My Momma Mantra is "Do as I say, not as I do."
My kids are fucking doomed, y'all. I don't think I should have ever spawned children given the the fact(s) that...
1. I don't even LIKE kids.
2. I fucking cuss all the damn time.
3. The smell of shit makes me GAG.
4. I'm a selfish bitch.
5. I have a very, VERY low tollerance for groups of kids (2 or more) congregating in one place.
6. I have an even lower tolerance for asshole parents who think their kids are more special than everyone elses.
7. I hate Chuck-e-Cheese (or any variation thereof).
8. I am useless with the whole "scared of the dark" calming-kids-down thing because I'm fucking scared of the dark, too! And monsters? Shit...I am scared of those, too! I ain't checking the damn closet or under the bed for those bastages. I don't even let my foot dangle off the edge of the bed for fear that fucking Freddie Krueger is going to have my ass for dinner. Although, I guess if Freddie wanted me...it wouldn't even matter if my foot was dangling or if it was covered
up because he'll get me in my dreams either way. Which also scares the living shit out of me. Ohh...and aliens. I hate them, too. That reminds me of our trip to Roswell, NM. Actually, we didn't go TO Roswell on purpose...we drove through it on the way home from Colorado and spent one night there. Those people are fucking weird. I think they've all been abducted and returned to scare tourists. We all plugged our assholes with ear plugs that night, just in case. And there were tons of bugs there... you know, like on Men in Black? Akk. Which leads me to the next fact that makes me a shitty parent...
9. I don't kill bugs....and I freak the fuck out around frogs and worms and lizard-type things of any kind. That includes geckos. And roaches. And beetles. And roaches. I HATE roaches! Especially the big, juicy, flying ones! I'll scream like a little baby if one tries to attack. Which, therefore makes me useless to my children.
10. I drink a lot of adult beverages.
11. I sneak money out of the Disney World fund bucket to buy coffee. And shoes. And girl scout cookies. (Just kidding on that last one....just thought I'd throw it in there to make me seem like less of an asshole.)
12. I rarely cook dinner.
13. I rarely cook lunch.
14. As a matter-of-fact, I rarely cook. Period. (But when I do, it's fucking awesome, y'all.)
15. And last, but certainly not least: I hate cleaning up after people. Including myself. In fact, the only "cleaning" I don't so much mind is doing laundry. Unless it smells like ass or rotten feet. In which case, I fucking hate doing laundry.
Social Media is Kicking My ASS
For awhile there, I was the queen of the internet....blogging, tweeting, myspacing, facebooking, texting, etc. I was even able to keep up with a web site and all the crap I get paid real money to do. Then, something happened. I lost my damn mind. The next thing I knew, all I had going for me was the work I get paid for, texting and my personal facebook page (yes, I have two accounts). All this internet shit is overwhelming. Remember when no one knew anything about you? Back in the day when you CARED how much postage stamps cost and cell phones weighed 15 pounds? Now, cell phones fit nicely under your bra strap and you can use rolls of postage stamps to wipe your ass because they aren't good for much else.
Wait.
That wouldn't feel very nice, would it? And what if the stamps rolled off and stuck to your cheeks mid wipe? Ok, so maybe you wouldn't wipe your ass with them....maybe you'd give them to your three-year-old as a treat for going potty. Although, my kid would prefer to have "silver monies, please"....which is better than "paper monies" I suppose. Hell, if Lil J would poop in the goddamned toilet, I'd give her stamps, coinage AND duckage! But nooooo.....I keep throwing all my dough away on new panties from Target instead. Shit. Literally.
Anyway. I digress. What the hell was I saying?
Oh, yeah. Social media is kicking my ass.
For awhile there, I was the queen of the internet....blogging, tweeting, myspacing, facebooking, texting, etc. I was even able to keep up with a web site and all the crap I get paid real money to do. Then, something happened. I lost my damn mind. The next thing I knew, all I had going for me was the work I get paid for, texting and my personal facebook page (yes, I have two accounts). All this internet shit is overwhelming. Remember when no one knew anything about you? Back in the day when you CARED how much postage stamps cost and cell phones weighed 15 pounds? Now, cell phones fit nicely under your bra strap and you can use rolls of postage stamps to wipe your ass because they aren't good for much else.
