The fucking WIND, yo!

If you don’t live in Kansas, you aren’t allowed to complain about the wind. Ever. Because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

The wind out here these past few days has been vicious. You would think that as a full grown adult, the wind would not be able to uproot you and knock you on your ass all by itself. WRONG! It can, and it does. You’ll be standing at the gas pump, pumping carefully, trying to hit that $20 mark without going over by so much as a penny because when you do it feels like you’ve won a fucking game show, and BAM! A big ass gust of wind comes along and bowls you over. I have been unsuspectingly knocked on my ass by an invisible force more than once…and recently.

But no wind-related incidents that I can remember were as bad as my trip to Wal-Mart this past Sunday. I went to stock up on baby shit - not literally, as I’ll have plenty of that in a few more weeks, but figuratively. I am buying craploads of diapers, wipes and other baby goodies. I figure it’ll be good to have it all ahead of time, because after I wreck my vagina popping out a kid, I’m not gonna feel like going out much. Sound logic, yeah?

So at this particular Wal-Mart, the parking lot is lacking any kind of structure that might protect you from the elements. So if the wind is blowing like a motherfucker, you’re on your own. This was the case on Sunday. I opened my door to get out of the car, and the wind ripped it from my hands. I was just happy nobody was parked next to me, because I wasn’t in the mood to move my car to another spot and pretend like nothing happened. So Peanut and I managed to make it into the store without incident. But when we came back out it was a completely different story.

So anyway, we get everything we need (and a few things we don’t) and go to leave the store. I swear the wind got stronger while we were in there, because when we were navigating the cart through the parking lot, it was impossible to do so in a straight line. Then we get halfway through the parking lot, and the giant frozen pizza I just bought GOES FLYING OUT OF THE CART. Seriously, like the damn thing was made of Styrofoam or something. Peanut starts screaming “OMIGOD MOM OUR PIZZA IS FLYING AWAY!!” And I’m like “SHIT SHIT SHIT FUCK FUCK!” Because when I panic, my filter is completely gone. I say whatever comes to mind, and hell let’s face it, it got lost in the wind this time anyway so it’s not like anyone heard me. I choose to believe that if nobody heard me, it didn’t happen. So I totally didn’t swear in front of my child like a careless asshole.

By this point I've decided that I really want that fucking pizza for dinner and I just paid $7 for it so I’m going after that bastard. It was a Sunday morning so there wasn’t any activity in the parking lot, so fuck it – game on. I stooped over and ran, arms outstretched, reaching for my cheese covered salvation, as the butthole wind keeps pushing it further and further away. This was no easy feat as I can hardly even reach the ground anymore, but I was determined. I looked like a fool, I knew it, but I didn’t care. I heard this documentary style monologue inside my head, in the voice of Steve Irwin, describing me as the deadly predator stalking her prey. It was actually pretty awesome. I felt like a champ.

Oy, isn't she a beauty?

  

With the encouragement of The Crocodile Hunter, I caught that bitch pizza. And I think I made my 5 year olds’ day at the same time because she was laughing really hard when I got back to the cart. Although that may have had something to do with the fact that I was holding it above my head like a trophy and doing a victory dance.

*shrug*

At least I got my pizza. And after re-arranging some toppings, it baked up just fine and tasted great. I had three delicious slices. Totally worth it.

If wishes were fishes, we’d all smell fucking awful.

So, someone asked me the other day: “If you could have one wish, guilt free, consequence free, what would it be?”

Well, what an interesting question. There are so many things this world needs that a simple wish could fix. World Peace. Universal Healthcare. Cure cancer. End World Hunger. Go back in time and kill Hitler. It all sounds so lovely, doesn’t it? A wish like this would be a big responsibility, know what I mean? I have such a big heart, and I would love to use that wish for the better of mankind. I hardly had to think about it.

So, what would I wish for? It's a no-brainer. I'd wish for the ability to teleport at will.

I'm so awesome for thinking of that.

Yeah, I know I’m a selfish bitch. But you have to admit that being able to do that would be fucking awesome and you would all be totally jealous.

What would I do with such a talent, you ask?

*rubs hands together maniacally*

This is where it gets good. I mean, an ability like this has some real promise. So get this - I would totally use it to work for the government. I mean, how much money could Obama save on his campaign if he never had to worry about transportation costs? Or personal protection? Would he even have a need for the secret service anymore?

“What’s that, Mr. President? A dangerous man in the crowd? Holy shit, he has a gun?! Hold onto your nuts, sir. We’re fucking outta here.” And then I’d cross my arms and blink like Barbara Eden just for effect and we'd disappear and everyone in the world would be like: “She’s so fucking cool, I want to be her friend and buy her lavish gifts and pay for her children’s college education.” And I’d totally allow that because hey, college ain’t cheap. And I really like designer purses, but I’m too cheap to buy them for myself. So get out your credit cards and get to shopping, douchebags. FYI, my favorite color is pink.

