Snarky Heifer

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.

Anyway...

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?

Wrong.

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.

Pinterest – makes me feel good and shitty all at the same time

Pinterest is my new love. It is also the newest thing on my list of “things that make me feel inadequate.” It falls right between super-mom-bitches and talented-crafty-wenches. But, I just can’t help myself… I can never get enough.

For those of you too damn lazy to look it up, Pinterest is a virtual corkboard/pinboard where you visually “pin” or save things and share them with others. Here’s what you’ll find on most Pinterest boards:

Badass clothes that you wish you had but will never look as good on YOU as they do on the SUPERMODEL.
Places you can only dream of going to if you hit it big in the lottery or marry a billionaire who is about to croak.
Fancy-looking food that never turns out like the fucking picture when you try the recipe.
Funny shit that you aren’t clever enough to come up with yourself but wish you could.
Crap that you’re dying to have but would never buy for yourself so you hope that someone following your “pins” gets the hint and buys that shit for you.

I know I’m talking shit about it…and there I go posting crap to mine all the damn time. I hate it. But, I love it!! It’s kinda how I feel about my children.

On a more serious note… Pinterest is great for motivation. Seeing all the skinny bitches in pictures encourages me to get off my ass and exercise. Which is where I’m going now.

Evidently, Dental Implants Need to be Brushed Just Like Real Teeth

Thanks to the NFL play-offs, I've been watching commercials a lot lately. It's kinda fun watching how men are being marketed to. There's a lot of erectile dysfunction stuff... beer... and surprisingly, dental implants. "Tired of cleaning your dentures...?" is how one of them started.

Me: Wow! So, I wonder if you can get all your teeth pulled and implants installed in just two visits?!

Hubber: Sure, if you can afford it.

Me: That's awesome... and you won't ever have to brush your teeth again! Imagine how much money you'll save on toothpaste...and mouthwash...and whitening treatments! We should totally do this.

Hubber: Wait. What? You still have to brush your teeth.

Me: No. Their marketing message revolved around the fact that you'll never have to clean your dentures again.

Hubber: If you get IMPLANTS you won't have DENTURES to clean anymore... you'll still have TEETH.

Me: But, they're not real. They won't rot!

Hubber: You'll still have bad breath!

Me: Hmmmm. Gum? Mints?

Hubber: And gingevitis!

Me: Oh.

Hubber: What's the use in having fancy, white fake teeth if your gums are puss infected, bleeding messes?

Me: Well, there goes that plan.

Hubber: You need to start thinking these things through before making plans.

Me: Fuck you.

Hubber: Brush your teeth first.

So, what's the use in replacing all your teeth if you still have to brush them? I don't get it. If you're toothless and wearing dentures, wouldn't it just be easier to whip those bad boys out every night and let them soak themselves clean?

Do YOU want my fucking advice?!

Why the fuck do people ask me for advice then not take it? I don't understand. I'm a pretty common-sensical type person. I usually tell it like it is. I've been around the block a time or two. And as an added bonus, I've even fucked up royally and learned from my mistakes (mostly). So, when I've got something to say about something I may have a clue about... TAKE MY FUCKING ADVICE. I dole these golden gems out by the buttload for free, y'all. And, this shiz is priceless!

If you're the type of person who has a hard time deciphering between good and bad advice, maybe this will help:

BAD ADVICE: Just be yourself.

GOOD ADVICE: Pluck your fucking eyebrows, shave your legs, squeeze into a pair of spanx, suck on a mint and wear a push-up bra.

BAD ADVICE: Get all the facts straight before reacting.
GOOD ADVICE: Shoot first, ask questions later.

BAD ADVICE: Always wear a clean pair of panties.
GOOD ADVICE: Go commando: save water, save the earth.

BAD ADVICE: Drink in moderation.
GOOD ADVICE: Drink up, bitches! You only live once!

But seriously, y'all. If you ever ASK ME a question and I take the time out of my busy fucking life to answer you, take that shit to heart.

That is all.

Kids say the shittiest things... it's a wonder I let mine live

Teen Spawn: You have really nice legs, Mom.

Me (bewildered): What? I have no money.

Teen Spawn: No, really, they're long and lean.

Me (admiring my legs): Hmmm. They ARE kinda nice, huh?

Teen Spawn: Yeah, but it's kinda weird.

Me: What is?

Teen Spawn: They're just kinda outta proportion or something.

Me: Oh, HERE we go. You should stop now.

Teen Spawn: I mean... they're like toothpicks holding up a potato.

Me: You have 3 seconds to start running before I kick your ass.

Tiny Spawn (looking at my legs): Hmmm... don't listen to her, Mommy. Your thighs are chunky like a marshmallow.

Me: If I weren't medicated and sipping on Mommy Juice, the two of you would already be dead.

HOLY SHIT, y'all... I'm Mrs. Potato Head!

Malls Can Kiss My Fat Ass Twice a Day... and Three Times on Sundays

Please be warned: this has nothing to do with my trials and tribulations as a freelance writer.

