My adult play dates are sadly lacking in debauchery

Today I spent the day with my sister.  We started off with pedicures then went out to lunch for some pupusas and agua de tamarindo.  We were feeling especially ethnic for some reason.  We even talked about Our Lady of Guadalupe because I'm hoping to create a mexican folk art shrine on one of my bedroom walls in honor of my grandma who loved the shit outta that virgin.  I even almost stole the OL-of-G napkin holder from the restaurant... if sis hadn't been all, "God is gonna strike you dead if you put that thing in your purse; and what would Mimo think?  She'll roll over in her grave!" I probably woulda snagged it. I hate when she gets all Catholic-y on me.  Those peeps are good with spreading the guilt. Next time I go there, I'll go without her. I need that napkin holder.

We continued our play date with a visit to the segunda (thrift/resell shop) in search of el-cheap-o swimsuits for my youngest spawn.  Yeah, I buy used swimsuits... so what?! Kids' swimsuits are fucking expensive.  $20 for a new suit is a lot of money when you're poor like I am (and getting low on booze).  I need to find suits of the $5 variety.  But to my dismay, there were ZERO swimsuits in stock at the segunda.  The lady working there said they're "not in season" yet and to "try back in a couple of weeks".  We live in Houston, Texas, bitch!  There are no seasons here!  They had rows and rows of parkas and snow pants and it doesn't even snow here.  It's 80 degrees out today for crissakes!  No swimsuits?  That's just ridiculous.

Me: These bitches just lost out on my business today!  I was going to spend some money up in here!

Sis: I'm sure they'll be crying over the $6 you would have spent.

Me: $6?  More like $5.

Sis: Pfffffft.

Me: What's with all the furry fucking coats?!  This ain't Alaska!

Sis: You need to calm down and come back in a couple of weeks.

Me: I ain't coming back here.  I'm just gonna buckle down and buy the $15 swimsuit I saw at Target. So much for my Cruzan Rum.

Sis: You're such a cheapskate!

Me: ....says the heifer who just put back a pair of $6.99 jeans because they were "too expensive"!

Sis: Touche.

Me: Touche my ass.  The segunda sucks, yo.

Sis: Let's go play "Battleship"!

So, instead of ending our play date on a sour note, we went back to my house for a friendly game of Battleship where we reminisced about the olden days when the Battleship boards were made of steel (instead of the chintzy plastic shit they're made of now).  The Battleship games of our day even made those badass "you sunk my battleship" sounds (which are completely non-existent nowadays - unless you make them with your own mouth). Those were the days.

Obviously, I'm related to a cheater.
She better go to Confession this week!

Our Quest to Find Big Foot: The Never-ending Saga

Our search for Big Foot began in 2005.  Sightings of the mysterious creature had been reported near Pike's Peak in Colorado, so naturally, that is where our search began.  As we entered Pike's Peak National Forest, the park ranger warned us to stay on the road, lest we shalt be mauled to death by the ferocious beast!  But, I've seen Harry and the Hendersons, y'all.  I know Big Foot ain't nothing but a big ol' cuddly teddy bear who stinks to high heaven; it ain't nothing that a gallon of Suave shampoo can't handle.  So, instead of heeding his warnings, we trampled through the forest in search of a potential pet and found this:

Yes! That's exactly what you think it is! Big Foot nests!  An entire colony lived there, we were sure of it.  We poked around for awhile and peeked inside each nest, but found nothing. We even staked the place out from our own makeshift nest, but those bastards never came home.  I'm convinced they must have some super smelling powers and they sniffed us out before they got too close.  To them, we smell like shit, I think.

We finally gave up our stake-out and made our way back to the main road. The spawn and I got separated from Hubber somehow and as luck would have it, we spotted this sasquatch disguised in men's clothing: 

How awesome is that shit?!  We were ecstatic!  Finally, someone captured a clear photo of Big Foot... and that someone was ME!  It wasn't until I lowered the camera, that I realized Harry was wearing HUBBER'S clothes!  HE ATE MY HUSBAND!

The spawn and I hopped into our car and headed back to the ranger's station.  That was about the time my cell phone rang. It was Hubber.

Hubber:  Where the hell are you going?!

