit to make the world a better place.

Spawn:  Please go to [so-and-so] website immediately and send them $50.

Me: Huh?

Spawn: Don't you care about tigers?  Some only have one eye! They're becoming extinct in Africa!   We can't let that happen.  They only need $50. What is wrong with you?  Go online now!

Me: Where'd you hear about that?

Spawn: There was a commercial about it during Jessie.

Me:  Go read a book or something!  I ain't sending $50 nowhere!

Spawn:  Momo probably cares.  Momo cares about everything... animals... babies... and even the President.  You don't even care about the President!  I'm gonna tell Momo.

Me:  <going to website and ignoring that comment> Let me see here... Ah-Ha!  Looks like if you donate at least $50 they'll send you a stuffed animal.

Spawn: Well, that's what you get for saving a tiger. It's the tiger's way of saying "thank you, I'm alive"

So, naturally, I did what any good parent would do in this situation, I avoided an argument and instead pretended to send them money to get the kid off my damn back.  When I mentioned it to my mother later, she pointed at a tiny stuffed tiger sitting near a stack of mail.  It was the one from the damn commercial.

Me: Seriously?

Mom:  It was for a good cause.

Me:  You're getting kinda loony with this stuff, Momma.

Mom:  I'm just doing my part because I can.  There is so much injustice in the world.  Did you sign all those petitions I sent you over email?

Me: Uhm.  Yeah.

Mom:  You didn't, did you?  You need to.....

.....that was when I tuned out.  I saw her mouth moving and the passion in her expressions as she tried to convince me that I should be more of an activist.  But, I honestly didn't hear a word.  Crickets.  That's what I heard.

I ain't got time for that shit, Momma!  I'm too busy trying to keep my own damn self alive. Forget the one-eyed tigers in Africa! It's all I can do to make it through each day without dying or killing someone.  I ain't got time for petitions and letters to my congressmen and whatnot.  And those starving kids in China?  Sorry!  I got two starving kids at home to worry about!  Oil drilling in Alaska?  Huh?  I don't give a rat's ass!

The world is a fucked-up and unfair place.  I find bliss in ignorance.

Suck it up tiger! If a bear can wear a
patch over his missing eye, you can too!

On a side note: On my way out of my mom's house that day, I snagged that stuffed tiger up quick and shoved it into my purse.  The tiny spawn was thrilled to learn that she had indeed saved a tiger.  And, I saved my sanity along with $50. Win-win in my book. 

Shit Just Ain't Right Without My Muse

Hubber has been out of town for what seems like years and I can't seem to find the inspiration I need to write.  The realization that Hubber's new, long and tangled beard might somehow be my muse is a little unnerving.  For starters, I don't want the head on Hubber's shoulders to get any more inflated than it already is... also, I didn't think I was one of THOSE writers who needed inspiration from a real, live, breathing PERSON (or the fantastic beard attached to said person).  I thought I was inspired by aquatic turtles that hate water or trash cans full of stinky pull-ups and empty beer cans or Ancient Aliens on the History Channel.  Or, maybe even this guy:

Meet Hugh Jack-a-man, the newest member of the Hancock household.  In life, he was a fierce, strikingly handsome, big-balled jackalope whose mystical powers were second only to rainbows pooped from unicorn asses.  In death, his head hangs proudly on the wall above my desk where he can look down on me while I write and shower me with inspiration.  But, as much as I love him, Hugh hasn't done shit for my ju-ju yet.

So, now that Hubber and his long beard are gone and Hugh continues to stare dumbly into nothingness, and I can't booze it up every night like I'd like to, my writing has really suffered.

...Which leads me to a very important question.  Why don't bottles of vodka include nutrition information?  I need calorie counts and sugar content information, mother fuckers!  Fat girls on diets need booze, too!  I could be putting some of that shit in my diet 7-up if I knew it was low on sugars.  But NOOOOO!  It's like the entire alcohol industry is out to get me.  It's a conspiracy.  I bet Al Gore is behind this shit.