Wait.
That wouldn't feel very nice, would it? And what if the stamps rolled off and stuck to your cheeks mid wipe? Ok, so maybe you wouldn't wipe your ass with them....maybe you'd give them to your three-year-old as a treat for going potty. Although, my kid would prefer to have "silver monies, please"....which is better than "paper monies" I suppose. Hell, if Lil J would poop in the goddamned toilet, I'd give her stamps, coinage AND duckage! But nooooo.....I keep throwing all my dough away on new panties from Target instead. Shit. Literally.
Anyway. I digress. What the hell was I saying?
Oh, yeah. Social media is kicking my ass.
Maybe I'm the one who is a schizophrenic psycho...yeah...
I am fairly new to the whole psychotherapy thing. Is it just me or does everyone leave their therapist's office feeling like a total fuck-up? Don't get me wrong, I like my therapist, but I hate having all my faults and problems brought to the forefront. I liked it better when I could pack that shit away in a deep closet in the bowels of my brain....you know, back there where all the geniusness is screaming to be free. I'm actually paying money for someone to tell me I'm screwed up. Tell me something I don't know, damnit!
One of my girlfriends calls her therapist THE-RAPIST. Heh. That's something clever I would normally have come up with if it weren't for all the crap eating away at my geniusness. And, what the hell is the therapist writing down while we chat? I took a peek at the paper and it looked like she was mind-mapping a presentation on Newton's Law of Physics. I must really be fucked up. OR....maybe my geniusess was falling out of my ears as I talked and she was breathing it in?! That bitch! I bet that's how she made it through graduate school!
Also, it's funny how people in the waiting area all seem paranoid. I like to make up stories about why they're seeing shrinks. I was totally convinced that one guy at my last visit had obsessive compulsive disorder. He came in carrying a magazine...which I think he used to open the door, then he put it down on the seat and sat on it. When he got up for his appointment, he left the magazine there. Where his ass just sat. His ass is so nasty, HE wouldn't even touch the magazine after that. Yeah. And, y'all think I'm a screwball. Then there was this woman with shifty eyes and dirty, wrinkly clothes. I believe she was on crack... I'm thinking she stole shit from her family and they threw her ass out on the street. She pawned her wedding ring for enough money to buy a hit (is that what you call crack??), a bottle of Boone's Farm and a visit to her therapist. Smart.
I am fairly new to the whole psychotherapy thing. Is it just me or does everyone leave their therapist's office feeling like a total fuck-up? Don't get me wrong, I like my therapist, but I hate having all my faults and problems brought to the forefront. I liked it better when I could pack that shit away in a deep closet in the bowels of my brain....you know, back there where all the geniusness is screaming to be free. I'm actually paying money for someone to tell me I'm screwed up. Tell me something I don't know, damnit!
One of my girlfriends calls her therapist THE-RAPIST. Heh. That's something clever I would normally have come up with if it weren't for all the crap eating away at my geniusness. And, what the hell is the therapist writing down while we chat? I took a peek at the paper and it looked like she was mind-mapping a presentation on Newton's Law of Physics. I must really be fucked up. OR....maybe my geniusess was falling out of my ears as I talked and she was breathing it in?! That bitch! I bet that's how she made it through graduate school!
Also, it's funny how people in the waiting area all seem paranoid. I like to make up stories about why they're seeing shrinks. I was totally convinced that one guy at my last visit had obsessive compulsive disorder. He came in carrying a magazine...which I think he used to open the door, then he put it down on the seat and sat on it. When he got up for his appointment, he left the magazine there. Where his ass just sat. His ass is so nasty, HE wouldn't even touch the magazine after that. Yeah. And, y'all think I'm a screwball. Then there was this woman with shifty eyes and dirty, wrinkly clothes. I believe she was on crack... I'm thinking she stole shit from her family and they threw her ass out on the street. She pawned her wedding ring for enough money to buy a hit (is that what you call crack??), a bottle of Boone's Farm and a visit to her therapist. Smart.