Me:  You're alive!!!

Hubber:  <silence>

Me: You ARE alive, right??

Hubber: I'm gonna kick your ass.

Turned out Hubber was the Big Foot wearing Hubber's clothes. That tricky a-hole.  Anyway... that excursion in '05 was a fucking bust; but that shit didn't stop us from believing... and it certainly didn't stop us from searching for Big Foot when we went back to Pike's Peak in 2009.

Again, we captured a photo of what we thought was surely a sasquatch:

Turned out, it was just the oldest spawn, searching for Big Foot nests.  It was another wasted trip to Pike's Peak.  But, just when we had given up our search, we stumbled upon this guy at the Denver Zoo:

A baby sasquatch!  They grow those little fuckers at the zoo.  They train them to survive on their own and how to hide from humans.  Then, they let them go free in the mountains to drive us all batshit crazy. It's a conspiracy and the Denver Zoo is in on it!  I'm gonna crack this case and break it all open one day, y'all!  Just wait!  You're gonna see me on the Discovery Channel and you'll be all like, "Hey! I know that girl!"

Hubber:  You sure are obsessed with this Big Foot shit.

Me:  Yeah, well... I'm gonna be rich one day when I figure this shit out.

Hubber:  I have a theory.

Me:  Tell me.

Hubber:  I think YOU have some Big Foot blood in you.  That's what triggering this unnatural need of yours to find a real Big Foot.  You're being "called" by your people!  Like a Cylon!  You're a freakin' alien!

Me:  I like it.  Maybe I have special powers that'll kick in and I'll be able to blow shit up with my eyes!

Hubber:  Yeah.  I'm sure that'll happen.

So, on our 2012 trip to Colorado, we made another stop at Pike's Peak.  Evidently, the Big Foot sightings are out of control.  They even put up a life-size Big Foot statute so we'd know what it looked like when we saw it.  Naturally, we took a picture with the big guy:

Cute, huh?  He kinda looks like a naked, hairy Paul Bunyan. And, as luck would have it, they even had foot print castings at the park.  I stuck my foot on one to see if there were any similarities:

Nada.  I have a feeling Hubber's theory is a bunch of bullshit.  He got me all hyped up thinking I'm gonna rule the world like a fucking Cylon... just to find out I probably have nothing in common with Big Foot. Well, except for maybe the bushy eyebrows and crazy hairs that grow in weird places.

Aunt Flo, Cotton Picking, Flatulence, and Other Shit That Makes Long Road Trips Fun

When the Hancocks take a road trip, they go all out!  Rarely is there a dull moment in our lives, but when we hit the road, we really pull out all the stops.  this past trip was no exception.  For starters, I realized that the oldest spawn and I seem to have synced up our monthly cycles.  Two "women" with PMS in a confined space for 19 hours with a loud-mouthed 1st grader, a farting dog and a man with a stomach bug = a bloody good time, y'all.

Aside from dealing with the curse Mother Nature  has bestowed upon women, we always head north forgetting one simple fact: high altitude = gassy Hancocks.  Our dog, evidently, is no exception to the rule.  Even if she doesn't fart much.  She's just a great scapegoat for when you fart and want to blame someone else.  She can't speak...so she can't deny anything.  Some people, though, are too dumb let the dog take the blame...

Hubber: Please tell me that was the dog again.

Me: That was the dog again.  It's too foul to be human.  Wait.  Maybe it's a skunk.

Little Spawn:  You mean that fart?  That was me!  Hahahahaha! <fart, fart>

Big Spawn: Ewwww!  There's something rotting inside you!

But, if there was a bright side to the long road trip it would have to be the acres and acres of cotton fields.  That's right... people still grow cotton!  Who'da thunk it!?

Not only do they GROW the shit, they very rarely fence it in.  Huge mistake, cotton growers.  HUGE.  Because, if this heifer has a chance to pick some free cotton, you best believe she's gonna pull her large ass over to the side of the road and get to pickin'!  I love picking cotton!  I don't know what all those slaves complained about.   Cotton is soft and fluffy and fun to pick.

Me:  Hey, Hubber... look at all the cotton left on those crops.  Those cotton picking machines are slacking!  They need to get some slaves out there to finish picking that shit.  I wanna see those bushes picked dry!