And Mr. Obama would definitely have to let me live in the White House to make sure he was secure at all times. We would be freakin’ besties. Our adorable children would get along perfectly and be best friends, and Michelle and I would do Zumba together. I have no idea what the fuck Zumba really is, but the name alone makes it sound fun so I’m totally in. And Michelle seems like a real cool lady so I bet she’d have some interesting ideas about how to use my newfound ability for the greater good. I mean, I’m going to need someone in my corner with a strong moral compass to keep me on the straight and narrow. Otherwise I’ll just be teleporting into men’s dressing rooms all the time and otherwise wreaking widespread havoc just for the pure fun of it all.

And oh, the havoc I would wreak. I would love nothing more than to pop into the closets of people I hate and scare the living shit out of them at random, for the rest of their lives. They would never sleep well again...but I would sleep like a baby. The most awesome baby in the history of the world.

Shhh, everything's gonna be okay now. I'm back.

I know…I’m an asshole for leaving you hanging like that.

I sincerely apologize for being such a neglectful douchebag and not blogging for however-freaking-long. I should be tied to a chair and forced to eat broccoli for my crimes. (By the way, if anyone actually tries to carry that out, keep in mind that when I get free – and I WILL get free – I will find you and kill you.) So anyway, yeah. So sorry and stuff. Here, look at this cute puppy and forgive me as your heart melts.

So yeah…I guess we should get to the whole “what I’ve been doing with my life” thing. Living in the tiny and totally NOT exciting Kansas town that I do, not a lot has changed. I have the same job. I still live in the house I recently bought, and I’m slowly working on making it my own. Peanut has continued to grow, as those damn kids do, and she will be starting Kindergarten this fall. She was also in a dance recital a few weeks ago and before you even ask, yes. She did fucking awesomely. (Awesomely is totally a word, too. Google it.) And of course she was the cutest kid on the stage, but that goes without saying. Any crotch-fruit of mine is going to be the most adorable fucking child ever because my genes are that of the gods.

Speaking of crotch-fruit…guess what, buttholes? I’m freaking knocked up! I’m expecting a new and exciting addition in July. I’m down to the last 6 miserable weeks of pregnancy and I can’t wait to meet the little booger and show her off to the world. That’s right – it’s a SHE! Another pretty little girl to dress up all fancy and put barrettes in her hair and paint tiny fingernails and toenails and OMIGOD THIS SHIT IS GOING TO BE SO FUCKING AWESOME! I’m totally excited…and so is Peanut. She’s looking forward to being a big sister. I just hope it stays that way, because if my kids are anything like my brother and I growing up, I’m in for a long, bumpy ride full of hair-pulling, name-calling and ass-kicking.

*rethinks previous statement regarding baby awesomeness*

Oh shit. What did I get myself into?

*shrug*

They’ll grow up and go off to college someday. Then I can fill my house with pets, and they don’t talk back.

…Note to self: don’t get a parrot.

So…pregnancy, eh? A life is growing inside of me and I’m so happy and glowing and motherhood and circle of life and blessings and whatever.

*throws up breakfast*

It’s not as great as some may think. I can’t reach my toes, which means I can’t clip my toenails or paint them. Peanut has been trying to do that for me but…let’s just say, her pedicure skills leave something to be desired. I can’t shave my legs, so I’m rocking the Sasquatch look. I can’t tie my shoes, so sandals and crocs are my only options. I have wicked gas and I’m constipated like you wouldn’t believe. I can’t stop thinking about chocolate and fried food. (Well that part isn’t too different, now that I think about it.) My back is constantly killing me, walking 20 feet feels like running 20 miles and I cry during every ASPCA commercial. Pregnancy bites the big one, folks. If it weren’t for the adorable outcome, I would have gotten spayed a long time ago.

But it’s worth it…so they say. We’ll see how I feel about that in a few weeks when I’m suffering through sleep exhaustion and elbow deep in runny baby shit. I can hardly wait.

Really. I'm super excited about that part.







The company dinner from hell.

I’m back! Sorry it took so long, folks…writer’s block is a real sonovabitch.


Plus there’s that whole thing about me being a professional procrastinator. Really, there should be a procrastinator title match, where you can win one of those fancy gold wrestling belts cuz I would totally dominate that shit. I’d get in that ring, crack my knuckles, look my opponent in the eyes….and sit on a couch. And maybe file my nails while looking bored. Throw in a Snuggie and I would be the undefeatable queen of laziness.

So, what has been going on in my life lately, you ask? Well, we went to the yearly office party last Thursday. (Fucking EXCITING, let me tell you.) We went to a really nice country club for dinner, and the food was awesome. I put Peanut in a cute little dress and did her hair all nice, hoping she would be the epitome of a well behaved child. After all, she is usually really good in public and I expected this time to be no different. But that night…let’s just say she really set the bar high for mischievous children everywhere. She’s a trailblazer, all right. A real visionary.