I Believe I've Created Two Monsters
To know me is to know that I am ALL about my birthday. My birthday season (which usually lasts approximately two weeks - or a month, depending on my mood that year) is my favorite time of the year. I expect those who love me to wish me a Happy Birthday Eve, Eve, Eve...then Happy Birthday Eve, Eve....then Happy Birthday Eve...then, of course HAPPY BIRTHDAY! During this season, they are to shower me with gifts, be at my beck and call and allow me to get away with murder if need be. My peeps absolutely LOVE it!
My daughters, however, are beginning to overshadow my favorite season with their own birthday celebrations. WTF? Who do these little heifers think they are?? No one's birthday is more special than mine!
Take lil J for example. She's only three years old and she's already in love with her own birthday...she sings "happy birthday" to herself at least once a week...all...year...long. I'm pretty sure it was the second song she learned to sing (after Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). And if I come home from shopping, she asks, "what did you buy me??" and although I remind her that it's not her damn birthday, she doesn't care. She thinks every day is her birthday and that any time I go to the store, I should come home with a gift for her. And, she asks me to make her a vanilla cake with strawberries in it randomly, months after her birthday!
Then there's J. She's 13 and she's a little more sneaky about stretching her birthday out by weeks. The weekend before her birthday, we had to go to a family dinner thing. The weekend after her birthday, we had to endure a slumber party (10 screaming, giggly girls). That's two cakes, people. TWO. And she's nowhere near MY age! But that isn't the end of it...two weeks after her birthday, I get to drag her and 3 of her closest, dearest friends (that she happens to not be hating at the moment) on a trip to the Kemah Boardwalk. I draw the line after that. This shit is getting totally out of hand.
I'm beginning to think I might be a bad influence on my children.
To know me is to know that I am ALL about my birthday. My birthday season (which usually lasts approximately two weeks - or a month, depending on my mood that year) is my favorite time of the year. I expect those who love me to wish me a Happy Birthday Eve, Eve, Eve...then Happy Birthday Eve, Eve....then Happy Birthday Eve...then, of course HAPPY BIRTHDAY! During this season, they are to shower me with gifts, be at my beck and call and allow me to get away with murder if need be. My peeps absolutely LOVE it!
My daughters, however, are beginning to overshadow my favorite season with their own birthday celebrations. WTF? Who do these little heifers think they are?? No one's birthday is more special than mine!
Take lil J for example. She's only three years old and she's already in love with her own birthday...she sings "happy birthday" to herself at least once a week...all...year...long. I'm pretty sure it was the second song she learned to sing (after Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). And if I come home from shopping, she asks, "what did you buy me??" and although I remind her that it's not her damn birthday, she doesn't care. She thinks every day is her birthday and that any time I go to the store, I should come home with a gift for her. And, she asks me to make her a vanilla cake with strawberries in it randomly, months after her birthday!
Then there's J. She's 13 and she's a little more sneaky about stretching her birthday out by weeks. The weekend before her birthday, we had to go to a family dinner thing. The weekend after her birthday, we had to endure a slumber party (10 screaming, giggly girls). That's two cakes, people. TWO. And she's nowhere near MY age! But that isn't the end of it...two weeks after her birthday, I get to drag her and 3 of her closest, dearest friends (that she happens to not be hating at the moment) on a trip to the Kemah Boardwalk. I draw the line after that. This shit is getting totally out of hand.
I'm beginning to think I might be a bad influence on my children.
