Face it, ladies...chivalry is dead.

The damn hippy feminist movement screwed everything up for us. Men don't buy dinner...they don't buy flowers...hell, they don't even open doors for us anymore! Sure, I believe in equal rights and equal pay and shit like that...and I consider myself to be pretty independent...but damn, it sure would be nice to feel the love once in awhile. Ladies, we need to start making it harder for men to get into the panties! Make them bend over backwards...lift heavy boxes...open doors...do car maintenance...pay for the pleasure of our fabulous company! Shit like that! I mean, what is up with the world these days?! THIS HOO-HA COMES WITH A PRICE, DANGIT!

I'm talking shit, but I find myself opening my own doors....opening my own jars...getting my oil changed in my car...buying car batteries and getting car brake checks. I find myself buying my own damn flowers...hoisting my own heavy boxes up and down stairs. There is something wrong with this picture. Now, if the men in my life were answering my phone for me...taking my messages...washing my clothes...buying my groceries...bathing my kids...scrubbing my toilet, etc. etc. then I wouldn't be complaining so much. I would be accepting this flip flop in expectations and moving on with my damn life. But, shit is NOT going down like that. Shit is all messed up. And men are lazy fucktards. And we're dumb ass bitches for letting them get away with it. We need to start a new movement...one involving men on their knees, groveling, ready to be at our beck and call. Yes. That's what we need.

I know we can't change them all overnight, though. But, we can start small...using Hubber.

When there's nothing else better to write about...

I can't think of one damn thing to write about except for my new favorite word, "fucktard" (thanks, Clay!). Everything is now fucktarded and everyone is now a fucktard. (Except, of course, for me and anything I do. But, that probably went without saying...since I'm perfect and my shit don't stink. Duh.)

The jackass in the black truck who blocked two lanes of traffic on Jones Rd. this afternoon trying to make an illegal left turn, causing me to swerve and almost friggen kill myself due to being smashed to bits by oncoming traffic....fucktard.

The cop who thought it was prudent to ride up my ass for 5 miles just waiting for me to goof up so he could flash his lights (which let's face it, might as well be his big blue balls up there waiting to explode around his pencil dick)....fucktard.

The pimple-faced-idiot working the cash register at the pharmacy who thought it was ok to ask if the tampons I was buying "work good"....fucktarded fucktard.

The doctor (and master of the friggen obvious) who likes to point out that I'm overweight like I'm so goddamned delusional that I couldn't figure that one out for myself....fucktard.

And finally, the genius with the wrong number who keeps calling my cellphone just in case it magically turns into the number of the poor bitch he's desperate to talk to...fucktard:

*ring...ring*
Me: Hello, again.

Genius: Jennifer?

Me: Nope, you STILL have the wrong number. Face it, buddy, that chic played you.

Genius: Are you sure there's no Jennifer there?

Me: Uhm...let me check AGAIN....yes, I'm sure.

Genius: But this is the number she gave me.

Me: Ok...well, she gave you the wrong number. Sorry.

Genius: Really? I don't think so. Let me try it again. *click*

WTF!? Is this fucktard for real? Maybe he has some loose screws...the lights are on but no one's home...he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer....

*ring.....ring*

Me: Dude. YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER.

Genius: Is Jennifer there?

Me: AHHHHHHHHH! You're a fucktard.

Genius: Huh?

Me: A fucktard.

Genius: Is Jennifer there?

Me: *sigh* Nope, she died yesterday....she had massive hemorrhoid flare ups that ruptured and killed her.

Genius: Oh my god. I'm so sorry. Is she going to be ok?

Me: Yeah, she's chillin up there with baby Jesus. She said to tell you to fuck off.

Genius: Can I leave a message for her?

Me: Not with me, honey...I'm probably going to hell. *click*

I blocked him from calling when I finally gave up trying to convince him that he's a fucktard. Some people are simply clueless and don't have the capacity to understand just how fucktardish they really are. A guess that's why I'm here...to enlighten all the fucktards. Hell must be a million dollar mansion full of super hot men and bad ass fat chics with tattoos and killer handbags.

Missing Old Folks

If it weren't for the fact that Hubber works for an old folks home....excuse me, "assisted living community"...coupled with the fact that because he works with these people I get to hear all about how INSANE they are which scares the crap out of me because this is what we will all become some day and I need to give them a break because when I grow looney, I would expect the same the same kind of break...if it weren't for all that, those damn Amber Alerts on the freeway signs during rush hour would send my ass over the edge.

For some reason it doesn't bother me when the signs relay messages about missing or kidnapped children, but when the "elderly missing" signs are flashing at 5:15 p.m. just as I'm determining whether to get on the freeway ramp or take the feeder or back route home, it gets me all worked up! Why can't those damn old farts stay put? Why the hell do they get the urge to wander all over creation at the precise time I'm counting on the traffic signs to actually relay TRAFFIC news?! And it sure seems like they're getting loose more frequently these days.