I hate strolling through the fucking mall. Nevermind the fact that I'm anxiety-ridden, impatient and slightly claustrophobic (there's medication for all that), my issues with malls go deeper. Don't get me wrong, I love to shop. But, I'd rather drive and park in front of each store I go into. All this walking-through-the-mall crap is bullshit and highly over-rated. And, the older I get, the more passionately I want to blow those bitches to smithereens.

First of all, there are those pesky kiosks situatued... well.... EVERYWHERE... and the people running them are annoying, pushy assholes. The super fun thing about them is that I seem to be a magnet for them. They seek me out and offer me ProActiv for my PMS breakout... or fat burning cream for my belly rolls.... or hair extension clips for my thinning and graying hair.... or my favorite, miracle hand cream that claims to be a manicure in a bottle. And, when I kindly decline their fucking offers to beautify myself, they get all pissy and holler after me. Next time I go to the mall, I'm going to wear a shirt that says, "FUCK OFF KIOSK FREAKS".

Then, there are the teeny-boppers. I get enough dose of teenager in my regular, daily life. I don't need to be exposed to that shit while I'm having my "me-time," too. All the giggling and sashaying and trolling is ridiculous! I don't remember ever behaving like these kids do. And, taking my teen spawn to the mall only makes the experience worse because we have to go into all the "cool" stores. And by "cool" I mean "stupid, shitty and over-priced". You know... the ones that are overly crowded and reek of cheap perfume and loud music. Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie and Fitch, etc... everyone working in these places is a teenager, too. They don't know shit, they can't find shit, and it takes every ounce of patience in me not to smack them upside their big, empty heads.

Ok, I'm done.

But I'll leave you with this brilliantly written song:

Foghorn Leghorn = Fucking Awesome!

Don't get me started on the cut-off uniform shirts!

Gonads, Ice Picks and Husband-Eating Zombie Wives

If Hubber begins one more sentence with, "Since you'll be at home all day doing nothing, could you..."... I'ma pluck his eyeballs out with a rusty ice pick and squish his gonads between my freakishly strong toes. Then, I'll pull his hair. And for good measure, I'll scrub the toilet with his toothbrush.

For some strange reason, Hubber seems to think that I roll out of the bed each morning and assume this ritual:

slurp down a cup of coffee
stumble into my house slippers
drive starving teen spawn to school
get back home and crawl back under the covers
take magically dressed, sugar-filled kindergartener (with shiny clean teeth) to school
get back home and crawl back under the covers
take a two-hour nap
turn the tv on and watch soaps and talk shows while munching on Cheetos and drinking rum and coke
roll back out of bed to frolick around in the backyard with the dog
"play" on facebook until it's time to pick teen spawn back up from school

I wish, mofo!

Instead, shit usually goes down like this:

fall out of bed
try to spruce myself up a bit to look alive
scream at teen spawn to hurry the hell up
beg tiny spawn to get up
answer a few work-related emails
plead with teen spawn to eat/drink something before we leave
argue that we do NOT have time to go to McDonald's on the way to school
drag tiny spawn out of bed kicking and screaming
pile kids up in the car and drive to the high school
halfway there, teen spawn freaks out that she forgot something at home
more arguing takes place
drop teen spawn off at school
get back home to get tiny spawn ready for school
fight with tiny spawn regarding hair/teeth brushing and NOT having a popsicle for breakfast
remind her that panties and socks are essential on school days
answer a few work-related emails
take tiny spawn to school
sit in the car line for at least 10 minutes while other jackass parents figure out how to fucking drop their kids off and move the hell out of the way
get home and let the dog out
scream at dog for fighting with neighbor's dog
feed animals / clean litter box
make FIRST cup of coffee
answer work-related emails
return a couple of calls
work
wash some dishes
work
throw a load of laundry into the washing machine
work
sit in on ridiculously long conference call while catching up on some writing
pay bills
run to the grocery store
work
look at the time and freak out that I only have 10 more minutes until I have to pick teen spawn back up from school

I'll stop there because what comes next deals with carpooling... arguing with teen spawn... running (literally) in the direction of tiny spawn's bus stop so the bus driver doesn't get mad at me for being late again..... getting write-up from teacher because my kindergartener can't behave at school... arguing with tiny spawn about her television priveledges... trying to get more work done... etc. etc.

Then, Hubber gets home all tired, wondering what the fuck I did all day and why we're having cereal again for dinner and why I didn't wash a load of whites.

2011: It's a Wrap!

2011 was a tough year for my family.

It's been nearly a year since my grandma started hangin' loose with the sweet 6 lb, 8oz baby Jesus in heaven. And, it seems we've all been stumbling through the year making up new family traditions for ourselves without her. Shit just isn't the same without that ol' gal. But, the world keeps turning and life seems to be going by at full speed.

On the homefront, we had to adjust our lifestyles to my new career move. You know, THE MOVE. The one that resulted in less income but more freedom. The one that relieved me from stress and restored some of my sanity. The same move that has injected me permanently into the daily lives of my children. Yeah, that one.

