Happy Holidays from The Hubbards!

We hope all is well with you and that another year has passed without any major catastrophes or incarcerations! Life in The Big Yellow House is flying by and everyday brings with it yet another reason to drink.

Mykel has not run off to join the circus yet. He is made of rubber and is able to subsist for months solely on cheese and bread but these aren’t apparently “circus-able” skills. He has taken up sword swallowing in the mean time. If that doesn’t work out he is praying every night that he will be kidnapped by a rogue band of Dungeons and Dragons players who travel the country-side rolling dice, wearing trench coats, mumbling incoherent made-up words and eating cheese.

Lily, much to her own dismay, has not been name Princess of the World and is therefore unable to rule the globe with a pink plastic Hanna Montana fist. She is still 8 years old instead of 16, which is surprising considering a) the amount of times she uses the word “like” in a sentence and b) the fact that she has a closet full of clothes and yet she HAS NOTHING TO WEAR!! We were all disappointed to find out that she did not make it into The Guinness Book of World Records for having lost the most baby teeth at once, that darn Khe Sahn from Vietnam beat her by one molar! At least we had a great model when it came to carving pumpkins this year!

Zander has not been recruited by the New York Ballet or the Solid Gold Dancers yet and we have to change his tear-soaked pillows each morning because of it. He is excelling in school when it comes to speaking out of turn and tackling friends in the hallway. We were saddened by the loss of Reddy the pet fish this fall but it was a great time to learn about The Circle Of Life and what happens to decomposing bodies left to fester in a bowl of water for a week. Zander may have found his calling after officiating over our first Toilet Funeral. He is also perfecting his Lego bombing skills, carefully camouflaging the razor sharp pieces of plastic buried in the carpet so as to keep Aaron and I on our feet, or at least hopping on one while the other bleeds.

Our cat Rex has learned to open doors but our lessons on starting the cars in the morning or picking up a gallon of milk at the store have fallen on deaf furry ears I’m afraid. He has also been unable to relocate the family of amorous squirrels that have moved into our attic and feel the need to “do that thing that married squirrels do” at 3 in the morning. Fortunately, I think Santa will be bringing Aaron a Red Rider BB gun for Christmas this year and if he doesn’t shoot his eye out first we will have an empty attic and full bellies soon!


Hoping that your Holiday Season is more fun than a clown on fire,
Aaron, Jordan, Mykel, Lily, Zander and Rex

More Words of Wisdom from the Mini-Van or Brian Adams is a Smut-Peddler
Bunny: Oh my god Mom-this song is soooooo inappropriate!
Bad Mommy:What do you mean? This song is just fine.
Bunny:Nu-uh, this is a baaad song!
Bad Mommy:What are you talking about?
Bunny:He just said "It was the summer of SEXY TIME!!"
Bad Mommy: No babe, he said "It was the summer of '69."
Bunny: No, he said SEXY TIME!
Bad Mommy: No, the song is called "The Summer of '69." He said..
Bunny:Agh! He did it again!! He said SEX again!!
Bad Mommy: No, he said "six string." It's a guitar. He's talking about playing in a band.
Bunny: No he's NOT!!!! He's talking about S. E. X. Sexy time, sex strings. What's a "sex string"?
Bad Mommy: Holy crap kid, get your 8 year old brain outta the gutter!! I don't know what a "sex string" is! There is no "Sexy Time!" Agh!!!!

HELP WANTED

Household looking for indentured servants to provide extensive "Off-Spring Support."

Duties will include: 

-The wiping of asses-because the underwear in our house has more skid marks than a NASCAR racetrack.

-The cleaning of plates-which means that you will often be dining on Chicken Marsala, homemade lasagna, quiche and other "disgusting" foul concoctions that have taken hours to prepare and contain all of the needed food groups but don't look like corn dogs and so are thus inedible.

-The picking up of bedrooms -this job with require a strong back and an even stronger stomach as at least one Off-Spring ignores the "NO FOOD IN THE BEDROOMS" rule and has apparently been cultivating Penicillin under his bed and there must be some kind of rumor going around that in the middle of the night the Laundry Fairy comes and taps the mountain of stinky foulness wadded in the corner and it magically disappears from the floor and then reappears clean and folded in the dresser drawers-if you see her, please tell that bitch that she keeps forgetting my room!!

