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.

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..

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.

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.
 

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?

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: 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!