I blame Hubber for this sudden surge of awol old farts. Everything is his fault. He's letting them loose just to drive me nuts and make me late to work and late coming home...he gets his kicks when I'm all crazy pissed and mad at the world.

Hubber: Hello?

Me: Tie those fuckers up, damnit!

Hubber: What the heck?

Me: Tie their wrinkly asses to their bed posts so that I can make it through traffic without losing my damn mind. Shit!

Hubber: I believe all our residents are accounted for.

Me: Nope...one's loose, driving a blue Buick LeSabre evidently, and heading towards friggen Austin on 290!

Hubber: I didn't think Buick LeSabres still existed.

Me: Who cares! Get your ass on the phone and tell Transtar you found the guy so they can clear the signs!

Hubber: I'm sure the missing guy's family wouldn't appreciate that.

Me: He's probably dead in a ditch or something anyway...you'd be doing half of Houston a favor.

Hubber: What if it were your mom missing?

Me: My mom can't DRIVE.

Hubber: Or my mom?

Me: Seriously? Don't make me answer that.

Hubber: good bye. *click*

Uhm...so, I guess I hit a dead end. I can always count on Hubber to ruin my day by working for old farts.

Further Proof That I Like Dogs

Would an obsessively paranoid mother who hated dogs allow her child to get this close to the face of a 70 lb Mastiff?

Meet Harley, the newest member of our completely insane family. She's only 9 months old and is already weighing in at over 70 lbs! I know, I know...after all the ranting and raving about poop in my yard (see previous poop stinks like shit post), here I am, contributing to the cause. The only way Hubber would agree to such nonsense was if I promised on a stack of bibles that I would be in charge of poop scooping. I've decided that once scooped, I'll either fling it over the fence into the yard of a clueless neighbor or stockpile it and spread it ever so generously in the yard of the yip-yapper-dog-neighbor who I detest....I will call it returning the favor. Just when I thought lil J's poopy diapers would suffice, along came the largest dog EVER...who, in a matter of months will bless us with the hugest, most stinkiest, closest to the size of elephant dung mountains a girl could only dream of. It will be the sweetest revenge.

Husbands Plotting Murder

Last night there was a story on the news about a woman who “fell” off of a cruise ship into the ocean and has not yet been found. Her husband, who is not a suspect in this case, reported her missing. Uhm. Ok. First of all, I’m sure she didn’t FALL off the damn boat. And, second of all, do we really think her husband is NOT a suspect? C’mon. You know that sonofabitch pushed her off the damn boat. It’s always the husband. Always. Hubber didn’t agree…

Me: now THAT is why I’ll never go on a cruise with YOU!

Hubber: huh?

Me: You know what I’m talking about! The only reason husbands take wives on cruises is so that they can push them overboard.

Hubber: You’re crazy. If I wanted to push you into your drowning death, I wouldn’t PAY to take you on a cruise first! I’d do it the cheap way and just dump your ass over a bridge or something.

Me: SO! You’ve thought about it, have you?!

Hubber: or….when we’re in Destin on the 10th floor of that condo building, I’ll just push you off the balcony!

Me: The balcony is not over the WATER!

Hubber: …minor detail….

Me: I’ll never go anywhere with you again!

Hubber: or….on the drive to Destin, there’s always that long bridge in Louisiana….hmmmm….

Me: I hate you. No sex for you.

Then he mumbled something under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out but that I’m sure had something to do with how different sex would be without me when I’m dead…he’ll be sorry.

Holidays and New Starts

Well, the holidays are almost behind us....just gotta make it through New Year's Eve unscathed. Thanksgiving was mostly uneventful, unless you count the fact that I hosted it this year and we had 23 gazillion people sloshing around in our house. And we had two Christmas parties here since then. I'm all partied out. And I miss our housekeeper who's been on vacation for what seems like years...the dirt is piling up and there are remnants of Christmas morning buried deep in rugs and carpets. I honestly don't know how we managed to survive so many years without her weekly cleaning. We must have lived like goddamned pigs. One more week without her is going to force me to do the unthinkable...clean my own house. God forbid.

Celebrating Christmas with lil J was more fun this year than last. She seems to have a grasp of the whole concept now...singing carols and whatnot. And it's nice to have fresh blood in the house who still thinks Santa is watching her every move. J has been hip to us for awhile now...but lil J is still a sucker and we took full advantage of that shit in getting her to behave her damn self. It worked, most of the time. Except when we were at J's choir concert at school. Lil J didn't give a rat's ass if Santa was watching her by god...she was going to sing along with the choir and act a damn fool in front of a few hundred people if she damn well pleased. Some people thought it was cute...others were totally annoyed because they didn't drag their asses to school at 7:00 at night to watch some 2-year-old singing prodigy, they were there to watch their kids sing Silent Night in sign language for crissakes. Me...I was mortified. Needless to say, Hubber sat alone for the second half of the show and lil J and I excused ourselves (loudly, I might add) to the parking lot where more toddler singing and dancing took place. This child has way too much energy for me.