-The running of important documents -ie bringing homework notebooks to school "Like right NOW!" because I guess Dungeons and Dragons is now a subject and forgetting a bunch of random numbers scribbled repeatedly on 100 sheets of papers will result in the loss of warrior powers or cause you to be molested by a level 4 troll monster thingy.

-Waste Removal -since most of our household has contracted selective blindness and finds it impossible to see the dirty underwear laying in the middle of the hallway or the sink over-flowing with ketchup coated plates you will need to be constantly following your Off-Spring with a snow shovel, disinfectant spray and a bio-hazard bag.

The pay for this position is non-existent, do not expect thanks or respect.  This is a full-time position, 24 hours a day 7 days a week with extra effort expected on all holidays and on week-ends when The Offspring are crabby and insolent from too much sugar and caffeine but refuse to sleep because there are video games to play and filth to be made.  There is no retirement packages as you will surely slit your wrists far before then and all time-off requests will be denied with maniacal laughter.

yeah obama!!! fingers crossed for franken!!!

PSA

please please please vote tomorrow! there is no way in hell that our country can survive another 4 years with the republicans in office. vote obama and send palin back to the outhouse where she belongs!!!

i guess the girls got mad and left?!?

um, who invited all of these girls?

jesus, mary and jose i think that satan has surely taken over hollywood!

so today i heard that one of my all-time favorite 80's flicks is going to be made over. what is with all of this making-over crap, have we totally exhausted all original thought? are they going to just keep on remaking movies every twenty years or so until we are all living in a constant state of cinematic deja vu? so anyway, apparently the fully waxed man-child zack efron is going to reprise the role of ren. i mean really? does kevin bacon need to be redone? can anyone dance on a tractor like mr six degrees? any kind of modernization of footloose is down right blasphemy. this boy, although he does have a prudy hot little body, but considering he is closer in age to my son than myself, I FEEL DIRTY (and that takes a lot so..) should not even be allowed to be mentioned in the same breath as kevin bacon. he is just one of the mass-produced over-managed soon to burn out child stars that disney is busy pimping out at every turn. and so, dear hollywood, please leave my childhood alone!!

A big titted waitress made me do it

So it was 3 years ago this weekend that I had my epiphany that maybe the whole being married to a flirty clueless douchebag was a bad thing.  At my thirtieth birthday party my husband, and I use that word loosely, spent most of the night flirting with the near under-age big breasted waitress.  Rather than dancing with me or even paying me a moment of attention he just kept buying shots at the bar for himself and all of the waitresses.  

And now fast-forward two years and the most amazing man in the world not only paid attention to me and only little ol' me, but he got down on his knee and proved that he loved me more than any big titted waitress.  That's a kick-ass birthday present.

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

Okay, on the honeymoon, hung-over but my airport card is working (frickin' finally!!) and I promise from the deepest part of my jaded tar stained heart that I will never not blog again!!  Been busy getting married and such ..... Will post more later.  Off to explore Austin, slather myself in barbecue sauce and continue our 2 week drunk.  

I'm The Queen Bee Bitch

The Kid had a baseball game yesterday.  When it comes to his activities I am torn, I want to go and support him but I loathe his mother and would rather give myself a pine needle pap smear than be in her presence.  So as Bunny, Dude and I walked across the parking lot to the field my stomach turned when I saw her fat ass sitting right next to Hubby.  Usually if I am there she knows to sit far far away from me and to not even attempt anything neighboring on eye contact but as we were late she probably figured she was safe and that she could play queen bee.   Silly cow, you're life will be so much easier when you realize that I am always the queen bee and you are merely the shit in my honey.

Bad Mommy:  Ugh, I am not going to sit by that bitch!

Bunny:  Oh, which bitch Mommy?

Bad Mommy:  Her, The Kid's Mom.  She is not a good person and she's mean.  She's a total bitch but don't tell anyone that.

Bunny:  Don't you think they already know?

A proud Bad Mommy high fives Bunny

Well thank god we have a biffie outside our front door now.  We can lock the kids outside and kick it without worries.  At least the city is good for something.