But, I digress.

Either Hubber needs to mail me some beard hairs or Hugh needs to quit being a little bitch and start
beaming with smart and witty inspiration.  Maybe I need to buy him a bow tie.  THAT might make his smarter. It works for Sheldon Cooper.

Vomit, Nudity and Tequila

Patsy:  How are you doing without the booze?

Me:  Do you think I'm an alcoholic?  Because I most certainly am not.  If anyone MIGHT be an alchy it's Hubber.  That mofo drinks beer every day!  I only have a swig or two of vodka a few times a week.

Hubber: Hey, now.  I only drink beer daily because you make me!

Patsy:  She MAKES you?

Hubber: Yeah. She's collecting beer bottle caps. She told me I needed to drink at least a six-pack a day in order for her to have enough bottle caps to finish some stupid table thing she's crafting.  She did calculations and mapped it all out!

Me: Oh, yeah.  I forgot about that. I'm not really going to make a crafted, mosaic bottle-capped table.  I just like him when he gets tipsy and dances around the house in him skibbies while the dog howls.  It's quite entertaining.  And, seeing how we're broke all the time, I have to get my entertainment any way I can!

Patsy: No alcohol.

Me/Hubber:  Yes ma'am.

Which reminds me of the very first time I had to swear off of the booze.  That time, though, Pasty wasn't there to force me. I did it on my own.

I was 17-years-old and had just broken up with my boyfriend.  And by "broken up with", I mean "dumped by".  Back then I got dumped a lot.  I'm sure they did it because they were intimidated by my intelligence and beauty.  They figured I'd be famous some day and I'd end up breaking their hearts when I ran away with Johnny Depp... so they beat me to the punch and dumped my ass early on.  Back in those days I was a real drama queen (boy, how times have changed).  Usually, REVENGE was my cure for the blues.  What better way to avenge my broken heart than by crashing a house party with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a hot dude (who drove a Camero) in the other?

Turned out, the joke was on me that night.  The last thing I remember clearly is seeing my ex with some big-boobied floozie and deciding I'd spend the rest of the night taking tequila shots and swapping spit with the Camero Boy. After that, the night is a complete blur.  At one point, my legs gave out on me and I fell on my knees and I blanked out.  When I came to, I was in a strange bed, wearing a Depeche Mode concert shirt that was too tight and Camero Boy was cleaning someone's vomit up off the floor.  I picked up the phone near the bed and called one of my girlfriends to tell her that someone at the party had stolen my shirt.  Then, I blanked out again.  I woke up the next morning in my own bed with bloody knees wearing nothing but my panties.

That was when I swore off tequila.  I was married with children the next time I ever drank nearly that much alcohol in one sitting....but I'll save that story for another time.  Suffice it to say that it also involved vomit and nudity.   And not in a good way (unless you're Hubber).

My point here (if there really is one) is the fact that I can't have booze right now isn't necessarily a bad thing.  I'm probably performing a public service.

But, y'all better watch out!  When I get to hit the bottle again, I'm gonna hog wild!

I wonder what ever became of Camero boy..

I don't wanna be an anorexic fat girl!

I've spent three days detoxing from all the crap that is [quite literally] sitting inside me.  Patsy (our dietitian, who you will grow to know and love as much as I do) broke it to us without any sugarcoating, "There are probably 20 pounds of undigested fecal matter just sitting inside you waiting to fulfill their true destiny: to be flushed down the dang toilet!"  And, yes, she used the word "dang" instead of "fucking".  Patsy is just proper that way.

Her graphic bluntness, however, makes me want to puke.

That shit won't leave my brain.  It follows me around all day making everything I eat resemble a steaming pile of shit.  Now I can finally understand why anorexics can go without eating. All they have to do is think of all the gross, undigested red meat rotting away in their stomachs.  It's enough for me to want to overdose on laxatives and spend a few days reading trashy fiction and playing SongPop on the toilet.