Hubber: "Bushes picked dry"?  Really?

Me:  Perv.  But, seriously.  If we lived on a cotton farm, I'd make the girls go out every day to follow those machines around and pick all the cotton scraps.  They'd be my slaves.  I'd be all... "pick that cotton, slave child!"...  and, "spin that cotton into silk, slave girls!"...

Hubber: You can't even get them to put their dirty panties in the hamper.

Me: It'd be different on a cotton farm. That's what I'm saying.  Oh... and look at all those hay bales all rolled up everywhere!

Hubber: You are easily sidetracked.

Me:  Yeah, well, I think I could totally be a country girl.  I'd be picking cotton and rolling around on those hay bales.

Hubber: I'd like to see you try to roll on one of those bales.

Me: They're round.  They roll. How hard can it be?

Hubber:  Not hard at all, until it takes one turn and SQUASHES the shit out of you.  Those things weigh a ton.

Me:  They're made of HAY, Hub.  HAY don't weigh shit.  But, just to be sure, maybe I'll let the girls try to roll on one first.

Hubber:  Now you're talkin'!

But, he wouldn't pull over and let the girls try to roll on a hay bale for me.  Something about cow patties and barbed wire fences and ranchers with shot guns.  Party pooper.

But... at least I got this:

I Humped a Reindeer Today

In the spirit of the holiday season, I did my motherly duty and humped a reindeer today.  It's the least I could do to ensure my kids get some good loot this year.  We all know that their questionable behavior all year hasn't earned them any brownie points with the big guy... and now that we're poorer than ever, these gals need all the help they can get. So, Hubber and I dragged them 999 miles north to Santa's Workshop in North Pole, Colorado to sit on Santa's lap.

It was Hubber's idea that I suck it up and hump a reindeer or two to increase our chances of having Santa make extra stops to our home on Christmas Eve.  Unfortunately, the pic posted here is pre-hump.  The good humpity pic was "accidentally" deleted by some a-hole kid.  You'd think they'd be more grateful for my extra efforts to get them a bunch of useless shit for Christmas.  But, noooooo. I even went the extra mile and whispered sweet nothings into this guy's ear:

The soul patch, Santa-face hoodie and hard hat are all proof that he's some big wig up there at the North Pole.  So, I'm pretty sure I covered all the bases.  

Well... almost.

Turns out Santa doesn't give out cell phones to little kids.  Thank the 6 lb, 8 oz baby Geezus for that!  I woulda kicked his fat, jolly ass if he had agreed to that shit when the littlest Spawn started spewing out all the ridiculous crap she wants for Christmas.  She didn't give HIM a hard time about it, though.  She saved that shit for ME when Santa was out of ear-shot.

Spawn:  Well, it's official.  Santa doesn't buy cell phones.  I guess YOU'LL have to get me one after all.

Me:  Maybe when you're 10.

Spawn:  But, I can't wait that long!  I'll DIE!  I'll fall over and DIIIIIE!

Me: I'm willing to take that risk.

Spawn: Why do you HATE me so much?!  I'm the only kid in my entire class that doesn't have a phone!  It's not fair!

Me:  Shut it, drama queen.  No 1st grader has a cell phone.  I promise. 

Spawn:  I can't even talk to you right now!

And, that's when she grabbed a sheet of paper out of the printer and stormed off.  Uh-oh.  Any time that little heifer snatches up a piece of paper, SOMEONE is gonna get a nasty note.  Here's what I got:

Yeah.  No cell phone = no love.  Just so you know.  Nevermind the fact that I degraded myself with giant elves and horny reindeer all day for her sake.  

Momma's the one that doesn't git no love around here!  

Home ownership is highly over-rated

There is a lot of shit I hate about owning a home.  At the top of the list is MAINTENANCE.  Yards need to be cut, pools need to be cleaned, roofs need to be repaired, plumbing issues need to be fixed, fucking siding needs to be replaced, weeds need to be pulled, ant mounds need to be killed, trees need to be pruned, A/C units need to be replaced... and the list goes on, and on, and ON.  My head hurts like the dickens just thinking about it.