We started out with fresh salads, which Peanut and I both like. But for some reason, every bite of salad that went into her mouth got chewed up – and came right back out again. Why, you ask? No fucking clue. The worst part? Every bite she spit out went right into my hand. I mean, the place was fancy, with real cloth napkins and everything. And let me tell you, if I was that waitress I would be pissed if I picked up a napkin and a pound of half-chewed food fell out. I’m sure she got a great tip, but not that great. Having been a waitress before, I sympathize with how hard their jobs really are and didn’t want to make it worse for her. She was one of those really nice ones that called me “sweetheart”, even though she definitely walked through a huge fart I let loose around the second course. I saw the look on her face – there is no mistaking she caught a whiff. And she didn’t even say anything! (Unless you include the slight gag.) What a trouper.


So, needless to say, Peanut’s table manners leave a little something to be desired. Not only did I have a pile of partially chewed food on the side of my plate, but Peanut decided that since she was wearing a pretty dress, it was the perfect opportunity to put her legs in the air and show everyone her cool boots. And by association, her panties.

*sigh*

Lovely.

And every time I told her to sit up straight and eat her dinner, she made noises like an angry pirate. Something to the effect of: “AARRRGGGHHH!! NO!!” Since we were in public, I let it slide. And at that moment I practically heard the light bulb click on in her mind - she knew she had found her golden ticket. She knows that shit would never fly at home. But that evil little grin on her face said it all; she was willing to test all the boundaries, not giving a damn that she would have to pay for it later. And then I realized: all hope was lost.


So as the night went on, my patience grew thinner and thinner. She was crawling under the table and grabbing people’s legs, throwing food, climbing on me, and yelling like a crazed hobo. She also spent an adequate amount of time petting my boss’s wife. That’s right, you read it correctly. My boss’s wife was wearing a really nice coat complete with real coyote fur, so Peanut thought it would be okay if she pet her, while calling her “my sweet little kitty”.


All in all, I only had to take her into the bathroom and have a “talk” two times. Which is twice as much as usual…but what can ya do? Kids will be kids. Whatever that means. I mean, could there be a more obvious statement? It should be more like: “Kids will be major buttholes, but you have to love them anyway because if you don’t they grow up to be serial killers.” Or something like that. So maybe Peanut was a rotten little shit that night. But she’s MY rotten little shit, and I love her all the same.


Cue the: “AWWWWWWW!!”


The funny part? Everybody was raving about how good she was. I shudder to think what kind of 4 year olds they’ve been around, if they think that was a good example of how a child should behave. Really. That shit’s gonna give me nightmares.

Holy shit, Christmas is almost here!

My mom and brother are coming out for the holidays this year, and I’m totally stoked! They’re driving which kinda bummed me out, because I had some really fucking hilarious TSA jokes all lined up. Meh, whatevs. It’ll still be nice to have them here. Sharing one tiny bathroom with 4 other people was totally at the top of my wish list this year.


*dramatic eye roll*


And of course I have the wonderful “tofu diarrhea” to look forward to. My mom insists that using soy meat in chili is no different than using real meat. It is. A lot different. Regular chili doesn’t give me explosive diarrhea. The taste isn’t all that different – and that’s how it gets ya. You gobble down 3 bowls unsuspectingly, while the soy quietly works its way to your colon for D-Day. And before you know it, you're icing your binghole and throwing away your favorite underwear.

The best part about this year is that I was finally able to afford presents. Before I never had enough money, so I had to use the lame ass excuse that “My presence is your present. Because I’m that fucking cool and I know you’re totally grateful.” Well maybe in my Gramma’s case I left out the f-bomb. No need to burn the only bridge that leads to homemade cookies and endless advice. Seriously. My Gramma knows everything. Also, I don’t know what she’s capable of so I don’t want to make her mad. Never piss off a Gramma. They’re full of surprises.




Fuck you, young people!

Since they’ll be here in just under a week, it’s crunch time. I’ve gotten a lot of things done, so I’m mostly ready for their arrival. The only things I have left to do are wrap the presents, and clean my house. Except for the “cleaning my house” part. Because who wants to do that on Christmas? Or….ever? Cleaning house is the worst. Around every corner is a wall that I have to scrub Peanut’s crayon drawings off of. Or a lovely little poop streak that Oscar left behind on the floor while doing that hilarious ass-dragging thing. And let’s be honest here - I can’t even get mad when he does it because I’m laughing so hard I can’t see straight. The ass-dragging is one of my favorite things in the world. The simplistic beauty of it is something to be admired. 


So, bloggers….I would like to take this opportunity to wish you good tidings. Happy Chanukah, Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, or whatever the hell you celebrate. That’s right assholes, I can totally be sensitive and politically correct. I just don’t like to do it very often. Because raising expectations is never a good idea.

See you next year, douchebags!!