Look at that face! Don't you just want to grab her up and squeeze her?Houstonians Are Assholes When It Rains
Most people around here pray to the 8 lb, 6 oz baby jesus for rain - they're sick of all the yard watering and low rivers and shit like that. Me? I could give a rat's hairy ass if it rains or not. I'll tell you why. First of all, I love the rain. Just about as much as I love doggies! I love it when I'm comfy, cozy, snuggled up under a stack of blankets, indoors watching tv, fireplace going, A/C turned down to freezing....or I love it when I can be carefree, outside, letting the rain slide down my bare skin. That's nice. But, that is not my point. My point is this: people that live in Houston drive like idiots in the rain. IDIOTS. It's like some of them are a bunch of desert people who have never seen precipitation fall from the sky and land on their cars and on the road...they go 20 miles an hour in a 60 and ride the breaks, their noses plastered to the windshield. There are others who like to scare the desert people into shit fits so they swerve around them and gun it, making them go even slower. Then, there are my favorite jackasses. You know, the ones in the huuuge trucks? The ones that like to jet through rising waters, causing those around them to stall from flooding? The ones who like to jump on and off the freeway via the grassy knolls instead of the exits intended for such nonsense?
And you know when the worst possible time is for rain? Rush hour. Which in Houston lasts from 6:00 - 9:00 a.m. and again from 3:00 to 7:00 p.m. Rush HOURS. Monday through Friday. No exceptions. Unless an accident occurs, of course. Accidents have been known to increase these time frames up to an hour or more. If that sweet baby jesus really loved us, he'd save the rain for the middle of the night. Which could also work for me in that it's easier to stand out in my backyard in the rain in my birthday suit when everyone else is asleep.
Most people around here pray to the 8 lb, 6 oz baby jesus for rain - they're sick of all the yard watering and low rivers and shit like that. Me? I could give a rat's hairy ass if it rains or not. I'll tell you why. First of all, I love the rain. Just about as much as I love doggies! I love it when I'm comfy, cozy, snuggled up under a stack of blankets, indoors watching tv, fireplace going, A/C turned down to freezing....or I love it when I can be carefree, outside, letting the rain slide down my bare skin. That's nice. But, that is not my point. My point is this: people that live in Houston drive like idiots in the rain. IDIOTS. It's like some of them are a bunch of desert people who have never seen precipitation fall from the sky and land on their cars and on the road...they go 20 miles an hour in a 60 and ride the breaks, their noses plastered to the windshield. There are others who like to scare the desert people into shit fits so they swerve around them and gun it, making them go even slower. Then, there are my favorite jackasses. You know, the ones in the huuuge trucks? The ones that like to jet through rising waters, causing those around them to stall from flooding? The ones who like to jump on and off the freeway via the grassy knolls instead of the exits intended for such nonsense?
And you know when the worst possible time is for rain? Rush hour. Which in Houston lasts from 6:00 - 9:00 a.m. and again from 3:00 to 7:00 p.m. Rush HOURS. Monday through Friday. No exceptions. Unless an accident occurs, of course. Accidents have been known to increase these time frames up to an hour or more. If that sweet baby jesus really loved us, he'd save the rain for the middle of the night. Which could also work for me in that it's easier to stand out in my backyard in the rain in my birthday suit when everyone else is asleep.
A Toddler's Words of Wisdom
Lil J is full of....wisdom. Today, she said, "Snakes are extremely shy creatures. You can't just walk up to them and go 'coochie-coo' or you might frighten them."
I bet y'all didn't know that shit, did you?! You can thank Lil J next time you find yourself in the company of a snake and you feel the sudden urge to say, "coochie-coo" to it. I'm pretty sure that goes for anteaters, too.
Lil J is full of....wisdom. Today, she said, "Snakes are extremely shy creatures. You can't just walk up to them and go 'coochie-coo' or you might frighten them."
I bet y'all didn't know that shit, did you?! You can thank Lil J next time you find yourself in the company of a snake and you feel the sudden urge to say, "coochie-coo" to it. I'm pretty sure that goes for anteaters, too.
Memories are a MOFO
My sister remembers all sorts of crazy shit, but tends to forget the biggest details. That shit gets on my nerves, because then she gets my mind all twisted up trying to figure out whatever it is she's talking about. I especially hate when she brings up stuff that happened when I was in high school and college, because, frankly, I spent most of those years in a drunken stupor, my life full of all kinds of debauchery. How the hell am I supposed to remember shit that I probably didn't even realize was happening at the time? I sometimes find myself going through old boxes, reading letters, looking for pictures and crap like that because she gets a thought in my head that starts driving me nuts.