I need to preface this blogity blog by saying that some of my best friends are strippers and I mean that honestly.  I have friends and they are strippers.  I don't mean it in the whole "yeah, some of my best friends are black/Jewish/gay" way that other people do, usually after they've made some horribly bigoted joke or comment.  I love them all the way down to their Lucite heels and I admire them on a daily basis (and they are hot and I get to see them purdy near naked everyday which is a good thing since I am kind of pervy, shy but pervy none the less.)  I am in awe of their ability to handle themselves and their bodies and for the sheer fact that they walk around at work in their underpanties and not just any underpanties, but t-bars as we call them 'in the biz.'  Wearing a t-bar pretty much mean that you've got a glorified piece of dental floss riding up your butt-crack all night and this is why I love these ladies.  Sometimes, on the right day, with minimal food and no pre-menstrual cycle in sight, I might feel kinda not ugly in a pair of bootie shorts, key-word MIGHT, but never have I felt anywhere near anything remotely in the neighborhood of sexy whilst walking around with my bare ass-cheeks bebopping along behind me.  Never.  And so, to my lovely strippers friends, the words that are strewn about below are in no way a reflection upon you.  You are all glorious femalian creatures and all of the others are whores.

You're pretty enough to be a dancer or

You should be a dancer or

Why aren't you dancing or

When do you go on stage or my personal favorite

wait for it, wait for it.....

Wanna come back to my place for a gang-bang? (Which bizarrely enough I have had the pleasure of hearing more than once.  Damn, I love my job!)

It never fails, every night while slinging over-priced drinks to a bunch of douche bags at the tittie bar I have to hear it.  At this point in my *cough cough* career I think that the next time I have to hear any of those asinine "complements" I am going to put someone's receding hairline thru the mahogany bar.  I don't know if every guy that comes in pays cover and then checks his brain at the door or if they are all retarded enough to think that they are going to get somewhere with me after they open their fucking mouths and that shit falls out.

As a waitress in a strip club there are certain skills you need to learn and number one on that list is the ability to put assholes in their place and to either make them feel like the dirty old men that are so they cower in fear when you walk by and hand you money so you will leave them alone or make them think you are the smartest and wittiest person they have ever met and so they will hand you money because a witty smart person like you should be rewarded for having to be in the same room with people of such normal intelligence.  It usually depends on what they are drinking.  Domestic beer and rail-pour guys make up the first category, while import beer and top-shelf guys are in the second (and guys that come to a strip club and drink wine you don't have to worry about, they're just there so their wives can see a credit card charge from a strip club and so they can look at the guys who are looking at the girls.)

Here are some of my favorite from the pool:

"Why aren't you dancing?"

-Because my daddy loved me or

-This place doesn't have enough insurance or

-I forgot to shave my vag.

"When are you going to dance?"

-I start dancing about a quarter after you've left or

-I only dance on Sundays.  (FYI we are closed on Sundays because the owner is all churchy, funny I know, but that is another story all together.  But, I did have some poor smuck who was so intent on seeing me bobble around on stage that he did come down on a Sunday.  That was kind of sweet in a weird stalker kind of way and I kind of felt sorry for him until he told me that I could make it up to him by "sucking his balls dry."  Lovely.)

"You should be a dancer"

-(Domestic guy response): Well, you should be a diaper cuz you're full of shit.

-(Import guy response): I used to be but then none of the other dancers made any money, so now they all pay me to not dance.

But my all-time favorite is the "You're pretty enough to be a dancer" comment.  This is the one that makes me want to start pissing in their drinks.  "Pretty enough" gee really?  That's a great self-esteem booster because tonight most of the girls have all of their teeth and only 3 of them are pregnant.  I think that they all put their weaves in and maybe if we turn the lights down real real low then we won't be able to see their moustaches.  These guys act as if I took a demotion to waitress.  Like being a waitress only happens after you failed miserably at your audition, or that you couldn't keep your third leg tucked into your t-bar.  Because really, the strippers are walking around naked and since I have clothes on that totally makes me the gimp that they let out of the basement for happy hour. 

But after all this bitching I do love my job, it's just the customers I can't stand.  So come check me out on Sunday down at the tittie bar, I'll be dancing all day and sucking dudes dry-you can't miss me, I'll be the one that's not there.

 

dude is actually pretty good at soccer-if he'd just stop grabbing all the other boy's bits.

bunny is not good at soccer.  she would be just as happy wearing the outfit and jacking around on the sidelines.  she's all about the outfit though.  you can pretty much get her to do anything if there is a special outfit involved.  she'll probably grow up to be a stripper, that or one of those people who stand along the streets wearing a statue of liberty costume at tax time.