And, when you belong to a Home Owner's Association with Nazi volunteer inspectors, you get regular "courtesy" notices asking that you kindly replace your leaning mailbox (leaning gives it character!), or paint the tarnished copper awning over your front door (copper is supposed to look like that, assholes!), or repave your cracked driveway (we LIKE crack!), or to power wash the north side of the house to remove traces of mold (mold, schmold... we live in fucking Houston, the humidity capital of the world!), or to remove the "truck with camper" from the driveway (it's a fucking RV, assholes... the Minnie Winnie was highly offended when that notice came).  They're adult bullies.  And, I hate them.

My point here is that our house has become a fucking money pit.  And, when you're poor like us, you just can't afford to keep up with that shit.  One step forward leads to five steps back.  It's always SOMETHING... something broken, something old, something dirty, etc.   Plus, it's annoying as fuck to spend money on things outside of vacations, booze, food and clothes.

So, we're finally giving up on the "American Dream" and moving back into the world of renting.  That's right... when shit goes wrong, we're calling the property managers to fix that shit!  I'ma sit on my fat ass sipping on a pina colada while someone else replaces the A/C filter or fixes the garage door opener.  Life is too damn short to spend every waking minute fixing broken shit and throwing perfectly good booze money away on maintenance repairs.  Screw that crap!  Momma needs a REAL vacation!

Are "Escorts" Just "Prostitutes" in Disguise?

I've been busy, y'all.  Those who know me personally know that although I'm a struggling writer, I'm also a gainfully employed (on a part-time basis) heifer who collects a steady pay check in spite of her bitchy attitude and poor interpersonal skills (maybe that's why they've banned me from the office unless there's a staff meeting).  But, the gravy train is running on empty.  At the end of the year, after fifteen years, they're giving me the boot.  Right in the ass.

So, I've been spending the last couple of months trying to figure out what the fuck I can do to make the same amount of money without going back to work in an office full time.  Freelance writing doesn't pay shit, y'all.  (Just sayin'... in case it wasn't obvious.)  Aside from prostitution, diaper changing or serving as a drug mule, I'm pretty much open to anything.  Running an escort service would be awesome... but then I'd be a pimp and probably end up in jail.  I'm too damn cute for jail.

Anyway... I've been dabbling in some genius-ass stuff, y'all.  If it all works out, I'll fill you guys in on it.  Until then, we'll be munching on Ramen Noodles, Lone Star beer and generic peanut butter in a mobile home park that smells like piss.  Feel free to send us some charity.

My spawns get tired of me complaining about our lack of money.  The youngest spawn has even VOWED to never find herself in my pitiful situation when she's an adult....

Spawn:  I'm going to have lots of money when I'm grown up!  I'm going to be able to buy everything I want all the time!

Me:  That would be awesome.  You could even buy me a bunch of stuff.

Spawn: Yeah!  I'm going to marry a billionaire.

Me: Huh?

Spawn: Billionaires have a hundred bazillion dollars.  They never run out of money.  That's the kind of husband I'm gonna need to get me all the stuff I want.  And, I won't ever have to tell MY kids that they can't have all the awesome stuff THEY want.

Me: Sounds like a plan!  But I would rather YOU were the rich one... go to college and become some great, fancy doctor or something.

Spawn:  Oh, I'll be rich, too... but I'll save all my money in case my husband dies.

Me: Nice.  Well, it's good to have goals.

I have raised that heifer well.  My work here is done.

Celebrate Good Times, C'mon!

I've been celebrating all week! Celebrating the fact that my kids are finally back at school.  It was the longest fucking summer break in history; and I survived!  That shit was cause for celebration.  There were many times during the past couple of months that I thought I was fixenta lose my shit, y'all.  Once, when my medication reached it's maximum threshold for patience, I had to lock myself up in the closet under the stairs (like Harry Potter) to cry my ass off. If the NFL Pre-Season hadn't started when it did, I'm pretty sure I'd have flipped my lid and gone homicidal up in here. Those football booties saved some fucking lives.  I'm really not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I guess it's good because I didn't end up in jail.  I'm too cute for jail.