She's a monster, I tell ya!

Anyway...

I haven't taken much time off work for the holidays...which is a damn good excuse for a shitty looking house. I've been working my tail off. And, I've actually been going TO the office since it's been quiet with all the people gone...I'm even getting shit done for a change. I've almost managed to clear all the clutter off my desk in anticipation for a clean slate for the new year.

They say that clutter is a sign of genius. I believe it.

Labor?


It's labor day weekend and I vowed to observe the holiday spending four labor-free days at home, lounging and what-not. Yes, FOUR days. Whenever possible, I make it a point of taking full advantage of 3-day weekends by extending them. There were plans for many coconutty adult beverages and much pool lounging.


My labor-free plans were soon foiled. Evidently, powers much bigger than me had something else in store for my labor-free weekend. Not only did I find myself connected to my employer more often than I would have liked, Hubber somehow managed to wrangle me into helping him with...dare I say it....yard work. Not the fun, re-potting plants kind of yard work, either....I'm talking the back-breaking kind that only an all-night alcohol binge can cure. Which I was too darn tired to have, by the way...because of broken backs and swollen hands and blistered feet and other things that make me groan in PAIN. We need to hire yard guys.

Welcome to my World

Just a day in the life of yours truly.

Poop Stinks Like Shit

Let me preface this by saying that I love dogs. I love me some big, burly, huggable dogs. I grew up in a home with dogs. I love to pet dogs and roll around with them and play fetch and take them for walks and reward them with snacks. I do not, however, own a dog. Why would such a huge dog-lover like myself NOT have a dog, you ask? The reason is, I do not like scooping poop. If a dog could be potty-trained, I'd have 10 of them. Dogs aren't that damn smart. They like to poop right out in the open. And, poop, well, it stinks like shit....and the smell of shit makes me gag. Hence, the lack of dog in this house.

proof that I actually like dogs

Now that I've expressed how I feel about dogs, I'll get to the point of this here rant. What I hate more than scooping poop is STEPPING on it in my yard. I have the yard of a non-dog-owner, so I expect my yard to be poop-free. Is that too much to ask for?? IS IT?! Some dog-walking neighbors seem to think so. They let their dogs run free, pooping in every yard they pass (what do they feed these animals??)...never mind the homeowner's association newsletter's pleads for dog walkers to clean up after their dogs as they go....never mind MY disdain for dog poop toe jam.


There's this one lady who has FIVE little yip-yappers. She walks three on leashes and two run free, all at the same time. To make matters worse, her hands are free of poop scooping supplies. And she can barely control the leashed dogs while the others crap and urinate all over town! I wish to shoot her in the eye with David's bb gun. That's how much I hate her. One day I caught the gang red-handed. I dropped what I was doing and jetted for the front yard. Here's how it went...

Me: ---clapping hands and making kicking motion with my leg--- BEAT IT, DOG!

Dog Lady: Come here, poopsie (or some such ridiculous name)

Me: Ma'am, you're going to have to clean up after your dog.

Dog Lady: Ok.

Me: No, it's not, "O-K"....you let your dogs poop all over the neighborhood and not once have I seen you with a trash bag to clean up after them.

Dog Lady: Ok.

Me: And, for the record, I have a toddler who likes to play in the yard - MY yard...a yard that I OWN...that your dogs have no business POOPING in!

Dog Lady: Ok.

Me: I'm serious! You better come back here with a trash bag and clean this shit up!

Dog Lady: Ok.

Me: If you don't, I will find out where you live and I will empty the contents of every single one of my child's diapers into your yard so that you will know how it feels to be shitted on.

Dog Lady: Ok.

Then, she just walked off. Her careless attitude drove me insane. I'm not sure whether she came back to pick up her dog's crap after all. But, I've seen her and her gangle of dogs many times since then. Her hands, as always, are free of trash bags.

I do, however, now know where she lives.

Two can play this game!

You-Tube

In our house, we like to discover funny videos on You-Tube. We like to pass the time laughing at all these fools making stupid videos. Some of them are pretty hilarious. J is facinated with this Fred guy on You-Tube (www.youtube.com/user/fred). He's a 14-year old kid acting like a 6-year old with an alcoholic whore-ish mother. His voice sounds like that Joe Cartoon hamster in a blender thing. Remember? He's ridiculous. And why I allow my child to look at those videos is beyond me.

I, on the other hand, am loving Jon Lajoie. Who? This guy: www.youtube.com/user/jonlajoie. He's just an everyday normal guy. His newest video is entitled "show me your genitals." He's a genius.