I spotted the ever-elusive bunny fairy.

worship me

Although this blog is mainly for my own sanity and to get the crazy thoughts outta my head so I have room for the normalish ones, it is also because Danielle and Hubby have been telling me WRITE WRITE WRITE!  I am totally out of practice, extremely rusty and very generous with my commas right now but I am doing this in an attempt to get back at it.  If I wrote as much as I read I'd be in good shape.  I pick up these books or click on other blogs and I want to be these people, to be able to say what they say with ease with which it seems to flow.  At 32 years old I am still finding my voice.  It is a different voice than when I almost got suspended from high school for writing erotic poetry and reading it to the school board, it is a different voice than when I wrote short stories for Terry Davis' Creative Writing class in college, its a different voice than my articles in Static Magazine that caused more than a few arguments between my mother and I ("really Jordan, the whole world doesn't need to know you wanna fuck Tony Soprano. I mean Jesus Christ some things are private!")  The purpose of my writing isn't to be famous or rich, it isn't for people to pat me on the back as I walk down the street or make shrines to me on my front porch; the purpose, I think, is to make people see.  To make people see that I am far more crazy than I appear and far less serious than I let on.  So I invite you to come here while you're hiding from work, stealing time for you lunch, taking a time-out from the kids or unwinding from the day with a beer and a smoke (god bless you!) and allow me to hurtle my cacrazy notions and random thoughts at you.  All I ask from you in return is a comment here and there, to me or to other people that are reading, to let me know I'm not alone (and that Danielle and Hubby aren't the only ones reading.)

watching

tomorrow will be dude's last day of pre-school.  this didn't actually hit me until today.  after a summer of fun and sun my baby will be joining the big kids, doing school lunch and recess, gym class and bullies.  my heart is heavy with the thought.  everyday i wake up and go into his room still expecting my little round baby with a soggy diaper, cuddling his monkey, to be waiting.  instead i am greeted by a long-limbed skinny man-boy with Transformers and baseball posters on the wall.  i think it is the realization that he is the last that has been my undoing.  no more yummy baby smell.  no more rocking a sweet sweaty babe at 3 in the morning.  no more first steps or first words.  no more being the center of someones universe.  i am overjoyed at who he's become-a sensitive, silly, loving little brother.  i am proud of how he has handled the changes our family's path has taken and how he has embraced the lack of one parent in one household and the addition of one in the other.  he has inherited a big brother whom he adores and idolizes and he is still so close with his sissy that it is painful for both of them.  i can only hope that he continues to grow in such a beautiful way that 13 years from now when i am sending him off to his last day of school my feelings are just as vivid and raw.

my friend jen

i love her. i love that she can let go.  i wish that i could silence the voices in my head long enough to let someone take my picture.

i love my kids, warts and all

the other day a friend was over trying to install an air-port card into my computer.  he was sitting on the couch trying to unscrew the tiniest screw in the whole wide world, all while bunny and dude were acting as if they had never seen another human being before.  dude was obsessed with his beard, yanking on it to see if it was real and then when he failed to run off with it, asking "when are you gonna shave that yucky thing off?"  bunny decided that she needed to share her newest prized possession-the hugest most giganticest plantar wart on her toe.  "wanna see my wart?" she asked as she shoved her stanky summer-time kid foot in his unsuspecting face.  ah kids, gotta love 'em...or find a box big enough to fit them in.