So now, my life is "back to normal"... meaning I'm back to regular "work" hours.  I've taken on a few new projects which I hope prove to be lucrative; but in the meantime, I'm still writing boring-ass bullshit for idiots who think they're smarter than I am. I'm also still working part-time for "the man".  But... AT LEAST MY KIDS ARE BACK IN SCHOOL!  I thank the 6lb 8oz baby Geezus for that shit every day.

Did I mention that football season has started?

Don't move, Honey, I'll be right there!!

Yes, I'm STILL broke... don't let the fancy vacation fool ya

Tomorrow we leave for Panama City Beach, Florida. NO, that does not mean that we suddenly came into a windfall of cash.  No one died and left us their fortune.  We did not finally hit it big in the lotto.  Hubber isn't faking his death so we can collect his life insurance money.  And, no one suddenly decided to pay real money for my writing.  That's not the kind of luck we're having.  But... we are lucky, y'all.  Lucky to have some awesome family members who love us enough to foot the bill for our portion of a fancy beach house rental.  Woot, woot!

Don't be jealous.

Or, do be.  I don't give a shit.  Alls I know is that I'm fixenta get the fuck outta dodge for a few days.  I'ma be sitting my large behind in some soft, powdery white sand this time tomorrow.  Yes-sir-ee.  Know what I say?  I say FUCK the murky waters of Galveston!  Momma's gonna soak up some sun with an adult beverage in tow only 2 feet away from crystal clear, blue ocean water... complete with dolphins, boobs, pirate ships and whatnot!

If it rains one drop on this trip, I'm going to use the Lord's name in vain. Twice. And, I'm not going to apologize. End of story.

Weiner Cleaner and other shit that's kept me from blogging...

Yes, I'm still alive.  The spawns have been yanking on every nerve this summer, but they haven't broken me yet. Medication helps.  A lot. Well, at least until you run out and the pharmacy screws up your prescriptions and you turn into a crazed lunatic and get kicked out of Walgreen's.

I didn't really get kicked out.  But, I will wear a disguise next time I go in, just in case. I need one of those nifty mustaches that are so popular now.  And, a little orphan annie wig. I wonder if my sister will let me borrow some of her ass-jackin' hooker heels?  Hmmmm.

Anyway... my point here is that my kids are driving me bat shit crazy, but I'm still functioning on some level.  Summer seems to be taking for fucking ever to be over, though.  I've been trying to busy myself with working, writing, daydreaming, drinking adult beverages and soaking up some rays.  Although, I think I overdid it with the sunbathing because my belly button is burned to a crisp right now.  It ain't a pretty sight.  It looked pretty gnarly before - all caved in with fat rolls and decorated in bright white stretch marks.... now it's bright red and stinging.  And, to top it all off, the fucking stretch marks didn't change color.  That shit doesn't tan??  WTF?!  What's the use in tanning to look 10 pounds thinner if those mofos stand out worse than they did when the skin around them was ghostly white?! If I get skin cancer, I'ma be really pissed.

The combinatin of motherhood and poor dieting has fucked my body all up.

But, I digress.

In my "spare" time, I've been busying myself by whipping up homemade facial creams and body wash concoctions. (This Pinterest shit is the devil.)  My family members have served as guinea pigs in testing out my products; and so far, none of them have died or contracted that oily, anal discharge that seems to be a common side affect of shit sold on TV.  As a matter of fact, the face cream seems to be "selling" like hotcakes. (I put that shit in quotations because nary one of these biznatches have actually traded CASH for the stuff. Yet.)  One batch of the body wash was awesome.  But, another one turned out kinda slimy.  I have 2 gallons of the slimy stuff.  And, no one seems to want it anymore.  SOOOO.... I'm repackaging that shit (I do have a background in marketing, y'all) and selling it as....

WEINER CLEANER!

....because every weiner needs a good cleaning.  Plus, you don't need a washcloth or spongee thing to get the job done.  Simply, squirt some slimy weiner cleaner into the palm of your hand and get to strokin' that bad boy clean! 

Wanna buy some?  Momma's selling that shit here:  GET YOUR BOTTLE OF WEINER CLEANER TODAY!

Summer is almost here. Shoot me now.

