She said lettuce, I heard BACON

Hubber and I are buckling down (for sure this time, mofos) and getting serious (I mean it, bitches) about losing weight and getting fit.  I know you heifers are all like, "suuuuuuure you are".  But, we are.  And this time, we're investing a lot of money in this shit, which should help somewhat with accountability and whatnot.  We even have a counselor/dietitian lady we have to physically visit three times a week.  This ain't no bullshit, y'all.  I'm telling you this is serious business.

So, yesterday when Patsy (dietitian) was giving us creative ideas for preparing the shit ton of green vegetables we have to eat over the next few days (detox phase), I kept thinking she was saying "bacon" every fifth or sixth word.  I kept having to stop her to clarify that indeed she had just said "wrap your chicken in bacon".

Me: <totally dumbfounded> It's ok to eat bacon wrapped chicken?!  I thought we couldn't eat pork.  You guys don't consider bacon to be pork?  This is the best news I've gotten all day! I love bacon.  Oh, sweet, sweet bacon!

Patsy: <very confused> Wait... what?

Hubber:  How does anyone confuse the word "lettuce" for "bacon"?  Only my wife.  <rolling eyes>

Patsy:  Hahahaha!  Oh, you two are too funny!

Me: so, no bacon?

Patsy: NO bacon.

This same very pathetic conversation repeated itself a few more times during our 1-hour counseling session. I'm sorry, but the words "taking", "baking", and "spinach" all sound like bacon.  Ok, maybe spinach is a little far fetched but at that point I was only half-ass listening.  Visions of plump little piggies and bacon wrapped, cheese stuffed jalapenos kept dancing around in my head while Patsy yammered on and Hubber nodded his head like what she was saying was so interesting and reasonable.  There's nothing reasonable about not eating pork, y'all.  God invented pigs for the sole purpose of being turned into bacon and pork chops and chicharones and pozole and carnitas....!

Hubber: why are you so caught up on bacon?  It's not like we eat it a lot.

Me: when someone tells me I can't have a certain thing, I just want it more.  Remember that time you said I couldn't have that jackalope head?  Remember?!  Soon after I wanted two heads... then four... then an entire herd of them!  My jackalope dreams have multiplied like crazy. The same thing is going to happen with bacon.  I'm going to get obsessed. You'll never hear the end of it. ARE YOU PREPARED FOR THIS SHIT?!

Hubber: I've learned to tune you out.  You know... like you tune the kids out.  I can do that.

Me:  I should be offended by that, huh?

Hubber:  Huh? Did you say something?

I hate him sometimes.  He loves bacon, too.  He was just pretending to be all big shit mister tough guy around Patsy.  The second we got home, he said, "Call me crazy, but it kinda smells like bacon in here, huh?"  Lord help us.
I WISH!! 


Homeless people beg for money on street corners because the government won't give them food stamps! They have too much cash on hand!

I was only 21 when I bore my first spawn.  Although I was in college at the time, I obviously wasn't making the best decisions.  I left home a year before she was born because I thought I knew it all.  My parents didn't know shit; and, I was old enough to make my own decisions and live my life the way I saw fit.  To sum it up, I was a fucking idiot.  I only got to live it up for a few short months before I got knocked up.  I stayed in school, worked a couple of jobs and lived in a "duplex" behind a barber shop. It was kinda hard to make ends meet (duh), so I took the advice of a friend and went to the "welfare" office to apply for food stamps.  They turned me down.

Welfare Natzi:  We can't help you.  You make too much money.

Me:  I get minimum wage and I go to school.

Welfare Natzi: Yeah, but you work two jobs.

Me: They're both part-time.

Welfare Natzi: Also, you have a car.  That's considered a liquid asset.

Me: It's a 1981 Pontiac Bonneville. It has no A/C, the gas gauge doesn't work, there are no seat belts, the driver's side door won't open and only two of the four windows will go down.  It's worth $5.  Tops.

Welfare Natzi: Are you currently pregnant?

Me: Uhm, NO!

Welfare Natzi: That's too bad. If you were pregnant, we could definitely help.

Me: I can't afford the kid that I have now and you want me to have another?!