living the dream but i just can't wake up from the nightmare

my job sucks.  most people say that but what they really mean is "my job sucks because i have to get up before noon and i don't get to hang out with rock stars and eat cocaine laced cupcakes all day."  my job sucks because it really really does suck.  it is painful to go to.  it is physically sickening to drag my sorry butt in every day.  every night hubby and i play the "who's job sucks more game" and no matter what atrocities he conjure up i always win.  i win because up until a week ago i was the only one there.  not like, oh everyone is at lunch or i'm the only one here who i can relate to-no it's just me.  big ole office, lots of computers, four phone lines but only one employee-moi! all day long it's me dealing with all of the glorious losers coming in and thinking that i owe them a job.  as a recruiter that is my job, to find other people jobs, but not everyone really DESERVES a job.  the other day i had a guy come in wearing dirty grey sweat pants, one of those old "big johnson" t-shirts and a copenhagen hat.  first of all, the only place sweat pants (the dirty perv kind with the elastic at the ankles) belong is in a saturday night live skit.  they just should not be done.  it looks like your smuggling a bunch o' bananas in there.  not hot.  but somehow i don't think that was what this guy was going for.  i think he was going for more of a "look i can breath and my hands kinda work so you should give me a job so i can buy bologna and kool-aid  for my 13 kids back at the trailer park and maybe i'll have a little left over to buy a case of old milwaukee to drink myself silly and limp so my old lady can't trick me into fertilizing her again" look and he nailed it. he stood in front of me, a big cloud of wrong, and wanted to know what i could do for him.  okay i realize that this is what i am supposed to do, to do something for this tard but when people just expect me to fawn all over them just because they humped their lazy ass into my office and interrupted my love affair with perez hilton, we are totally off on the wrong foot (did i mention that that foot was wearing white reebok high-tops?)  but, i had jobs to fill and i needed bodies so i forced myself to play nice.  when i asked de wayne (oh yes that was his name) what kind of work he was looking for he paused, kind of cocked his head like a dumb puppy, snapped his fingers and then reached into his pocket (yes they were the sweatpants with pockets-where else would you keep your winstons?) after digging around down there a little toooo long his filthy hand reappeared with his treasure-his hearing aid.  after he popped that puppy in i asked him again what kind of work he was looking for.  this time he snapped his fingers and reached into THE OTHER pocket!  Not to get his other hearing aid oh no that would have been too....not wrong.  no, he reached into his pocket and pulled out HIS FRICKIN' TEETH!  his teeth, those things that most people carry around in their mouths-no not de wayne.  apparently they were only for special occasions.  special occasions like harassing poor staffing girls who sit alone in their office all day and pray that no one comes in because they aren't wearing their shoes and their bra was pinching so they took it off and it's still lying on the desk next to the 4 cans of dr pepper and bag of swedish fish they had for lunch.  when de wayne finally got his face situated he told me that he would take anything but that he felt his skills lie more in the secretarial field and did i have anything with maybe a law firm?  he thought that that would be the best place for him since he had "experience" with the law and maybe if he "got in thar wit thems" he could get a few free pointers about some "upcoming events."  it is when things start going this way that i reeeeeally hate being alone with these freaks.  thankfully de wayne's one good eye didn't see me snatch my cell phone out of my purse and call myself on the office line.  when the phone rang i answered it and went into a big production about how one of my employees ran a forklift off of a loading dock (it's happened-twice) and yes yes i will be right there!  I apologized to de wayne and told him that i was going to have to close the office for the day and he would have to come back another day.  he very graciously offered to stay and keep the office open for me because again, office work is his calling and he is very good at "watchin' stuff,"  but i had to decline his offer and then gently kick him out the door as i locked up, got in my mini-van and called it a day.    

i have arrived as a parent, someone thinks i'm stupid

after staying home from work with a sick child (hallelujah-thanks kid!) all i wanted in the world was to have my pomegranate chocolate ice cream bar for lunch but when i went to grab it from the freezer-my bar had pulled a jimmy hoffa!  when hubby came home i asked him if he had eaten it, completely ready to perform a kitchen vasectomy on him it he had, but he feigned ignorance.  that left only one other suspect, a 12 year old vegetarian rock star wannabe.  but, when confronted with the loss of my glorious bar....total denial- he even went so far as to re-search the freezer for me, literally pulling every thing out probably praying the whole time that the anti-butt whooping fairies had replaced it for him.  but to his complete surprise there was no bar.  he still denied that he ate my damn bar.  he denied eating the bar later when he was in the car with hubby, getting more and more wound up in his little chocolaty lie.  a little preface to the story is that this kid is sensitive, very sensitive.  the slightest look or wrong intonation in your voice and you can send this kid into full on a big fatty fatty tears blubbering you don't love me freak out (trust me, i've done it.  i am the queen of wrong intonation.) and on that note, about an hour after the little chat in the car with dad about how lying is bad, this is a matter of trust and unless someone broke into our house and bypassed the computers, keys to the cars and the huge assed tv and went right to the fridge for a little frozen goodness you were the only one who could have done it-nothing.  an hour later the kid called hubby in total hysterics and admitted he messed up.  here is where i am torn.  two hours after the initial lie now we have to come up with how to actually deal with this cuz even though kids are cool and shit and hopefully one day they will return the favor and change my diapers, when they fuck up we gotta punish them. and even though i favor locking them in a box, again there's that whole social service thing.  i am torn because i so remember being in the same place as this kid, well not them exact same place because i didn't have a hot step-mom and i didn't steal an ice-cream bar mine was more like a litre of cheap vodka that my dad kept hidden behind his Folgers.  i can still remember the feeling that if i just kept lying that the lie would become the truth and that my baby sister would come tottling down the stairs with an empty booze bottle and a blood alcohol level higher than her age.  but, in the back of my head i knew that my friends and i had mixed the bottle with mountain dew and passed out on our holly hobbie sleeping bags the night before.  i think that the only thing that i am having trouble with, not the parenting, not the punishing but rather the fact that when i thought my parents were stupid, they weren't just stupid THEY WERE OLD AND STUPID!  goddamn kids, i'm going to have to find some big boxes.  