Tumbleweeds are the devil. And so am I.

I have had to get used to a lot of major changes since moving from Ohio to Kansas. I visited my family here as a kid, but I don’t have a lot of memories about the climate, culture or community. I invested more in raising hell with the combined efforts of my brother and cousins. And at that…I succeeded. I’m a havoc-wreaking monster motherfucker. So look out, buttholes. Hide your breakables and don’t ever give me candy. I’m like a stray cat; if you feed me, I’ll be back. And if you don’t give me candy when I come back, I’ll meow your ass off and tear your curtains apart. Trust me, it would be a cat-astrophe.



Haha. Cat Humor.


Driving is a lot different out here in the middle of nowhere. I can now go 50 mph down city streets and totally get away with it. I can pull a U-Turn in the middle of Main Street and nobody would think twice about it. Hell, I could stand in the middle of Main Street, butt naked, holding a sign that says “Ask me about my wicked diarrhea” at 8pm on a Friday night and not a soul would see me. And frankly yes, I have been tempted to do so. Because that shit would be hilarious, and also because I’m really fucking weird.


Now, when you’re driving in Ohio, you mostly only have to worry about animals jumping out in front of your car. Deer, groundhogs, raccoons and opossums are among the most popular road kill victims. In Kansas, it’s rare to come across an animal in the road – instead, you have to dodge tumbleweeds. Those bastards are everywhere! And I know what you’re thinking: “It’s just a weed. What could it possibly do to you?” …That’s what I thought the first time I got one stuck under my car. I reached under to pull it out, and it damn near CUT MY FUCKING FINGER OFF. Those shits are deceptively sharp, and viciously evil. I’m telling ya man, tumbleweeds can’t be trusted.


And size is of no concern to them. The ones you see blowing across the sand in western movies are cute and small – but don’t let them fool you. Those are only the baby tumbleweeds. And when Papa tumbleweed comes a rollin’ along, look the fuck out. He will bowl your ass over and rip your jeans, and possibly sexually assault you. Papa tumbleweed is an unstoppable badass. I know from experience – I ran into one at Walmart the other day. Rather, it ran into me. And I wrangled that douchebag into a cart rack and took its picture, as proof for everyone who doubts its existence. Get ready to have your minds blown to hell, my friends:

I had to look like a raging moron trying to muscle that thing in there.

*shrugs*

Good thing I don’t mind looking like a weirdo. It’s pretty much a full time job for me. The shocked and disgusted looks I get are only fuel in the fire, baby. I pride myself on being a one-of-a-kind freak. The kind of freak that makes people so uncomfortable they tell their kids not to stare. Where people just assume I’m mentally challenged and pretend I’m not there while avoiding eye contact. Where I can get away with farting really loud in public, as long as I follow it by screaming: “WHOOP WHOOP!! HOOOOOONK!! I’M A FIRETRUCK!” and spitting on people to put out their fires.


It’s time like those I wish I had a penis, because a wang would sure make an awesome fire hose. Also, I really want to know what it’s like to pee outside without having to squat. Squatting outside is the worst, and I always manage to somehow pee in my shoes. And let me tell you, shoes full of urine aren’t nearly as fun as they sound.

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.

Farts and Daydreams

...My thoughts exactly.

This is the kind of day I’m having. The kind of day where I feel like marching into my boss’s office, dumping a bowl of cottage cheese on his head, and smacking him in the face with a fly swatter. And then I would totally fart as loud as I can and say “I quit!” …and leave satisfied, knowing he will not be able to figure out what just happened for years to come.


These are the things I spend my day fantasizing about. That, and cheeseburgers.


Mmmmmmm….cheeseburgers.


And this is so not a cop out because I can’t come up with a longer post. Because I totally can. They say a picture is worth a thousands words… so if you think about it, this is totally impressive.


*takes a bow*


You’re welcome.

Fuck you, Dora the Explorer. Fuck you.

Dear Dora the Explorer,


Stop yelling! We’re not fucking deaf. Also, stop telling my kid to yell and jump around with you. It's too early in the damn morning for that bullshit. Your voice is annoying, your head is too big, and your shirts are too small. Where the fuck are your parents?!

Apparently you need to be reminded that you can't catch a star and put it back in the sky by climbing a tall mountain and throwing it at the moon. Also, if burglars could be stopped by yelling at them….this world would be a much happier place. You should be trying to get Swiper into rehab instead. Ever heard of kleptomaniacs? You’re a girl of many resources, Dora. Look it up. Your fox pal has a problem.

I also take issue with how presumptuous you are when asking for my help. When I say “no” you act like you didn’t hear me, and you do it anyway. What if I have shit to do, and therefore do not have the time to make climbing motions? How does that help you anyway? Climb the damn mountain yourself.