Parenting a pre-teen is hard work. Especially when you're practicing the artful parenting tactic know as "flying by the seat of your pants." I'm becoming quite masterful at it. I make up the rules as I go. And, I can do that. Because I AM THE PARENT. Thank you very much. J just tests us to the limits...she pushes and pushes us until we're forced to scream at the top of our lungs, pull our hair out and cry, even. What happened to our little girl? That little angel who liked to sit on her daddy's lap or cuddle up next to her mommy in the couch? It's like she's mutated into this disrespectful, ungrateful, loud, bossy, whining lunatic. I don't remember being this way when I was her age. I waited at least until I was 15 to begin driving my mother batty. J isn't even 12 yet and already I'm going over the edge.

Box Fans in Windows and no Walkie-Talkies

Well, it's happened. I've finally become one of THOSE parents. You know, the kind that like to remind their children how good they have it? I catch myself doing it all the time. And once my mouth is open, there's no stopping the flow of crap that spews forth into one of the ears of my oldest daughter and right out the other one. My mouth can't help itself, it's got a mind of it's own. My brain is saying, "Ok, she's not listening, you're wasting your breath. Plus, you sound like a complete and total idiot." But my mouth is still moving as if Shakesperean poetry is swirling around on my tounge. It's inherent with being a parent, I think...the bullshit you try to feed your kids - those ungrateful little heathens.

When J complains that her furniture is dated - that it's for little kids and she's not a little kid anymore. I tell her about how when I was a kid I was LUCKY to even have furniture. We piled our clean clothes on the floor next to our beds. We sat on old milk crates to watch TV. Then I go on and on about how we lived in a old house with no air conditioning and how we put a box fan in the window (J doesn't even know what a box fan IS!)... but that didn't cool things off, it just moved the hot air around enough to dry your sweat. And when she wants a new comforter for her bed she gets the story about how we didn't even HAVE comforters on our beds when we were kids. It was so dang hot in the house that we slept on a sheet with barely any clothes on to stay cool. She should be more thankful for what she has and quit complaining about how she doesn't ever have enough!

On the flip side, I think it's our fault as parents that our kids are so clueless. We were raised in low-income households often going without the material things our friends had. And we remember how we felt as kids, seeing others enjoying their "stuff" while we played with dirt and sticks and fire (if you were with my brother). So, as adults, we vowed to give our children better lives than what we had...and we translate that into material things rather than love and attention and security and crap like that. I am guilty. I work hard to make money to buy stuff...to live more comfortably than necessary. And, although I bitch and moan about how my kid doesn't appreciate anything, I turn around and buy her more crap just because I can. What the heck is wrong with me?

Right now my unappreciative, disrespectful ingrate of a pre-teen is grounded from her friends, cell phone and computer for the weekend. When I was her age, I didn't even have a walkie-talkie or a typewriter to be grounded from! We were grounded from stepping outside of our bedroom. And, there was no television in our bedroom. We had to sit in our hot, muggy room with only a hand-me-down radio serving as a connection to the outside world. We were lucky if we were allowed to have dinner! And, I can't even get my kids to eat - I have to bribe them!

Running With Scissors

Remember those things your mother always told you never to do? Like sticking your finger in an electrical outlet (lest you shalt die)... or sticking your tongue to the freezer ice growing in your freezer (lest you shalt lose your tongue, then die)... or running with scissors (lest you shalt fall on the sharp end and stab your heart, then die).... or poking your brother in the arm with the lead of a pencil (lest he shalt contract lead poisoning, then die while you get the ass whipping of your life)... or wiping from back to front (lest you shalt contract some horrible infection, then die). Ok, I digress.

In any case, my point here is that either my mother-in-law didn't pound these warnings into my Hubber's rather hard head when he was growing up, or he's lost a few of those important memory brain cell thingys over the years... because look what I discovered the other day:



Yes, that's right... our just-barely-two-year-old daughter almost stabbed herself with scissors on her birthday! Why? Because her Daddy, let her play with them while he helped her open her gifts. Notice she's holding the pointed, very sharp end of the scissors TOWARDS her fragile little body. Also, notice the false sense of security on her face. She thinks she's a big kid who can hold scissors near her heart without the chance of it ending up in a red, bloody mess on the floor. This kid has a lot to learn. As does her father.

Flex Work Schedule

Today, I worked from home. It's one of new "alternative/flexible work schedule" options now offered by my employer (thanks to me, of course, for pushing the matter). It was heavenly. Aside from the fact that I spent most of the day with a brown nose as I begged (in the most professional manner) for sponsorship dollars, it was nice not to have to get up at 5:00 a.m., debate about what to wear, apply make-up, blow dry hair, feed lil J, rush to drop her off at day care by 6:50, then sit in traffic for over an hour....just to end up sitting behind my computer and on the phone for 8 hours.... something I can certainly do from the comfort of my own home, with no regard to mascara and mousse and heels and TRAFFIC. Being at the office when there are no meetings or other obligations is entirely overrated. I vote we work from home at least 2 days a week! Think of all the gas money we'll save... and how the stress will just melt away... and the money we'll save on dry cleaning... and how we'll be close to our families. If only it would also make us skinny... now that would be perfection.