Sis: What was the name of that restaurant you and Mel went to in 1992 that had the really good noodles?
Me: WTF?
Sis: Remember? It was over there around Shepherd....near that Sears.
Me: 1992, really?! I have no fucking clue.
Sis: But I remember you pointing it out to Mom when we were going to Sears one day.
Me: We haven't gone to Sears with Mom since we were kids.
Sis: Yeah, like 1992.
Me: You're a freak of nature.
Sis: So, you don't remember?
Me: No, but now I want some noodles!!!!
That's how our conversations go. I have been thinking about Vietnamese noodles now non-stop for days! And for some reason, I just HAVE to have the ones from whatever fucking place she was talking about me going to in 1992. So, I call my friend, Mel, and that bitch thinks I've lost my mind. And Mom can't remember what she had for dinner yesterday, much less what noodle place I talked to her about in 1992. I'd really like to find these damn noodles and strangle my sister with them.
My sister remembers all sorts of crazy shit, but tends to forget the biggest details. That shit gets on my nerves, because then she gets my mind all twisted up trying to figure out whatever it is she's talking about. I especially hate when she brings up stuff that happened when I was in high school and college, because, frankly, I spent most of those years in a drunken stupor, my life full of all kinds of debauchery. How the hell am I supposed to remember shit that I probably didn't even realize was happening at the time? I sometimes find myself going through old boxes, reading letters, looking for pictures and crap like that because she gets a thought in my head that starts driving me nuts.
Sis: What was the name of that restaurant you and Mel went to in 1992 that had the really good noodles?
Me: WTF?
Sis: Remember? It was over there around Shepherd....near that Sears.
Me: 1992, really?! I have no fucking clue.
Sis: But I remember you pointing it out to Mom when we were going to Sears one day.
Me: We haven't gone to Sears with Mom since we were kids.
Sis: Yeah, like 1992.
Me: You're a freak of nature.
Sis: So, you don't remember?
Me: No, but now I want some noodles!!!!
That's how our conversations go. I have been thinking about Vietnamese noodles now non-stop for days! And for some reason, I just HAVE to have the ones from whatever fucking place she was talking about me going to in 1992. So, I call my friend, Mel, and that bitch thinks I've lost my mind. And Mom can't remember what she had for dinner yesterday, much less what noodle place I talked to her about in 1992. I'd really like to find these damn noodles and strangle my sister with them.
This is why I don't go to church
My mom convinced me to go to church on Sunday. Wait. Actually, she GUILTED me into going to church (typical Catholic bullshit). Evidently, it was my aunt and uncle's 40th wedding anniversary and they were going to get blessed or something. And, as if it weren't bad enough that mass started at 8:00 a.m. (which meant waking up at 5:30 to pick Mom up at 7:00 to be there on time), Mom conveniently forgot to tell us that the shit would be in SPANISH and that we had to sit in the second goddamned pew (which meant no texting or bubble game playing). When my sister and I spotted the damn mariachis approaching, we knew right away that they weren't planning on singing shit in English. Sis gave me a terrified look and I glared at Mom, who acted dumb founded like she had noooo idea what our problem was. See, we don't mind going to mass once in a while, but when we are tricked into it, that shit better be low key and in ENGLISH. If you've never been to a Spanish mass, those people get all crazy nuts with the singing and crying. And they like to hug and kiss and whatnot. It ain't fun, y'all. It borders on being creepy and twilight zone-y. And, when your fluently spanish-speaking mother leans over to you and asks if you understand what the fuck the priest just said, you know you're in trouble. Needless to say, it was the longest hour E-V-E-R. And we couldn't even sneak out of there after the damn wedding blessing because the damn priest saved that shit for the end of the service to torture the hell out of us. He must have know we have the devil in us... I bet he was trying to exorcise us or someshit with all the mumbo jumbo that even Mom couldn't understand. And who the hell stays married for FORTY effing years these days?! WTF is my aunt/uncle's deal? They haven't even lived together for an entire year straight through at a time...so I don't think it counts. They just friggen lied to baby Jesus about the big 4-0. And one of my other uncles FELL ASLEEP during the homily. My mom poked ME and pointed over to him so that I could see he was asleep (and snoring softly) and she smiled. Like she thought that shit was cute or something. I asked her if she thought I should tap him or something...and she was all...noooo...leave him alone, poor thing. WTF?! When we were kids and we fell asleep in church or acted up, we got pinched. And I ain't talking a soft gentle pinch, I'm talking one of the titty-twister pinches that bring tears to your eyes and makes you pee your panties a little. It was payback time, damnit! So, I reached over and pinched the shit out of his arm...and twisted. Heh. I didn't expect him to scream and let out a fart, though. Yeah. I hadn't figured on that happening. Then one of my cousin's kids laughs his ass off and the whole goddamned congregation stared at us. My mom was mortified. My sister acted like she wasn't related to us. Then, my grandma let out some snoring snorts because that bitch was asleep, too!
