I'm a human lie detector. Really. Try me.

A little backstory here..I've dated this one guy on and off for the past few years. Let's call him Leo. We've never gotten overly serious in the past but he's been staying with me since he lost his job, so we're in that awkward "hold your shit until the other person isn't home" phase. He can be real sweet....and he can be a real douche, too. I laugh at his expense all the time. But hey, at least he's a good sport. Usually. Sometimes.

Anyway, Leo is always giving me crap about watching TV shows like Jersey Shore and Jerry Springer and iCarly. I just can't help myself. And before you say something shitty and I'm forced to punch you in the throat, iCarly rocks and you totally know it so don't even go there.

So on my lunch break today I was at home watching Maury and eating a PB&J sammich. Simplicity is really wonderful sometimes, you should try it. So before I left to go back to work, I noticed that Leo hadn't changed the channel yet. I just figured he wasn't paying attention to the TV and shrugged it off.

When I got back to work I got to thinking, so I texted him.

Here is a summary of our "Textual Transmission:"



Me: "If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?"

Him: "Crap."

Me: "lol shut up it's not a bad thing I just wanna know something."

Him: "ok"

Me: "Are you still watching Maury?"

Him: "hell no I aint watchin that shit"

Me: "I don't believe you. You're still watching it aren't you?"

Him: "....yes."

Me: "I knew it!"

Him: "Shut up."

Me: "So was Billy the father?"

Him: "Hell yeah I knew that shit too that baby looked just like him."


*rolls eyes*

If he ever gives me shit for my viewing choices again, I'm totally giving him a swirlie. And I won't even clean the toilet first.

I totally know what I'm doing...I think.

Guess who just got approved for a home loan yesterday?


*points thumbs at self*

That’s right, people. You’re looking at a future homeowner here. It’s a pretty exciting time, and a little overwhelming as well. I feel like I’ve now been officially inducted into the “Grown-up Club”. I mean, I already fit all the other criteria:


1. I am completely self sufficient. …Ok so maybe I pay a teenager to mow my lawn. Big deal. Like I’m gonna get all sweaty and manual labor-ey? Yeah, right.

2. I graduated high school. Barely.

3. I drive a car that is totally paid off – and the fact that it’s paid for is the only thing I like about it.

4. I balance my checkbook twice a week. And 90% of the time I even do it accurately.

5. I know how to unclog a toilet. I will plunge that shit like my life depends on it. (Pun totally intended.)

6. I no longer cringe at the idea of touching poo, boogers or scabs. After being a mom, you can’t shock me. Gross things are my forte.

7. I have things like Vick’s, Breathe Right strips, and heating pads on my nightstand.

8. I can buy alcohol. And Cigarettes. And porn! And I have proudly exercised each of those rights at one point or another. …Except the porn. Okay, okay. So I’ve bought porn. Like you haven’t?

9. I’m old enough to fight for my country. But I swear to God, if there’s ever a female draft for the army I’ll be the first bitch running to Canada, ey. I mean, I love the good ol’ U S of A, but my idea of a fight is a “Yo Momma” battle. And somehow I don’t think that would go very far in keeping me alive during combat.

10. I say things like:

“Because I said so.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

“As long as you live in my house, you’ll live by my rules.”

“Knock it off or so help me I will turn this car around!!”



All in all, I think I’m ready to finally have a place to call my own. Where there will be no looky-loos peeking in my windows or realtors constantly traipsing through with strangers. Where landlords will be a thing of the past, and I’ll be paying mortgage instead of rent.

And what’s the best part about looking at houses, you ask? Sweet, sweet revenge. Revenge for all those assholes that knocked on my door during dinner, asking me to show them my house without an appointment. For the jerks that walked through my house with muddy ass boots, while saying my bedroom paint job is hideous and that “something must be done about it.” For the realtor constantly asking me why his sign isn’t in the yard where it should be.

It’s not there because I hid it behind the tree. And I would do it again, too. Because when people don’t see the “For Sale” sign, they don’t circle the block six times to look at the house. Don’t they realize that every single time they drive by, my dog goes ape shit? And damn, let me tell you - that dog has an unbelievably shrill bark. I’m pretty sure it breaks the sound barrier.

But since I know absolutely nothing about pilot lights, roof maintenance, foundations, cabinetry or anything else home related I’ll have to take someone with me to look. Hell, a house could have a missing roof and I would totally buy it if it had a dishwasher.

Man, would I love a dishwasher. Dare to dream, my friends. Dare to dream.