Instead, I'll just go with the flow and follow the advice of professionals.  I like to eat.  Crapping all day is a waste of time.  Besides, all the science behind this shit is way over my head. Like: how in the hell does what you drink come out of your pee-hole and what you eat come out of your poop-hole? how does sugar seep into your blood stream?  why does drinking a shit load of water make your blood pressure go down? why the fuck do you have to get up and pee 3 times a night even after you peed like a race horse right before bed time? why the fuck does pork have to contain so much sodium? what's wrong with sodium?!

I could read a Dr. Oz book or wrack my brain for hours wondering how it all happens. Or, I could just say "fuck it" and let the next six months go by in a self-induced ignorance coma while I hold Hubber's hand and let Patsy lead the way.

Note to self: ask Patsy not to ever use the term "fecal matter" around me again.

She said lettuce, I heard BACON

Hubber and I are buckling down (for sure this time, mofos) and getting serious (I mean it, bitches) about losing weight and getting fit.  I know you heifers are all like, "suuuuuuure you are".  But, we are.  And this time, we're investing a lot of money in this shit, which should help somewhat with accountability and whatnot.  We even have a counselor/dietitian lady we have to physically visit three times a week.  This ain't no bullshit, y'all.  I'm telling you this is serious business.

So, yesterday when Patsy (dietitian) was giving us creative ideas for preparing the shit ton of green vegetables we have to eat over the next few days (detox phase), I kept thinking she was saying "bacon" every fifth or sixth word.  I kept having to stop her to clarify that indeed she had just said "wrap your chicken in bacon".

Me: <totally dumbfounded> It's ok to eat bacon wrapped chicken?!  I thought we couldn't eat pork.  You guys don't consider bacon to be pork?  This is the best news I've gotten all day! I love bacon.  Oh, sweet, sweet bacon!

Patsy: <very confused> Wait... what?

Hubber:  How does anyone confuse the word "lettuce" for "bacon"?  Only my wife.  <rolling eyes>

Patsy:  Hahahaha!  Oh, you two are too funny!

Me: so, no bacon?

Patsy: NO bacon.

This same very pathetic conversation repeated itself a few more times during our 1-hour counseling session. I'm sorry, but the words "taking", "baking", and "spinach" all sound like bacon.  Ok, maybe spinach is a little far fetched but at that point I was only half-ass listening.  Visions of plump little piggies and bacon wrapped, cheese stuffed jalapenos kept dancing around in my head while Patsy yammered on and Hubber nodded his head like what she was saying was so interesting and reasonable.  There's nothing reasonable about not eating pork, y'all.  God invented pigs for the sole purpose of being turned into bacon and pork chops and chicharones and pozole and carnitas....!

Hubber: why are you so caught up on bacon?  It's not like we eat it a lot.

Me: when someone tells me I can't have a certain thing, I just want it more.  Remember that time you said I couldn't have that jackalope head?  Remember?!  Soon after I wanted two heads... then four... then an entire herd of them!  My jackalope dreams have multiplied like crazy. The same thing is going to happen with bacon.  I'm going to get obsessed. You'll never hear the end of it. ARE YOU PREPARED FOR THIS SHIT?!

Hubber: I've learned to tune you out.  You know... like you tune the kids out.  I can do that.

Me:  I should be offended by that, huh?

Hubber:  Huh? Did you say something?

I hate him sometimes.  He loves bacon, too.  He was just pretending to be all big shit mister tough guy around Patsy.  The second we got home, he said, "Call me crazy, but it kinda smells like bacon in here, huh?"  Lord help us.

Homeless people beg for money on street corners because the government won't give them food stamps! They have too much cash on hand!