I'm soooo sorry, 8 pound, 6 ounce baby Jesus. I didn't mean to offend the sanctity of the mass, but shit! Those fuckers weren't even paying attention to the gospel...someone had to do something about it. It's just a shame it had to be me. You're welcome. I did my duty for the year. Don't expect me there at Christmas.
My mom convinced me to go to church on Sunday. Wait. Actually, she GUILTED me into going to church (typical Catholic bullshit). Evidently, it was my aunt and uncle's 40th wedding anniversary and they were going to get blessed or something. And, as if it weren't bad enough that mass started at 8:00 a.m. (which meant waking up at 5:30 to pick Mom up at 7:00 to be there on time), Mom conveniently forgot to tell us that the shit would be in SPANISH and that we had to sit in the second goddamned pew (which meant no texting or bubble game playing). When my sister and I spotted the damn mariachis approaching, we knew right away that they weren't planning on singing shit in English. Sis gave me a terrified look and I glared at Mom, who acted dumb founded like she had noooo idea what our problem was. See, we don't mind going to mass once in a while, but when we are tricked into it, that shit better be low key and in ENGLISH. If you've never been to a Spanish mass, those people get all crazy nuts with the singing and crying. And they like to hug and kiss and whatnot. It ain't fun, y'all. It borders on being creepy and twilight zone-y. And, when your fluently spanish-speaking mother leans over to you and asks if you understand what the fuck the priest just said, you know you're in trouble. Needless to say, it was the longest hour E-V-E-R. And we couldn't even sneak out of there after the damn wedding blessing because the damn priest saved that shit for the end of the service to torture the hell out of us. He must have know we have the devil in us... I bet he was trying to exorcise us or someshit with all the mumbo jumbo that even Mom couldn't understand. And who the hell stays married for FORTY effing years these days?! WTF is my aunt/uncle's deal? They haven't even lived together for an entire year straight through at a time...so I don't think it counts. They just friggen lied to baby Jesus about the big 4-0. And one of my other uncles FELL ASLEEP during the homily. My mom poked ME and pointed over to him so that I could see he was asleep (and snoring softly) and she smiled. Like she thought that shit was cute or something. I asked her if she thought I should tap him or something...and she was all...noooo...leave him alone, poor thing. WTF?! When we were kids and we fell asleep in church or acted up, we got pinched. And I ain't talking a soft gentle pinch, I'm talking one of the titty-twister pinches that bring tears to your eyes and makes you pee your panties a little. It was payback time, damnit! So, I reached over and pinched the shit out of his arm...and twisted. Heh. I didn't expect him to scream and let out a fart, though. Yeah. I hadn't figured on that happening. Then one of my cousin's kids laughs his ass off and the whole goddamned congregation stared at us. My mom was mortified. My sister acted like she wasn't related to us. Then, my grandma let out some snoring snorts because that bitch was asleep, too!