Improvisation 101

So, last night Peanut was in the shower gettin all squeaky clean and whatnot. I still wash her hair, because if I let her do it herself, the end result is usually something like:

"AAHHH!!! THERE'S SOAP IN MY EYES!! IT BURNS!! MY EYES ARE FALLING OUT!!! I'M DYING!! HEELLLP!!"

*sigh*

Her shampoo is tear free.


Anyway...I typically just have Peanut come to the side of the shower stall so I can reach in and wash her hair without getting wet. Usually I have to move the "adjustable" shower head so the stream of water isn't right in my face while I'm scrubbing her cute lil noggin. So I reached up to adjust it - and it snapped off. So now, instead of water coming from the lovely massaging shower head, it's shooting from the wall at 100 mph. Naturally, I screamed like a little girl. My entire bathroom became one big shower - no surface was safe from the scalding hot assault.

Here's a picture for your mind's eye: I'm screaming, Peanut is screaming, the dog is barking, and water is everywhere. I'm soaking wet and my mascara is running down my face, so I look like a really effeminate football player. Peanut is wet and soapy and scrambling to get out of the way, and the dog is trying to bite the stream of water shooting from the wall. Sorta like this:

You would think my first impulse would be to SHUT THE DAMN WATER OFF. Nope. My first impulse was to try to block the stream of water with my hand. Because that's totally gonna make it stop. And just in case you're wondering - no. There was no logic behind that thought. Just pure instinct, baby.


Finally I figure out that I can make it stop by turning those little knobby thingys that have H and C on them.

*lightbulb clicking on in mind*

Yay! I stopped the geyser!

*angels singing*

I handled that shit like a pro. Just like the water company when I forget to pay my bill. I'm so freakin awesome and smart and cool. ....and soggy.


So now, I've got a soapy 3 year old that I need to rinse off. My only remaining option is the kitchen sink. That's right, bitches. I can totally improvise. I mean, I did it when she was a baby so it can't be that hard, right? Surprisingly enough, it wasn't too bad. Peanut was totally cooperative and we managed to get her clean. The only problem I had was lifting her out of the sink when she was done. She was wet and slippery...so I *kinda* dropped her a little bit. But she totally landed on her feet instead of her face, so it's all good.

Then it was my turn. I bent over the sink to wash my hair - no problem there. Then came the brainstorming: how was I going to get my body clean, without plopping my happy ass into the sink and getting myself hurt - or even worse - stuck?  Frankly, I didn't want to end my night by being forced to call 911 and admit to dispatch that I was naked and stuck in my sink.  So I did the famous "washcloth wipedown". It wasn't near as warm and relaxing as a shower, but I didn't want to get a wicked scalding enima either, so I chose the lesser of the two evils.

I'm hoping my landlords will get someone over today to fix it.

I'm not feeling overly optimistic about that, though. I asked them 4 months ago to send an exterminator, and that never happened.  We now have spiders big enough to form their own websites. We practically need a snow shovel to squash those bastards - because when I hit them with a shoe it just makes them angry. Then they say shit like: "Is that all you got? Bring it on, bitch!!"

*shivers*

Damn thug spiders. They talk a big game, but they're bad-ass and they know it. I'm expecting a turf war any day now.

My kid will charm the shit out of you.

As we all know, this past weekend was Halloween.  Peanut was a cheerleader this year, and she was totally into the whole concept. This was her first year doing the traditional trick-or-treating.  She loved it!  She called her Pom-Poms "Boom Booms" as well as "Poop Poops". And honestly, I thought that second one was pure genius.  This child certainly has a bright future ahead of her.

I however, hated trick-or-treating. I remembered it being a lot more fun as a child.  This year, I felt like a pack mule.  By the end of the night I was carrying Peanut's coat, her candy bucket, her Pom Poms...and her. Plus my stupid ass thought flip flops would be, like, totally acceptable footwear.

*sigh*

I can be such an idiot sometimes.

Anyway, I took tons of pictures that night because that's my job as a mom.  Take all the pictures, and 50% of the candy.

....Better make that 60%. I can't let a 3 year old eat all that candy, or I would be a horrible mother right?  Right? Come on, just go with it.  Humor me. After all, I fill your lives with humor by writing this hilarious kick-ass blog.  So you totally owe me, bitches.

Out of all the pictures I took, one in particular captures the essence of my wonderful child in such a way that it would be a shame not to share it:

Omg what a totally cute cheerleader!  She is so freakin adorable!

....Aaaaand she's picking her nose.

Diggin' for gold, apparently.  She's got her finger so far up there she's gotta be touchin brain.

Burstin' with pride here, people.  Simply bursting.