Summer Lovin'

Well, Summer is officially here. Which means we are faced with a very tough decision. To vacation or not to vacation. That is the question. Ok, so Summer actually started two weeks ago, making us fashionably late on making a decision...but that's how we roll. Gone are the days when we planned trips and took a week to pack for said trips. These days, we fly by the seat of our pants. It took me exactly 1 hour and 23 minutes to pack for a 7-day road trip to Mt. Rushmore last March. Aren't you proud? I attribute this new found lack of planning to the fact that I'm getting old and lazy. Plus, it makes things more exciting! (And it keeps Hubber on his toes.)

So...first we decided to go to Destin. Then, no, we can't go to Destin, we must, must, must go to Disney World. Then, think again, given the price of gas these days, a road trip to Disney World would be way too expensive...looks like it's going to be Destin. Then, BAM. Turns out we can go to Disney for super cheap if we stay at some shady hotel, eat bread and drink water for 4 days and 4 nights. So, Disney it is! Not.

Last week, as Hubber was staring up at the big oak tree in the back yard, he decided that the 263 limbs that have been hanging over the roof of the house since time began MUST come down at once! No ifs ands or buts about it. It's hurricane season for crying out loud! So, the trip is off again. And our bank account is about to have a stroke. And my plans to buy new vacation shoes and handbags have vanished into thin air...all that's left are deep, empty holes in my heart where images of pretty little shoes and fabulous bags used to be.

We will be taking some vacation time, though. Where will we go, you ask? Well, right outside to our backyard. We'll save on gas... and packing... and unpacking... and listening to The Wiggles ad nauseum... and all the other hassles of taking two children on a road trip. I may not get to buy new shoes and handbags, but I'll certainly be stocking up on on Malibu Rum and Tequila Rose. Hey, a girl's got to get her kicks somehow!

Beauty and the Beast

I'm not as beautiful as I was Pre-lil J and it isn't because I've gotten older and fatter and lazier, either. It's due to lack of beauty sleep. I don't think there is anyone I hate more than the parent who BRAGS about how their 6 month old baby sleeps through the night... as a matter of fact, this is usually a parent whose freak child even sleeps 10-12 hours without waking up once...not one time. Meanwhile, lil J has not slept more than 3 hours straight for the past TWO YEARS. Even when highly medicated (which she NEVER is unless she is very, VERY ill, of course), she refuses to sleep like a regular human being. She wakes up several times a night with requests for such things as a cup of juice, someone to help her put her blanket back on her, a diaper change, or a larger bed in which to sleep in - one which already contains two not-so-small people. Her new favorite request is to go sleep on the couch. Which makes me wonder if maybe she's some sort of alien being. Some sort of beast from another planet - sent here to make my life a LIVING HELL.

Let me break it down for ya. The following is a typical night in my Honeymoon Suite:

9:00 p.m.: lil J goes down for the night. She is placed, ever so gently into her crib, the covers are tucked up around her and the tag of the blanket is placed into her cute, little hand. A sippy cup is placed near the rail, within baby reach should she feel parched within the hour.

10:00 p.m.: Sippy cup is empty, lil J is stirring. Both Hubber and I are fumbling around as fast as we can to fill up the cup before she wakes up for good.

10:13 p.m.: The second cup is empty and I am worried that she's probably got a full diaper by now. I reach in...and sure enough, the diaper is about to explode.

10:14 p.m.: I change the diaper while J sleeps.

10:30 p.m.: I finally fall asleep and begin dreaming of blue coconut slushies and baskets full of chili cheese french fries and money, and lots and lots of money...

11:18 p.m.: The beast is awake. Hubber tries to soothe her so that I don't have to get up (he's my hero!), but it doesn't work. I'm up, too. First she wants a new cup. Then, she wants Daddy to carry her. Then, she wants to lay in bed with Mommy and Daddy. Then, she wants more "juice" (watered down pedialyte). Then, she needs another diaper change. Then, she wants to go back to her bed (thank the lord).

11:50 p.m.: Hubber puts her back in her bed.

12:00 a.m.: Hubber crawls into bed with me.

3:00 a.m.: "MY CUUUUP.....MY CUUUUUP??!!" the beast screams in horror from her crib when she awakens and realizes her cup is not within baby's reach. Both Hubber and I wait, motionless in bed. Each hoping that the other will handle the panicky beast. Each praying that the next words that come out of the beast's mouth are the name of the other parent.

3:03 a.m.: "DAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDYYYYYY!!!" I win! I win, I win, I win! Hubber has to get up. Poor thing. Foul words pour out of his mouth like poetry....taking me back to dream land...while he gets up to tend to the beast.

3:20 a.m.: The beast has had a drink and is now asleep again.