Fuck.  School is almost out for the summer and I still have no plans for the littlest spawn.  What the fuck am I gonna do, y'all?  I have no money and no imagination.  And, pretty soon, I'm going to have no sobriety. Not that THAT is a huge departure from my normal life, but I may be sprawled out on the floor, drunk off my ass, foaming at the mouth with pee running down my leg in two weeks if I don't figure something out quick.  The spawn is cute...but she was put on this earth with the sole purpose of torturing me.  I like her best when she's sleeping or raising hell at least 1 mile away from me.  I can't even talk to her. Every conversation we have turns into a plea for her own cell phone.  She's five.  She's out of her mind.  And, she never shuts her mouth.  She yammers on and on and on and on until my ears start bleeding and my eyes roll around to the back of my head.

This is what someone without
a cell phone looks like.

My stomach hurts just thinking about the 3 months of togetherness I have to look forward to.

Spawn:  Mommy!  You and I are going to have the best Summer ever!

Me: Uhm. ??

Spawn: I can't wait to hang out with you EVERY day... we can go to the park, we can have play dates, we can buy me my own phone so we can text each other!  It's going to be awesome!
Me: You are not getting a phone.

Spawn: That's not fair! Even my pretend friend has a phone! 

Me: Yeah, well, borrow HER phone!

Spawn: I just did.  Did you get my text?

Me: Nope. 

Spawn: It SAYS, "Mom, I need my own phone." I'm the only person in this entire house that doesn't have a phone!

Me: You're also the only person in this house without a job.  Get a job and you can have a phone.

Spawn: I'm too small to get a job.  Look at me!  I'm tiny.  Who's gonna give me a job?  The only thing I know how to do is play!  Who's gonna pay me to play?!

Me: Maybe you can go to work with your Dad and play with the old folks.

Spawn: I bet the OLD FOLKS all have phones!  And, none of them have a job.  All they do is sit around and drool all day! They don't even have to wipe their own butts!

This is how our conversations go, y'all. They never end.  How the hell am I supposed to survive an entire Summer with this little heifer?  HOW?! 

As I type this blog, she's sitting under my desk singing, "I like big butts and I cannot lie... blah blahdy blah blah blah deny... when a girl walks by with a itty bitty waist with a round thing in your face you get SPRUNG!"  She just stopped to ask me how she can get sprung like the guy from the song. 

Shoot me now.
 

Shit You SHOULD NOT Buy Your Mother for Mother's Day

It's hard buying shit for your mother... I know.  I have one, too.  Moms always seem to have EVERYTHING, right?  But, if you listen closely (without trying to read between the lines), she'll tell you exactly what kind of gifts she would love.  But, don't read too much into what she says.  She's usually quite blunt with her wishes.  For instance, when she says, "I sure would love a face lift," it does NOT mean she'll settle for one of those widely popular Japanese Face Slimmers:


This doesn't say, "here's a great way to get a face lift,
Mom!", it says, "here, Mom, start giving blow jobs for
a living to raise your own money for a face lift."

This shit is NOT jewelry! 

Instead, take up a fucking collection...or have a barbecue plate benefit event to raise the money it'll take to send her to get a real face lift, or botox, or a fucking gift certificate for a spa day. Splurge a little, for crissakes!  I mean, she probably needs a face lift because YOU aged her beyond her years!  Show a little gratitude!
And, whatever you do, DO NOT buy your mother crap that she can "use" around the house.  If she wants a new vacuum cleaner or a fancy feather duster, she will buy that shit for herself.  If you want to contribute to her household, shower her instead with gifts of wine, cocktail mixers, ice cream and bacon.  You could even throw in a maid service if you're so inclined.

The Slipper Genie?  This shit will
not fly unless you plan on scooting
your ass around her house cleaning
the damn floors yourself.

Yes, a weekly pre-paid maid service will ensure that you will be (without a doubt) her favorite kid for the rest of her life.

Here are a few other things NOT to buy your mother for Mother's Day:

1. Exercise videos/equipment (this is a no-brainer)
2. Clothes (let's face it, you don't know what the fuck her size is, let alone what she likes)
3. Generic lotion/body wash gift sets (she knows you bought that shit at Walmart for $1!)
4. Fake flowers (just because "they never die" doesn't mean she wants that shit collecting dust in her house)
5. Cleaning products (unless a free french maid comes along with that shit)