And maybe I don't feel like helping you with some random lion that ran into in the wild, find his way to the circus. BECAUSE IT'S A FUCKING LION AND IT SHOULD BE EATING YOU. Also, because I've seen you get robbed on a regular basis, come close to being eaten by the cutest freakin alligators I’ve ever seen, and almost drown because your boat had geometrically shaped holes in it. I wouldn’t consider you the best of company. Because frankly, I don’t want to die and be buried in a land of magical farts and rainbows. Or wherever the hell you live.

And how does that goddamn map of yours know the locations of so many places, even though half of them don't look like they're on the same plane of existence? I wouldn't trust him if I were you. I think he's making shit up. I mean, lollipop forest? Hiccup bridge? Really? Either he’s high, or I’m a dude. And I’ve got boobies to prove my case. What do you have?

Welcome to the real world, Dora. You’re gonna HATE it here. There are no chocolate trees or bubblegum volcanoes, and your parents will be arrested for child endangerment.

Let me know how foster care works out for you.

Sincerely,

-Me

PS – Seriously where did you get the talking monkey with the cute little red boots? Cuz I totally want one.

Crazy fuckers always find me...

Long back story short – I work for a buffalo rancher. We market the meat on the internet so most of our business is done outside of the local area. We get all kinds of weird calls, but today I got one that I think tops them all. So sit back and be amused, people. Or I’ll hunt you down and kick you in the junk.


And trust me, this motherfucker can KICK.

*points thumbs at self*

Ask my brother if you don’t believe me. Any time we fought as kids I fell to the floor and kicked that asshole like I was doing the backstroke. Why? He’s bigger than me, and my legs are my best defense. Although, strangely enough…my worst attribute. Two words: cellulite and cankles. (Thanks a lot for those wonderful genes, dad. I mean, let’s face it – I didn’t get flabby legs from my mom because she’s a freakin' amazon. So damn you and your stupid sperm. I got totally screwed on that one.)

So anyway, I was at work this morning…minding my own business. Because I don’t mind the actual business. Because I’m a model employee!! So anyway I was on the computer checking my Facebook and the phone rings. This dude on the other end had a pretty strange and specific request. He wanted us to ship him a buffalo head. Not a skull – an entire head. Eyeballs, skin, hair, horns, tongue and all. Yeah. A real winner, this one.

*sigh*

Why do the fucking weirdo’s always find ME?

But wait – it gets better! I didn’t bother asking what he wanted it for…because frankly, I didn’t want to know. But he offered up that information anyway, as if it was crucial to the sale. It wasn’t. He wanted the head for a Halloween display – he wanted to stick it on a pike in his yard and wire it so that it was spitting blood out the mouth like a fountain. He already had a deer head and a goat head….but he wanted something bigger. Of course! I totally shoulda had that figured out. I mean it’s common sense, right?

*gagging*

Upon finding out what his (not at all fucking WEIRD) intentions were….my facial reaction was probably something like this:

Except there was no horse in my face, and no shit in my pants.


I got to thinking: and if I saw this shit in someone’s yard while trick-or-treating as a kid I would have had nightmares for weeks. I’ve always been really squeamish, even as a child. Preparing raw chicken for dinner literally makes me gag…but for some reason I have no problem eating it. Probably because I’m a bomb-ass cook and you’re totally jealous.

I remember when I was younger, I went on vacation with my dad and his evil shrew of a wife to Myrtle Beach. One night before we went out for dinner my dad was watching this old western movie on TV. A Native American woman had been shot in the back, and a cowboy was using a knife to dig the bullet out of her back. I couldn’t eat for 2 days. Yeah, I have problems. So does your mom. So shove it.

Forceful Personal Hygiene

So by now you all know of my 3 year old, Peanut. Lately we have been having some personal hygiene issues. Why, you ask? Well, Peanut doesn’t like to brush her teeth. Or wipe when she uses the bathroom. Or wash her hair. She likes to play in the dirt and eat bugs. In short - I have a dirty, dirty child. And when you’re like me (I know, you totally wish you were) you can’t stand seeing dirt under someone’s fingernails. It just totally grosses me out. Wash your hands once in awhile, yo!

Anyway, today I’m talking teeth. See, it is a perfectly normal morning ritual for me to load toothpaste on Peanut’s little mermaid toothbrush, sit on her lap, hold her arms down, pry open her mouth, and brush her teeth. She hates it. She screams open mouthed, while spitting foam like a rabid animal. She cries like I’m torturing her. And sometimes she laughs because “the toofbrush tickles, mommy!”

It drives me nuts. I really wish she would just take the damn brush and do it herself. I mean, the toothpaste tastes like bubblegum! It’s delicious! I could eat it on some crackers with a nice mouthwash chaser. It’s that good.

So, I’ve been trying to make brushing your teeth look cool so she will be more inclined to do it herself.


I’ve tried: “See how funny it sounds when you try to sing while you’re brushing?”

And: “Its fun to DANCE while you’re brushing!”