5:00 a.m.: TWENTY MINUTES from the time my alarm clock is set to go off, the beast is awake again! This time, she's wet and needs a diaper change. "Just a minute," I beg her....I MUST get my 20 minutes of sleep in before getting up for work. But, she's relentless. Her pleads for a diaper turn into screams for her cup again.

5:10 a.m.: I'm tired and I'm pissed. I change her diaper and put her back into her crib with a fresh cup of pedialyte/water. David is snoring.

Fun, huh? Yeah, we love it.

I'm convinced that God is punishing me for all the bad things I ever did in my life....Hubber is just an innocent victim being dragged along in my punishment because he was crazy enough to marry me. That's what he gets.

Remember Me?

It's hard to believe that two years of my life have passed since I last updated my blog. A lot has happened since then. Most importantly, we've subtracted two members of our family and replaced them with one, very colorful member. In short, lil J came and Kali and Rosie left (turns out the new kid was allergic to cats -- we should have realized then that our lives were about to get turned upside down). Yep, lil J in all her glorious toddler-ness has livened up things around here. Our home will never be the same again. I'll fill you in on lil J stories later, but suffice it to say, she is not yet 2 years old and she's already speaking in complete sentences, singing songs, counting from 1 to 10, and keeping us all on our toes (that's nice for "driving us nuts"). As for little, innocent J? Well, she's pre-teen now. We're going through terrible two's and teenage hormones all at the same time.

Don't let these cute faces fool ya! They're out to get us...they would like to see us dead....they would like to suck all the life from our souls...then stomp on our heads until they explode. That's right.

I probably don't have to tell you that Hubber's hair is really turning gray. Poor thing. Me? I've really learned how to get my drink on. I've replaced water in my diet with Malibu Rum and diet coke. It's lovely....especially when downed with Xanex. Just kidding, I don't take Xanex - Errrr, much. But, it's only a matter of time.

Klump...Klump...Klump...

Hubber calls them Klump feet (you know, like Sherman Klump), I call them Flintstone feet and J calls them Chubby feet. It doesn’t matter what you call them, though, they’re huge. Youuge, huge! I’ve got some big ass swollen feet, ya’ll! And with the right shoes, my ankles just kinda flap over the sides. It’s disgusting, actually. There is no good remedy besides 24-7 bed rest to get the swelling down, either. No Epson salt foot soak. No degree of elevation. No honey/cinnamon scrub. No cold compress. Nothing. Ya hear me? NOT A DANG THING! And as if the need for size 12W shoes wasn’t bad enough, I’ve got some seriously raunchy belches. It doesn’t matter what I eat. Popsicle = squished, old cherry belch. Cereal = rotten milk belch. Salad = wilted, molded, dog run grass belch. We won’t even getting into fish or burgers or Sonic blue coconut slushies for crying out loud! Speaking of which…ya’ll. The bladder has gotten smaller. I’m like a granny…going to pee every 2 hours…including in the middle of the night.

Here’s how I spend most nights (and the baby ain’t even born yet!!):
1. toss and turn
2. finally decide to start the night on the left side
3. stuff squishy, long pillow under belly
4. stretch same said pillow to reach knees
5. stuff squishy, long pillow between knees
6. pull and tug blankets up to neck
7. be sure to leave airways for toes to breathe
8. breathe sigh of relief
9. sleep for 1 hour
10. wake up with sudden, violently serious need to pee
11. roll over to back
12. breathe
13. roll over to right side
14. breathe
15. sit up and dangle legs over the side of the bed
16. breathe
17. stand up slowly
18. almost pee on self
19. wobble to the restroom while trying hard to keep legs as close together as possible so as not to pee on self
20. find the toilet
21. pee
22. wobble back to bed

Rinse and repeat.

How do I not remember all of the ailments of pregnancy? Ten years wasn’t that long ago. I think there’s a little trigger in women’s brains that makes us forget what pregnancy and delivery is all about and tricks us into thinking it’ll be fun to do it all again.

On the flip side, though…my finger nails are growing beautifully! And my belly, ya’ll! My belly is the best thing of all! It hides the fact that I’m a fatass! I love it! Also, I lost 8 pounds in the first trimester…gained nothing in the second…and started the third with only a 2.5 pound gain! And 2.5 pounds is what the baby is supposed to be weighing right about now…which means…it’s all baby weight! Even the elephant feet don’t weigh an ounce! With J I gained 30 pounds! With this gorgeous, wonderful hunk of baby, I’ve only gained 2.5 pounds so far! Yay me! This pregnancy thing is the best diet ever! I keep stuffing my face and I don’t gain any weight! Maybe I should have 3 or 4 more. Or, maybe not.

Speaking of skinny people. Sis, too! She’s due in November…which means our kids will only be 5 months apart (or so). I told my mom to quit praying for grandkids…God’s granting prayers by the butt-load right now! What she oughta do is start praying for some lottery winnings!