I'm soooo sorry, 8 pound, 6 ounce baby Jesus. I didn't mean to offend the sanctity of the mass, but shit! Those fuckers weren't even paying attention to the gospel...someone had to do something about it. It's just a shame it had to be me. You're welcome. I did my duty for the year. Don't expect me there at Christmas.
Lipstick Lesbians and Tractors
Each night, at the dinner table, I ask members of my family how their day went. The best stories, come from Lil J, of course.
Me: Lil J, what did you do at school today?
Lil J: I went to my new class and played and I was very nice to my teacher. (I take this to mean that sometimes she isn't so nice)
Me: Did you have fun?
Lil J: Yeah, except Justin didn't want to share with me. (Which means she probably snatched a toy out of that poor kid's hands and made him cry)
Me: Ohhhh, is Justin your boyfriend?
Lil J: NOOOOO! I don't like boys, I like girls!
At this point in the conversation, J choked on her drink, I laughed and Hubber was all, "yeah, that's good!" He obviously was thinking like a daddy who didn't want his little girl to like boys because boys are trouble. J and I immediately took it to mean that maybe Lil J is gay... like a lipstick lesbian who likes tutu's and dresses and make-up and purses, but who also has a strong attachment to tractors and dump trucks and fire engines and toy cars. I don't care, either way. I think she'd make a good lesbian.
Each night, at the dinner table, I ask members of my family how their day went. The best stories, come from Lil J, of course.
Me: Lil J, what did you do at school today?
Lil J: I went to my new class and played and I was very nice to my teacher. (I take this to mean that sometimes she isn't so nice)
Me: Did you have fun?
Lil J: Yeah, except Justin didn't want to share with me. (Which means she probably snatched a toy out of that poor kid's hands and made him cry)
Me: Ohhhh, is Justin your boyfriend?
Lil J: NOOOOO! I don't like boys, I like girls!
At this point in the conversation, J choked on her drink, I laughed and Hubber was all, "yeah, that's good!" He obviously was thinking like a daddy who didn't want his little girl to like boys because boys are trouble. J and I immediately took it to mean that maybe Lil J is gay... like a lipstick lesbian who likes tutu's and dresses and make-up and purses, but who also has a strong attachment to tractors and dump trucks and fire engines and toy cars. I don't care, either way. I think she'd make a good lesbian.
I Have A Feeling Prayers Don't Work This Way
Over lunch today, a friend and I chatted about what we thought the best punishment would be for our a common enemy. We decided that if we prayed hard enough, maybe he would come down with a serious case of explosive diareah. This would make us so happy we'd consider going to church more than once a year. But, should this bout of squirts occur on a plane, mid-flight, we would be so ecstatic we might even put up a nativity set at Christmas!
His experience would be compounded in the air due to the altitude and cramped quarters. We pictured him, sweating his ass off, tortured, on a tiny toilet seat, trying to steady himself as the plane experienced turbulence. Then, as he tried to return to his seat and everyone was staring at the culprit who stunk the place up, an explosion would occur in his pants and drip down his leg. Then, people all around would start vomiting on him as he tried to reach his seat.
And we'd be thanking 8lb, 6oz baby Jesus for answering our prayer!
Over lunch today, a friend and I chatted about what we thought the best punishment would be for our a common enemy. We decided that if we prayed hard enough, maybe he would come down with a serious case of explosive diareah. This would make us so happy we'd consider going to church more than once a year. But, should this bout of squirts occur on a plane, mid-flight, we would be so ecstatic we might even put up a nativity set at Christmas!
His experience would be compounded in the air due to the altitude and cramped quarters. We pictured him, sweating his ass off, tortured, on a tiny toilet seat, trying to steady himself as the plane experienced turbulence. Then, as he tried to return to his seat and everyone was staring at the culprit who stunk the place up, an explosion would occur in his pants and drip down his leg. Then, people all around would start vomiting on him as he tried to reach his seat.
And we'd be thanking 8lb, 6oz baby Jesus for answering our prayer!
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