And: “Only cool people brush their teeth. So that means I’m cool and you’re not.”

Her response to that last one: “That’s ok, I don’t need to be cool. Because I’m already AWESOME.” -She surely is her mother’s daughter.


I’m fairly certain that the only conclusion she’s come to is that her mother is an idiot who dances with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, spraying toothpaste everywhere while singing Paula Abdul’s greatest hits.

I can’t wait to do that in front of her friends when she’s 16.

*evil cackle*

That must be why my mother embarrassed the shit out of me in high school. Like the time she pulled up in front of the school in a run-down truck with a stove strapped to it, screaming my (first AND last) name and waving like a maniac. Mother’s revenge….I must have forgotten to clean my room or something. Or maybe it was because I got suspended for swearing in German at the substitute teacher. (And I totally would’ve gotten away with it if the assistant principal didn’t speak fluent German.) Meh, whatever.

Conversations with Dishes

Everybody has certain quirks, right? Like...my brother likes to stare at me and drool like a retard whenever we’re in a car together and I’m driving. My boss stretches and says “OKAAAAAYYY” really loud about 5 times a day. (I think it’s a thought-gathering technique. At least I hope it is.) Every time I visit my Grandma, she sends me home with a full bag of groceries from her kitchen. My daughter has to scream “I’m wiping FRONT to BACK mom, just like you said!!!” every time she uses the bathroom – even in public. You know, totally random shit like that.

Well just today I noticed a certain quirk I never really realized I had: when I go to the kitchen to get a drink, I have to take a moment to choose which cup I want to use.


I open the cupboard and simply ponder in my mind:


“I’m not in a plastic kind of mood, plus the only clean plastic cup is neon orange. Ew I hate that one.”

*moves cup out of the way*

“I could go for a glass, but I don’t want the one with Christmas shit on it, and the other ones are really small and I’m thirsty as hell.”

*push to back of cupboard*
*pick a booger*
*fling said booger*

“I would use a mug but I’m not drinking something hot and that just feels wrong…and my favorite mug is dirty too. Shit, I really need to do the dishes. I wish I had a dishwasher because dishes are stupid and they can burn in hell. Where’s that pretty glass that’s shaped like a tulip?”

*peering in cabinet*
*rubbing chin*

“Oh shit, I broke that one a couple days ago. Dammit.  I guess I’ll use one of these fancy ones with the stem on the bottom. Yeah...I’ll sip my strawberry flavored Clearly Canadian like it’s champagne, and I’m a fancy fancy lady with a bidet and a backyard pool and diamonds and shit.”

*smiles approvingly*

“This’ll do quite fine. Ya done good, kid.”

*pats self on back*

Congratulations, people. You’ve just experienced a moment within my mind. Scary, isn’t it?

WTF, Illustrator?

So, I went to Dollar General the other day…because I’m cheap and I can get a full cart of groceries there for $40. Don’t judge me. So while I was there I told Peanut she could pick out ONE toy – and that it couldn’t be more than $5. (I guess I forgot that NOTHING in that store is more than $5.) Peanut picked out a little watercolor set that had 3 paint-by-color pictures in it, and she couldn’t wait to get home and paint. And I couldn’t wait to scrub it out of the carpet when she was done. Really, I was giddy with anticipation because cleaning rocks hardcore.

*rolls eyes*

So, when we get home and I got out all the stuff in the box, I looked at the pictures….and there are no words.  Check it out:

Seriously, wtf? Why is the caterpillar wearing a cast?

And what does a caterpillar have to do in order to break a leg?

Motorcycle accident? Sports injury?

I’m stumped.

Then there was this little gem:

… I don’t even know where to begin.

Why is the dog wearing a Santa hat?

What is the pudgy cat doing with fish bones, is that some kind of weird voodoo ritual?

And what in the HELL is up with the tiny mushroom house?

I simply don't get it.  I have come to the conclusion that this illustrator was almost definitely on acid.

The Fucking Ocean, Dude.

So…last week was shark week. I spent the majority of my evenings watching hour after hour of insane shark attack footage and crazy shitheads that think it’s FUN to swim with sharks. And let me just say - being in a shark cage isn’t gonna keep you safe, pal. Just like that snickers bar that slipped through the lining in my purse last week. Oh, I’ll get that sonofabitch. I’ll get it.

This is why I don’t swim in the ocean. (The other reason being that I live in fucking KANSAS.) I don’t have any desire to get into any water when I can’t see what is swimming around me. I am terrified of the ocean. I will watch it on TV, and I really do think it’s fascinating and beautiful. But I will NOT get on a boat. I will NOT surf, and I will NOT scuba dive. Not in this lifetime. There have got to be all kinds of species in the ocean that we haven’t even discovered yet. Who knows what their migratory habits are like, or whether or not they relish the taste of human flesh?