Well, Hello Stranger!

Ok, so I come back to my blogger after a little hiatus and what do I find? Comments! Actual, live, real comments! You would not believe my excitement when I logged on and saw 14 COMMENTS! I was thinking --- finally! someone's actually reading this crap! I'm so popular! I'm the queen of blogger world! But. Then I read them. And people! They were not comments. They were advertisments! Did you hear me? ADVERTISEMENTS. My blogger is getting spammed! Ok, now listen here all you jerks that are leaving comments and not really reading my....my....poetry! Quit leaving me advertisements! It's rude. It does not make me want to visit your stupid sites on beauty tips and such nonsense! You are wasting your time on this here gal.

So, now I'm kinda bummed that really, no one is listening to me. No one cares about me. I'm all alone in my own blogger world. Sad.

My current life in a nutshell...

Well...let's see....my last entry was back in April. Back when our house was still new and fresh. Back when we were rich in love and cash. Back when we only had one kid to worry about. Did you catch that? ONE kid. Yep! You guessed it. I'm pregnant! 15 weeks to be exact. Did you catch the "cash" thing, too? No, I'm still working. It's hubber. He's been a house-husband since mid-September. In a way, it's been nice having him around all the time. But, we're starting to miss the moolah associated with actually having him go to work to collect a paycheck. Hey --if someone's actually reading this, you can help! Go here: www.cyfairhomeinventory.com and give his new company a little business. Or better yet - forward the site to all your friends...and all your friends' blogs...and to stranger's blogs, even. Or...I've got something better! Just send cash!

How's that for advertising?

Getting Into The Groove...

Now that I'm a homeowner, there seems to be less hours in the day. When my eyes are open and I'm floating through what's supposed to be my real life (not a dream), I sometimes find myself on some bizarre and strict schedule which includes driving for THREE. HOURS. A. DAY. Not all at once - but pretty damn close. When it first started I thought I was going to drive myself right over the side of a bridge and end it all. Who ever heard of driving THREE. HOURS. A. DAY. to get to and from work? Even when the hubber helps with the carpooling and cuts about an hour off my time, we're still talking TWO. HOURS. A. DAY. And who'da thunk the simple act of buying a home would cause such nonsense?

Then, I got to thinking. I'm the dumbass that asked for this.

Moving to the country comes with certain inherent responsibilities. One being yard work. And lots of it. Another being driving. And lots of it. After a few weeks of swearing, honking and bashing my forehead against the steering wheel, I decided I'd better calm my ass down if I wanted to live a life free of migrains and ulcers.

So, I caved. I became a commuter. And a serious one, at that. I've learned how to apply makeup while in traffic. I've learned to quiz my kid on spelling words while in traffic. I've learned to allow people to merge in front of me even after they skipped to the front of the line while in traffic. I've learned to catch up on phone calls to family while in traffic. I've learned not to shoot the bird when other drivers won't let me merge after I've skipped to the front of the line while in traffic. Now, if I could just learn to send text messages without taking my eyes off the road like my sister does, I'll be all set!

Things that make it all worth while...

Sometimes, when I'm not behind the wheel, I find myself floating through life in a sparkling pool located in the best backyard EVER. Or piddling away in my greenhouse. Or walking J up the stairs while she says "good night" to Hubber 25 kazillion different ways. Or sipping on a Cruzan & Coke while Hubber's outside flipping Pappa burgers. Or staring in amazement at this huge thing I own - of this new, wonderful life I'm a part of. Those are the hours I lose track of. So, maybe they make up for all the time I spend driving.

1st Time Homebuyers

Back in December, when the Hubber and I first began our search for a house, we were so nervous and timid and unsure of ourselves. Back then, we didn't know what to expect....from realtors and lendors to inspectors and insurance agents...the thought of going through this process made us ill. Back then, we were clueless. We thought that once we found THE house, we'd be spending hours and hours in stuffy banks and offices with agents in power suits and ties. We thought it was the stuff we'd seen on TV.

Boy, were we shocked to realize that people are handling business right from their own homes. They actually work a 9-5 job and sell houses in their free time! They sit around at home in their underwear, scratching their asses with one hand and typing our financial info into their computer with the other. All the while, the dog is barking, the kid is crying and the TV is blaring. It's kinda hard to talk business with someone over the phone when you hear "Daddy...Daddy...Daddy" in the background on the other end of the line.

The other day, I listened to a voice message that went something like this: "Hello Mrs. Hancock. This is [So-and-So] Ward. I'm with [So-and-So] loan company and have been assigned your file. There are a few items I need clarification on. Please call me at your earliest convenience so that we can expedite your loan. *BARK*BARK*BARK*. I can be *BARK* reached at *BARK* [blah, blah number] until *BARK* 5:00 p.m."

