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.