I have thisWii game that I love to play, called Endless Ocean. It is exactly what it sounds like – you are a scuba diver and you play the game by exploring an imaginary sea and categorizing animals that you find. I enjoy playing the game, since scuba diving is something I could never do in real life. But there is one section of the sea in this game that is called “The Abyss”. It’s…well, a fucking ABYSS. It is this huge dark hole in the ocean floor, and I’m expected to go down there and find the kind of ocean critters that dwell in the deepest parts of the ocean. Uhhhhh…fuck that. I won’t even swim my little scuba chick over it. I did try to go down there once, and maybe got a little less than halfway. And out of the pitch black this HUGE sharky/eel type thingy came right at me and I freaked and got the fuck out of there. And sometimes when my scuba chick is just swimming along, a fucking whale comes out of nowhere and scares the shit out of me. Those bastards are sneaky. So, my fear of the ocean knows no boundaries….including imaginary oceans, apparently.

You can't honestly tell me that THIS ugly fucker

popping up in front of your face wouldn't make you shit yourself.

Hopefully someday I will get over my strange and deep fear of the ocean. I would like to travel someday, and being on this particular planet….if you go far enough, you really can’t avoid it. But don’t expect me to jump in the water. Don’t expect me to put on a mask and flippers and a breathing tank and look for shit on the ocean floor. I don’t particularly feel like donating my leg to the Feed-A-Shark foundation. But if you want to go diving – be my guest. I’ll be the one holding the video camera and saying “I told you so” when I capture your loss of limb on tape. And then I’ll submit the video to shark week so I can see myself on TV. That sounds like what we call a win/win, baby! Booyah!

Sorry about your leg though, I’ll totally help you shop for some wicked cool one-legged pants. Wait, do they even make those?

Aaaaannnd….guess who’s going to spend the afternoon finding out.

*points thumbs at self*

Yay Google!!

There Is Something Seriously Wrong With Me.

My mind is not like other people’s. Last night, I had one of the weirdest dreams I can remember ever having. I literally woke up saying “What the fuck?!” and scratching my head. It was that strange.


So, let’s jump right into it. I dreamed that I was me, at my age, and that my mom had written a musical for a production at the Junior High she works at. (Well, she used to. Her position got eliminated and she got moved down to first grade. It’s a bunch of crap because she was an AWESOME teacher for that age group. But that’s a story for another time.) It was entitled: No More Bonnets! An Inspirational Story of Change.  It was about a group of Amish people who were protesting their boring clothes, and wanted to have the freedom to dress as they choose. Some of the songs titles were as follows:


“I Got Manure on my Jimmy Choos”

“We Want Booty Shorts”

"What's Wrong With Thongs?"

“Farming in My Air Force 1s.”

And last but not least…

“Pimped out Buggy”


I was the lead in this musical. (Because a 23 year old starring in a Junior High play totally makes sense, right?)  In the dream I had performed the entire show once before, but when the curtain opened on a full theater…I froze. I forgot every single word. I couldn’t remember how to sing or act, and I totally lost my cool. Which isn’t that surprising in my case, since I don’t have much to lose in the first place. I pulled a copy of the script out of my pocket, and started to do the show with the book in front of my face – hoping that the rest would come to me after a few minutes. It didn’t.

I was so nervous I couldn’t sing anywhere near loud enough – and some bastard hecklers in the audience were screaming shit like: “We can’t hear you!” and “You suck!” which didn’t make the situation any better. I was off key and didn’t know the notes to the song…but I knew the dance moves! I was doing jazz hands like nobody’s business. I did the chorus line can-can and I “raised the roof”. Because that’s how Amish people dance, of course. But I was so nervous and outright terrified that my face probably read “impending heart attack” instead of “theatrical enthusiasm”.

My mom was whisper\screaming at me from backstage: “You can do this! Relax! DON’T RUIN MY SHOW, YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!!” And about this time is when I looked down, and noticed that my shoes fell off. Not sure how, when or why…but those bitches were gone. Dancing in socks was difficult.  I was slipping and sliding all over the stage, I couldn’t have kept my footing to save my life. And then I fell off the front of the stage and landed directly in Lebron James’ lap – who happened to be sitting in the front row. I stood up, looked around in humiliation, and ran from the room in tears. Then I woke up.

I usually remember my dreams for a few hours before they’re gone – but I have a feeling this one’s gonna stick with me for awhile. So….lesson learned. I will never eat Cheetos before bed again, if this is what will happen.

I totally don’t remember how to make friends.

I used to have all kinds of friends, but nowadays I don’t have any. I believe I’ve mentioned that I am from Ohio… and well, I do have several friends there. But, if you’ve ever moved before you’ll understand me when I say that it’s just not the same. Talking to friends online or on the phone isn’t as fulfilling as having someone you can invite over for a few beers and video games. Plus I hate talking on the phone for long periods of time. Because when I’m on the phone, Peanut decides it’s the best time to crawl all over me and demand my constant attention and do stuff like scream: “MOM! MOM! HEEEYY MOM! LOOK AT MEEEE!” -While waving her cute little arms like she’s trying to land a 747.