I was only 21 when I bore my first spawn.  Although I was in college at the time, I obviously wasn't making the best decisions.  I left home a year before she was born because I thought I knew it all.  My parents didn't know shit; and, I was old enough to make my own decisions and live my life the way I saw fit.  To sum it up, I was a fucking idiot.  I only got to live it up for a few short months before I got knocked up.  I stayed in school, worked a couple of jobs and lived in a "duplex" behind a barber shop. It was kinda hard to make ends meet (duh), so I took the advice of a friend and went to the "welfare" office to apply for food stamps.  They turned me down.

Welfare Natzi:  We can't help you.  You make too much money.

Me:  I get minimum wage and I go to school.

Welfare Natzi: Yeah, but you work two jobs.

Me: They're both part-time.

Welfare Natzi: Also, you have a car.  That's considered a liquid asset.

Me: It's a 1981 Pontiac Bonneville. It has no A/C, the gas gauge doesn't work, there are no seat belts, the driver's side door won't open and only two of the four windows will go down.  It's worth $5.  Tops.

Welfare Natzi: Are you currently pregnant?

Me: Uhm, NO!

Welfare Natzi: That's too bad. If you were pregnant, we could definitely help.

Me: I can't afford the kid that I have now and you want me to have another?!

Welfare Natzi: I don't make the rules, I just follow them.  Apply again if you lose your jobs or get pregnant.

Yeah.  That interview for food stamps was a fucking eye opener.  Here I was, a single mother, living in squalor, driving a kid around in a death trap, working two jobs, going to school and trying to make something out of myself.  All I was asking for was a little bit of help FEEDING MY CHILD...but the fucking government could care less.  The only way I could become a burden on society was if I was about to spew out another poor unfortunate soul from my loins.  My conclusion: The system is fucked up.

Fast forward 16 years.

My family of 4 is now living in an apartment.  Neither adult is working a REAL job.  I've got my writing jobs and the ball shaving thing, but basically, we're living off of our savings until shit starts to "happen" for us.  

For shits and giggles, the other day I decided to give this food stamps thing another try.  It's got a fancy new name now (the "Lone Star Card") and you can apply online and whatnot, so I figured it must be all evolved and shit from the olden days.  I figured wrong.

My "case worker" called for my required "phone interview" and after an hour of interrogation, she gave me the bad news.  

Welfare Natzi #2:  Your liquid assets (there's that term again!) put you way over the top.  You have too much cash on hand. We can't help you.

Me:  Your mean our savings?

Welfare Natzi #2: Yes.  Unless it's in a 401K or something like that, it's considered "cash on hand".  

Me:  ....meaning?

Welfare Natzi #2: ...meaning, you can use it to live off of.

Me:  That's what we're doing.  

Welfare Natzi #2:  Well, when it all runs out, feel free to apply again.  Unless you're pregnant... if you're pregnant, we can probably help...


It was around that time that I hung up on the bitch.  The system hasn't changed much in 16 years.  I can't believe I wasted an hour of my life on that phone call.  I could have been shaving a hairy man's back and making some CASH ON HAND... but nooooo.... I had to think there was a little bit of good left in the world!  

That welfare natzi bitch owes me $50 for wasting my fucking time.

I wonder where I can go to collect?

I ain't praying for your constipation to end

Sis:  Hey, on the radio show I was listening to, they were talking about all the stuff on Facebook that annoys people.  This one guy said he hates it when people ask for prayers but don't say what they want you to pray for.  I may be guilty of doing that.

Me: Yeah, you do it.  It's annoying as hell.  You're all like, "keep your fingers crossed for me today!"  I hate when you do that shit.

Sis: What's the big deal?  Maybe I don't want everybody to know my business.

Me: Then why say anything at all?

Sis: Because some people DO know my business... and THOSE people will keep their fingers crossed or say a little prayer for me because they KNOW what the heck I'm talking about!  And those who don't, are usually kind enough to send good vibes my way simply because I asked for them - no strings attached!