Welfare Natzi: I don't make the rules, I just follow them.  Apply again if you lose your jobs or get pregnant.

Yeah.  That interview for food stamps was a fucking eye opener.  Here I was, a single mother, living in squalor, driving a kid around in a death trap, working two jobs, going to school and trying to make something out of myself.  All I was asking for was a little bit of help FEEDING MY CHILD...but the fucking government could care less.  The only way I could become a burden on society was if I was about to spew out another poor unfortunate soul from my loins.  My conclusion: The system is fucked up.

Fast forward 16 years.

My family of 4 is now living in an apartment.  Neither adult is working a REAL job.  I've got my writing jobs and the ball shaving thing, but basically, we're living off of our savings until shit starts to "happen" for us.  

For shits and giggles, the other day I decided to give this food stamps thing another try.  It's got a fancy new name now (the "Lone Star Card") and you can apply online and whatnot, so I figured it must be all evolved and shit from the olden days.  I figured wrong.

My "case worker" called for my required "phone interview" and after an hour of interrogation, she gave me the bad news.  

Welfare Natzi #2:  Your liquid assets (there's that term again!) put you way over the top.  You have too much cash on hand. We can't help you.

Me:  Your mean our savings?

Welfare Natzi #2: Yes.  Unless it's in a 401K or something like that, it's considered "cash on hand".  

Me:  ....meaning?

Welfare Natzi #2: ...meaning, you can use it to live off of.

Me:  That's what we're doing.  

Welfare Natzi #2:  Well, when it all runs out, feel free to apply again.  Unless you're pregnant... if you're pregnant, we can probably help...

<CLICK>

It was around that time that I hung up on the bitch.  The system hasn't changed much in 16 years.  I can't believe I wasted an hour of my life on that phone call.  I could have been shaving a hairy man's back and making some CASH ON HAND... but nooooo.... I had to think there was a little bit of good left in the world!  

That welfare natzi bitch owes me $50 for wasting my fucking time.

I wonder where I can go to collect?

I ain't praying for your constipation to end

Sis:  Hey, on the radio show I was listening to, they were talking about all the stuff on Facebook that annoys people.  This one guy said he hates it when people ask for prayers but don't say what they want you to pray for.  I may be guilty of doing that.

Me: Yeah, you do it.  It's annoying as hell.  You're all like, "keep your fingers crossed for me today!"  I hate when you do that shit.

Sis: What's the big deal?  Maybe I don't want everybody to know my business.

Me: Then why say anything at all?

Sis: Because some people DO know my business... and THOSE people will keep their fingers crossed or say a little prayer for me because they KNOW what the heck I'm talking about!  And those who don't, are usually kind enough to send good vibes my way simply because I asked for them - no strings attached!

Me: Well, that's just fucked up. And, it pisses me off more because sometimes you put that shit up there and I see people commenting about how they'll pray for you or cross their fingers for you as if they ARE in on your secret, undercover bullshit... while I have NO FUCKING CLUE why you need me to cross my damn fingers. How the hell do they know what's going on and I don't?!  How?!  I feel the sudden need to punch you in the eye right now.  I wanna pull your hair, too.

Sis: Calm down!  You always know, you just forget!  I tell you shit and you listen only half-assedly!

Me: For all I know, you could be having a serious bout of constipation!  I ain't wasting my prayers on your SHIT!  I have to use my requests to God sparingly.  And, don't even get all up in my good mojo....that shit is saved up, too.... for serious requests!  I could care less about your bowel movements unless you're on your death bed. Are you dying?!

Sis: Who the hell said anything about my shitting habits?!  YOU'RE the one talking about me being constipated!  All I said was that sometimes I post statuses on Facebook asking for a prayer or two.  You don't have to comply!!

Me: When it comes to prayers and finger crosses, you get NADA unless I am privy to the REASONS.  You hear me?  You shouldn't even be posting that shit on there unless you're gonna tell us all what the heck is going on.

Sis: YOU ALWAYS KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON!

Me: Case closed.  I'm over this conversation.

Sis: Why do I even talk to you?

Me: <La la la la la la... >>


Well, thank GOD!  I thought you never would!

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.