I used to have friends in Kansas, but unfortunately I’ve had a hard time finding GOOD ones. You know, the kind that actually like me and don’t talk shit behind my back. I usually don’t have a problem making male friends (it’s probably the big ol’ boobies) but they only want to sleep with me. (Go figure.) What I want to find is a good, honest girlfriend; a girl close to my age that likes my company and who shares common interests with me, and who needs a “BFF” as much as I do.

Herein lies the problem: I’ve forgotten how to make friends. I’ve never been overly confident, in fact I’m pretty socially awkward. I have the pure inability to approach a stranger and say “Hey, let’s be friends!” And that would probably come across as weird, anyway. (And really, the fact that I consider that socially appropriate proves how horrible I am with people.) And when looking for female friends I find myself having to throw out the disclaimer that I’m totally not gay – I just need a friend. And then they walk away, while looking over their shoulder to make sure I’m not following them.

*sigh*

Dammit.

I’m a really nice person, once you get past my shy exterior. Really, I am! But I’m also a total weirdo. I don’t say normal things. I don’t enjoy the typical female 20-something activities. These things make it hard to find someone with common interests. I’ve had a few friends in the past that I have nothing but fond memories of…and they were weird too. Super weird. We acted like total idiots and laughed our asses off on a regular basis. …I miss them. I miss the company of funny people that are easy to be around. The kind of people that don’t try to bring pressure or complication into the friendship – they just like to have a good time. But they also genuinely want to be there for you when life gets to be not-so-funny.

So, I’ve been trying to find some new things that will help me branch out and meet people. To clarify, I’ve spent the last 2 years or so being pretty much totally cut off from the world. I mean, I go to work and stuff, but outside of that I don’t really leave the house. It’s difficult for me to venture into the world, or to even spend time outside with Peanut. I have developed the inability to make commitments or connections. I am terribly afraid of people, since the majority of them in my life have done nothing but hurt me and then leave. And not necessarily in that order, either.

I’ve thought of trying to get into a local book club – I checked with the library, but they don’t have a program like that. So then I thought I’d take a class at the local gym; something like yoga or self defense, or a mother/daughter dance class…but that was a no-go too. (Damn small towns.) My only other option with the gym is to join the adult volleyball or basketball team…which I think would end up creating more enemies instead of friends, because I royally suck at sports.

So I have signed up for cafemom.com, which I’m hoping will help me open some doors to new friendships. And I’m going to sign my daughter up for a toddler tumbling class, so maybe I can meet some other moms there too. And if any of you reading this have any other ideas, hook a blogger up! Help me find my place in the world. Or I’m just gonna give up entirely and take out an ad in the local paper that says something like this:

Lonely Loser Seeks Lifelong Friendship

 23 year old brunette; totally weird, kinda pretty, very funny. Trustworthy and genuine. Smart but not too smart, so you know I’m not an uptight bitch. Accepting and open minded, supportive and kind.

Likes: Video Games, Junk food, Laughing so hard you pee.

Dislikes: Stupid people, Exercise, Crowds.

Need not apply if you are:
-Overly religious (and by “overly” I mean trying to convert me)
-A “Negative Nancy” (Don’t drag me down, yo.)
-Smelly
-A Serial Killer – (not sure why that’s fourth on the list)
-Two-Faced (no drama allowed)

Apply by email ONLY. I don’t want to get flooded with phone calls from a bunch of fruitcakes. If you don’t hear back from me it means I don’t like you. Nothing personal. Ok, so maybe it’s a little personal.

The Flashing Owl

While I was on vacation last week, one of the places we visited was the zoo.  I love going to the zoo, and this time was no exception.  Except for the ungodly heat and humidity, which of course required me to bitch the whole time. (We walked for hours. There was some chafing. Enough said.)  Well this time we met a particularly interesting animal, who I created an entire story for in my head, that I thought I should share.  I call him "The Flashing Owl".

See what I mean?  He totally looks like a dude pulling open his trench coat and shakin his junk.









I named him Stan, and the other owl in the corner looked like an embarassed wife, whom I've named Mabel.  Stan is proud of his body, and he likes to show it off.  Mabel doesn't like it so much, but hey - they live in a zoo.  It can't be that exciting, so if that's what Stan needs to get his rocks off, then so be it.  Couples counseling has taught Mabel to choose her battles, and accept her husband for his faults. 

For all of you out there that don't speak owl or are having trouble with the body language, I'm here to help.  This is what was actually happening:

I think I might frame this and hang it in my living room.

Poor Mabel... and as for Stan, I think I might like to have a couple beers with this guy and see what he does.  I have a feeling it would involve public nudity of some sort, followed by youtube blackmail.  And really, what kind of night out is complete without that?  Not one I wanna be a part of.