I've watched my teen spawn mature a little. She appreciates having me at home and has been a real trooper when it comes to budgeting for material things she was accustomed to getting at the drop of hat. I'm one proud momma.

I think I've had to adjust more than anyone else. I haven't bought myself new clothes or shoes in over a year. The funny thing is that I didn't even realize that I have been going without until I was cleaning out my closet the other day. Some things just aren't THAT important.

Also, I've learned that "working from home" isn't as easy as it sounds. You still have to bathe, shave, manage your time, juggle "work" and "home", and deal with dumbasses on semi-regular basis.

All in all, though, life is good.

Happy Holidays! May 2012 bring great adventures!

We're More Like the Griswolds Than Cousin Eddie's Peeps

Although telecommuting isn't always all it's cracked up to be, the one constant positive thing about it is that I can work from anywhere. And by "anywhere"... I mean ANY FUCKING WHERE! Like here, for instance:

Hellooooo, Minnie Winnie!

That's right, people! The Hancocks bought a second home...and this bad boy has wheels! His name is Minnie Winnie. Like a small weiner. (But, we all know, size doesn't matter. Besides, Minnie Winnie has very ginormous balls.)

So, why did we take the plunge? Well, Hubber had an itch. I guess it's the caveman in him. The last time he had this itch, I nearly died... and in order to live through his itch this time, we decided a motorhome was the way to go.

The first itch took place several years ago when Hubber introduced me to his kind of "roughing it." It was loaded with nature, tents, sleeping bags, fires and more nature. Momma don't like too much nature, y'all. But, I'll try anything once... so I was a good sport about my first camping trip. Mother nature, however, wasn't too keen on my dabbling with her affairs. First, it was hot and muggy and mosquitos were everywhere. Next, it was so cold I thought my nips would break right off the ends of my boobs. Then, it rained. All night. As I lay in my tent. Dying. I kid you not. And, to make matters worse, in the middle of the worst rain storm in history, my toddler decides to contract explosive diarreah. Climbing (but mostly slipping and sliding) a half mile uphill in the dark of night to find the restroom nearly killed us both. It's a miracle that I lived to tell the tale.

So, when Hubber got the "we really need to go camping" itch again... the solution was either DIVORCE or buy a motorhome. We figured a divorce would be too taxing on the children so we opted for the latter.

Which makes the entire family happy. The "real campers" can pitch a tent if they want to, but Momma's gonna be warm and cozy inside her Minnie Winnie; banging away on the laptop, sipping coffee and watching trash on television. And, when the explosive diarreah stikes (and it WILL strike), the toilet will only be 6 feet away!

Although I sure hope that when the shitter gets full, Hubber doesn't turn into this guy:

I can't make this shit up, y'all....

For the second time in my entire history of motherhood, I attended a Thanksgiving Feast with my child. The first time, was with the oldest spawn when she was in 3rd grade. I was in the lunch line with her when some loud-mouthed jackass kid asks my her, "Hey, is THAT your mom? She's fat!" In my mind I reached over there and kicked him in his teeny tiny nutsack. In reality, I shot him the bird and he turned right around and minded his own business. After that most joyous day, I realized the older kids got, the assholier they got, too. So, I figured that would probably be the first and last time I'd go and have lunch with my kid.

Fast-forward 6 years and my youngest spawn is in kindergarten. At this age, kids are still kinda cute so I figured I'd probably be safe against verbal attacks. Also, my youngest would proably kick someone's ass if they talked smack about me to her face. So, when I was invited to have a Thanksgiving lunch with her, I said, "sure, let's try this shit again!"

Everything was fine. Great, as a matter-of-fact. I chit-chatted in the lunch line with some parents. I sashayed my fat ass around like the confident heifer that I am. It was all cool.

That is, until we sat down at our assigned spot at the lunch table. Directly across from us was another kid and her mother - a police officer in full fucking uniform.

Here's where shit went downhill fast.

Spawn: What does that badge say on your arm?

Cop Lady: It says, "police officer."

Spawn: YOU'RE a policeman?!

Cop Lady: Yep.

Spawn: Do you have a gun?

Cop Lady: Yeah... it's right here, see? (tapping her hip holster)

Spawn: Cool! My mom doesn't have a gun.

Cop Lady: Really?

Spawn: Nope. But, my dad does.

Cop Lady: Really?

Spawn: Yeah. He's a boy. He likes to shoot stuff. Especially bad guys and SQUIRRELS!

Cop Lady: He does, huh? (glancing at me)

Spawn: Yeah. He hates them because they drop a lot of acorns in our pool. Also, they make a mess by the back door.

Cop Lady: Hmmm. (staring a hole in my head)

Me: Hey, don't look at me... I don't even know the guy.

So, there goes our family's reputation with this group of parents. By the time my tiny spawn gets to 3rd grade, this story will be exaggerated to astronomical proportions. I'm sure that by then, Hubber will be a convicted felon who kills cute, tiny, doe-eyed puppies and eats their hearts raw.

The funny thing is... he's never even actually hit a squirrel with his bb-gun. :)

Sheesh.