this is why i hate downtown.........

all i hear in my head is douche douche douche douche

neither rain nor sleet nor snow (although thankfully there was no snow) could keep me from my appointed rounds-neighbor's, mettler's, south street, the ole.  have i mentioned that mojitos are the nectar of the gods?  well, they are my new favorite thing and i am a god in my own head.....

hubby and i went to neighbor's for raspberry mojitos and  yummy food.  $100 worth of mojitos later we were thoroughly stuffed and liquored.  the day was amazing-sunny and beautiful.  we don't get a huge amount of time to hang-out together when one of us isn't sleeping , so whole days are like mini-vacations.  we had a great day, lovely tina joined us for mojitos and lobster (don't we sound fancy?) we were so bent on having a great day outside on a patio that even when it started to ran-hell just throw me an umbrella and we're good to go!  there is a picture of hubby, tina and myself all with our umbrellas, but alas we all know the deal with me and pics, so it will be filed away in my own personal "special keeping place" aka the deleted files.

wal-mart can lick my butt-hole

ah the lessons you can teach your children everyday.  the most important one that mine learned recently is that if you tell a customer servicey type person to lick your butt-hole you should expect to be "escorted gently" from the premises.  

bob barker made me do it

dear kittie,

i am so sorry to have to tell you this but next week some mean old man-who i am paying a lot of money but since you are a cat and have no concept of money-just blame it on the mean old man, is going to cut off your furry man bits.  i am so sorry, but not really cuz there's nothing like curling up with your fluffy little kittie only to realize that kittie's BIG FURRY BALLS are reclining on your arm. eeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwmcmuffin!  i am sure that in the last year you have spread enough seed throughout our neighborhood to start your own grey kittie colony and take over the world so i do not feel that i am robbing you of any potential progeny.  and kittie, i hate to tell you but all of our friends are afraid of your balls.  that's the first thing they notice when they meet you, "aw, what a beautiful cat.......HOLY SHIT DID YOU SEE THE SIZE OF HIS BALLS!!!!"  let's face it, they gotta go.  i told hubby to see if the vet would let me keep them, i thought i could make them into a key chain or hang them from my rearview mirror.  is that weird?  no, what's weird is grey furry man bits on your arm.

our friends are all tattooed punk rock foul mouthed alcoholic freaks-PURRFECT!

if momma ain't happy ain't nobody happy, now get those bloody stumps off the clean floor!

i just love the funky pattern on this.  don't really know what i'm gonna smosh in it though.  i think i will just keep it where the midgets can see it and tell them it's a finger-grinder.  that should get momma 2 minutes of silence while i'm trying to pee.

ooooooo and this:

i love me some purses!  at one point before the deevorce i had a whole wall covered with them-i'm artsy like that.  these are my new addiction, basket purses.  although in practicality i wouldn't really be able to use one when i went out cuz one shot of jag and my fat ass would squash the bejesus outta it.  lovely buy however, lower north $1.50

i also found this

a kick ass 1930's feed sack quilt with original wool batting.........A MAY ZING! hubby wants to know why i need a wool blanket in may.  i want to know why hubby needs to be a douche. 

salt and pep in effect!

