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:

  1. Badass clothes that you wish you had but will never look as good on YOU as they do on the SUPERMODEL.
  2. 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.
  3. Fancy-looking food that never turns out like the fucking picture when you try the recipe.
  4. Funny shit that you aren’t clever enough to come up with yourself but wish you could.
  5. 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:
  1. slurp down a cup of coffee
  2. stumble into my house slippers
  3. drive starving teen spawn to school
  4. get back home and crawl back under the covers
  5. take magically dressed, sugar-filled kindergartener (with shiny clean teeth) to school
  6. get back home and crawl back under the covers
  7. take a two-hour nap
  8. turn the tv on and watch soaps and talk shows while munching on Cheetos and drinking rum and coke
  9. roll back out of bed to frolick around in the backyard with the dog
  10. "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:
  1. fall out of bed
  2. try to spruce myself up a bit to look alive
  3. scream at teen spawn to hurry the hell up
  4. beg tiny spawn to get up
  5. answer a few work-related emails
  6. plead with teen spawn to eat/drink something before we leave
  7. argue that we do NOT have time to go to McDonald's on the way to school 
  8. drag tiny spawn out of bed kicking and screaming
  9. pile kids up in the car and drive to the high school
  10. halfway there, teen spawn freaks out that she forgot something at home
  11. more arguing takes place
  12. drop teen spawn off at school
  13. get back home to get tiny spawn ready for school
  14. fight with tiny spawn regarding hair/teeth brushing and NOT having a popsicle for breakfast
  15. remind her that panties and socks are essential on school days
  16. answer a few work-related emails
  17. take tiny spawn to school
  18. 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
  19. get home and let the dog out
  20. scream at dog for fighting with neighbor's dog
  21. feed animals / clean litter box
  22. make FIRST cup of coffee
  23. answer work-related emails
  24. return a couple of calls
  25. work
  26. wash some dishes
  27. work
  28. throw a load of laundry into the washing machine
  29. work
  30. sit in on ridiculously long conference call while catching up on some writing
  31. pay bills
  32. run to the grocery store
  33. work
  34. 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. :)


Sex Toys Are Your Friends (and mine)

All Stand and APPLAUD, Damnit!

It's a proud moment in Snarky Heifer-ville, y'all.  Momma got her first advertiser!  That's right!  Someone is actually PAYING money for a slot on my website! CHA-CHING!  I didn't even have to turn a trick; which makes Hubber a happy camper.

Nevermind that my advertiser sells adult toys.  They're still legit (because the check didn't bounce)... and cool as shit in my book. At first, I was tempted to trade them some ad space for loot.  But then I realized that my cupboard is bare and my peeps need milk and eggs before Hubber needs a blow up doll.  So, I opted for the cash.  Smart, huh?

Another good thing about my newly acquired [best] friends is that I've learned a lot more than I ever thought possible about the adult toy businesses.  There are contraptions for everything, y'all.  Turns out, I don't know shit about kinky sex.

For example, what do you think THIS is?:

No, it is not an attachment for your kitchen blender.

It is a vaginal/anal bi-polar ElectraProbe.  And, if that isn't snazzy enough for you... you POWER it up with one of these things:

I'm dead serious about this shit.  Kinda scary, if you ask me.  Pretty sure I don't want anything inside my hoo-ha that uses electro-thingamajigs in order to operate.  With my luck, my goodies would turn toxic and Hubber's dingaling would fall off in two months. Eeek!

But, wait!  Don't let that stop you from visiting my advertiser's lovely store!  They sell a bunch of normal shit, too.  I promise!  Go check them out:

I ain't no hillbilly, but I sure as heck can write like one!

Just when I thought I couldn't stoop any lower in the writing-for-money arena, I was offered a new gig writing in "hillbilly speak" (which I took without hesitation... duh).  I am getting PAID for using bad language, poor grammar and crappy spelling.  It don't get much better than that, peeps! 

Let me just say, there are some weird ass websites out there, y'all.  This one site is targeted at hillbilly-types who can't afford indoor plumbing but somehow own a computer (with internet access) and want to make money online by clicking on all those bullshit ads and surveys.  The crazy thing is that they have over 9,000 members!  NINE THOUSAND people believe they'll make a living off of clicking on website ads and being bombarded with pop-ups and spammy emails.

I know first-hand that that shit don't work.  Yes, I tried it - many, many moons ago.  But, just to make sure shit hasn't changed since last year, I decided to try it out again for tackling this writing project.  In a matter of 30 minutes, I was able to accumulate $0.05 and 20 wooden nickles.   Five cents don't go far in my world, y'all... and at that rate it would take me 654 gazillion years to accumulate $5 for some Marble Slab icecream.

I think I'll stick to writing.

How do you like yer possum, fallin' off the
bones tender or with a little fight left in it?