Me: Well, that's just fucked up. And, it pisses me off more because sometimes you put that shit up there and I see people commenting about how they'll pray for you or cross their fingers for you as if they ARE in on your secret, undercover bullshit... while I have NO FUCKING CLUE why you need me to cross my damn fingers. How the hell do they know what's going on and I don't?!  How?!  I feel the sudden need to punch you in the eye right now.  I wanna pull your hair, too.

Sis: Calm down!  You always know, you just forget!  I tell you shit and you listen only half-assedly!

Me: For all I know, you could be having a serious bout of constipation!  I ain't wasting my prayers on your SHIT!  I have to use my requests to God sparingly.  And, don't even get all up in my good mojo....that shit is saved up, too.... for serious requests!  I could care less about your bowel movements unless you're on your death bed. Are you dying?!

Sis: Who the hell said anything about my shitting habits?!  YOU'RE the one talking about me being constipated!  All I said was that sometimes I post statuses on Facebook asking for a prayer or two.  You don't have to comply!!

Me: When it comes to prayers and finger crosses, you get NADA unless I am privy to the REASONS.  You hear me?  You shouldn't even be posting that shit on there unless you're gonna tell us all what the heck is going on.


Me: Case closed.  I'm over this conversation.

Sis: Why do I even talk to you?

Me: <La la la la la la... >>

Well, thank GOD!  I thought you never would!

My adult play dates are sadly lacking in debauchery

Today I spent the day with my sister.  We started off with pedicures then went out to lunch for some pupusas and agua de tamarindo.  We were feeling especially ethnic for some reason.  We even talked about Our Lady of Guadalupe because I'm hoping to create a mexican folk art shrine on one of my bedroom walls in honor of my grandma who loved the shit outta that virgin.  I even almost stole the OL-of-G napkin holder from the restaurant... if sis hadn't been all, "God is gonna strike you dead if you put that thing in your purse; and what would Mimo think?  She'll roll over in her grave!" I probably woulda snagged it. I hate when she gets all Catholic-y on me.  Those peeps are good with spreading the guilt. Next time I go there, I'll go without her. I need that napkin holder.

We continued our play date with a visit to the segunda (thrift/resell shop) in search of el-cheap-o swimsuits for my youngest spawn.  Yeah, I buy used swimsuits... so what?! Kids' swimsuits are fucking expensive.  $20 for a new suit is a lot of money when you're poor like I am (and getting low on booze).  I need to find suits of the $5 variety.  But to my dismay, there were ZERO swimsuits in stock at the segunda.  The lady working there said they're "not in season" yet and to "try back in a couple of weeks".  We live in Houston, Texas, bitch!  There are no seasons here!  They had rows and rows of parkas and snow pants and it doesn't even snow here.  It's 80 degrees out today for crissakes!  No swimsuits?  That's just ridiculous.

Me: These bitches just lost out on my business today!  I was going to spend some money up in here!

Sis: I'm sure they'll be crying over the $6 you would have spent.

Me: $6?  More like $5.

Sis: Pfffffft.

Me: What's with all the furry fucking coats?!  This ain't Alaska!

Sis: You need to calm down and come back in a couple of weeks.

Me: I ain't coming back here.  I'm just gonna buckle down and buy the $15 swimsuit I saw at Target. So much for my Cruzan Rum.

Sis: You're such a cheapskate!

Me: ....says the heifer who just put back a pair of $6.99 jeans because they were "too expensive"!

Sis: Touche.

Me: Touche my ass.  The segunda sucks, yo.

Sis: Let's go play "Battleship"!

So, instead of ending our play date on a sour note, we went back to my house for a friendly game of Battleship where we reminisced about the olden days when the Battleship boards were made of steel (instead of the chintzy plastic shit they're made of now).  The Battleship games of our day even made those badass "you sunk my battleship" sounds (which are completely non-existent nowadays - unless you make them with your own mouth). Those were the days.

Obviously, I'm related to a cheater.
She better go to Confession this week!