There was a little yapper in the background. So, I'm thinking...hey, that's cool...they let them take their pets to work! Then, I started thinking a little more clearly...this "WARD" person....could she be related to our loan officer? Why, I wonder if she's his wife? The other day when we met him at his office [Starbucks], he said something about his wife helping out with the business. Hmmmmmm.

So, I call her back and I ask her if she is by chance [So-and-So's] wife. And she said she was! I thanked her kindly for the very professional message she left me and let her know that I thought the dog barking in the background was a nice touch. She laughed a little, but I could tell she was embarrassed. That's when the baby started crying. Well, I'll be.

Later Hubber and I share notes. Apparently this lovely lady called him today, too. She called him on his CELL PHONE....

Hubber: This is Hubber with [So-and-So] company.
Lovely Lady: Can you transfer me to HR please?
Hubber: Uhm. This is my cell phone. I can't TRANSFER calls.
Lovely Lady: This is [So-and-So] Ward calling to verify employment for Hubber.
Hubber: Well, this is Hubber and I verify that I work there.
Lovely Lady: I'll need to speak to someone in HR.
Hubber: Well call this #: [blah blah number]
Lovely Lady: Thank you. *BARK*BARK*CRY*CRY*

Click.

Very strange that one. Very strange. With a dog and kid like that, I'd probably lock those loud little heffers up in a sound proof room while I was on the phone CONDUCTING BUSINESS.

Maybe I'm in the wrong business. Is there money in processing loans from home? This is something I need to look into. My ideal job would be sitting my fat ass in a hot tub, clicking away on a lap top and yammering on the phone about hundreds of thousands of dollars each day....while people are sweating bullets and signing their lives away.

Claw...

That's our new nickname for Rosie, the hell cat. At first we called her Stitch. Because she reminded of us Stitch...you know...from Lilo and Stitch? "Ohana means family and family means nobody gets left behind." We hated her. But we loved her.

Since we got her declawed, though, we haven't hated her so much. She's been pretty docile. And the thing I like best about the new Rosie is that she lets me manhandle her. I grab her up...I rub her down....I carry her like a baby....and she doesn't fight to get away from me (like Kali does when I show her too much attention). Rosie turned into a dog. And I love her for that. Because I love dogs. She's our new cat-dog. (I watch way too many kid shows). Anyway. My point? Yes. Well. As you know, Rosie's been recuperating from declaw-surgery. Which was a traumatic experience for the entire family. We've finally gotten our household back to normal. No more antibiotics to force down a cat's throat. No more fake (paper-type) stinky-ass kitty litter to endure. No more shit-stained leg bandages. Just plain ol' normal-ness. Or so we thought. First J noticed something odd.

Ju: Rosie's still got claws!
Me: That's absurd.
J: Seriously! Something on her paw got stuck to my shirt.
Me: Maybe it's poop.
J: MOOOOM! it's a CLAW!
Me: Can't be a claw. Maybe it's just the stitch. It probably got hooked onto your shirt somehow.
J: Nope it's a claw.
Me: Whatever. Go take a bath.

And that was the end of that conversation. I mean, seriously! It made no sense that a declawed cat would have a claw. My kid was obviously nuts.

So, then a few days later, Hubber notices the same thing.

Hubber: I think Rosie still has a claw.
Me: Not you, too!!
Hubber: Something sharp just poked me in the balls!
Me: Uhm. What?!
Hubber: I'm serious! (he said as he attemped to inspect each and every cat toe for a possible claw.)

Sure enough...Rosie had one claw...her middle finger on her left paw. Maybe it was her way of shooting the finger at us! That little heffer reserved the last laugh!

Me: How can she have a claw?!
Hubber: They must have missed one?
Me: They don't miss CLAWS when they declaw!
Hubber: Maybe they miscounted.
Me: How can she have a claw?!

So I call the vet. And I talk to a person named Kimberly who was no help at all. I explained the situation.

Kim: What do you mean she has a claw?
Me: SHE HAS ONE CLAW. She got declawed. But we found a CLAW!
Kim: I've never heard of that.
Me: Well, neither have I!
Kim: So, you say she still has one claw?
Me: (pounding my head against a wall) Yes. So, how do we handle this situation? Does she have to have surgery again? Do I get reimbursed for the one claw? Do I get free vet visits for life? What?!
Kim: I don't know. Declawed cats aren't supposed to have claws. (well duh!!) You'll have to bring her in so the Dr. can look at her.
Me: (very tired of this conversation) Ok.

Then later that night Hubber suggested we demand our $260 back so we can take Rosie to a vet who knows how to count to 20. Or that we demand free claw-clipping for life. But I don't want to take that heffer to the vet every week for a clipping!! He thinks that once a week is better than enduring the hellish-3-week-post-surgery lifestyle.

If anyone's reading this and you have advice regarding the demands I should make...email me, quick!

Maybe I'll just leave the claw there and let her poke people with it. It's actually kinda cute.