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! i found these little lovelies at a garage sale this last weekend.  hubby thinks they're scary.  i think they are going to protect my kitchen from rogue aliens who want to steal my dr pepper. that peace of mind alone was worth the $1.

two years ago today i met the man that has made me happier than a pedophile in miley cyrus' closet.  he puts up with my wackiness, lets me get away with being grumpy when i'm hungry, doesn't turn me into the coppers when i tell the kids i'm going to lock them in a box, lets me bite him when i have the urge and saves me (or tries to at least) from dangerous rabid ceiling fans.

thanks for being here

uh kids...........

There's No A In Gerbera

It happens every Spring.  As soon as Mother's Day is done rearing it's ugly head and the flesh wounds have started to puss over I make my inevitable "I Want Everything Green and Pretty!" trek to the garden store.  Last year I didn't really do any damage because Hubby and I had just moved into the Big Yellow House and I had no idea what the sun patterns were or what exactly I wanted (aka-we just bought said Big Yellow House and we were tapped.) The year before I hadn't purchased any pretties because the midgets and I were living in the teeniest duplex apartment post divorce and I was drastically short on time, money and green space.  And so this year when I crossed the threshold of the local garden store with the scent of green and dirt filling my freezer-burned nostrils, my brain went a little wackadoodle.  I was so high on green that I started helping other herbaphones.  One lady, her hubby and 4 year old midget had their cart over-flowing with annuals when they stopped to admire a Star Jasmine when I totally pulled the long since retired retail goddess outta my ass and told them how it was the most amazing plant-it'll bloom all summer and then you can bring it inside for the winter and it will continue to grow and then will go crazy with blooms a few weeks after you put it outside again. They were amazed and all looked at each other with glazed over eyes and nodded like a bunch of Republicans at a fetish convention.   They were piling the jasmine on the cart with their other treasures when they turned and asked me how long I had had mine.  That caught me.  "I had it for 3 years," I said,  "then I got divorced and My Douche Bag (sorry kid) is still holding it hostage, but I drove by yesterday and waved at it on his front porch."  Silence. Awkward stares. (That seems to be what divorce does to you, makes you the star of endless awkward stares-well me at least, but that might just be because I'm a foul-mouthed clumsy stuttering weirdo.)   And so, on the way to the check-out with far over my budget of plants that will be dead clumps of wilty browness in 6 months, I paused for a minute and then turned back and hauled the biggest, fullest, most yummy smelling Star Jasmine I could onto the tippy top of my cart.  Sometimes budgets are made to be broken and sometimes they are made to be shattered. 

Conversations in the Original Mini-Van or

Why falafel makes me gag

I remember roasting like a pink pig in the back of the family Volkswagon Van.  I waited in the parking lot of the grocery store while my mom took the other three demonic sibs in with her.  It wasn't because I was bad.  It wasn't because I was missing any appendages.  It wasn't because my Dorothy Hamill mushroon bob frightened the blue hairs.  It was because with four kids under 10, my mom had to make choices.  More often than not, her choice was to leave her eldest in the van saying, "It's too damn hot out here and there aren't any good spots left.  Just sit here by the window and twitch a little and kind of roll your eyes back like that time you choked on your falafel burger at The Malt Shop.  A little drool too, that's good.  Not too much or they'll think your having some kind of seizure and I am not in the mood to talk to social services again today! If anybody asks where our handicap sticker is just tell them you ate it."

I know it's time to go to bed when they start running the Girls Gone Wild commercials.

Hubby is making me a new kitchen. I love my new kitchen.  I love my Hubby.

Why Danielle's Butt Tingles

Half-naked Barbie dolls.  Worn out BVD's with skid marks.  Grandma's collection of Englebert Humperdink albums. Enough clip-on earrings to accessorize the entire state of Florida.  If you read the above items and get a tingle in your butt, then you are one of "My People."  The few, the brave, the true garage salers!  We are a breed apart.  As a whole, we are blessed with a little extra something in our otherwise normal DNA, a little appendix hanging off one of our chromosomes that makes it impossible to drive past those flourescent orange sirens that sing to us from almost any street corner from April thru October (even if that involves a wild goose chase for 4 miles down crazy country roads only to realize that some lazy bastard forgot to take their signs down from three weeks ago.)

I'm a horrible person.

When I go to work I get to stare at tits all night, people give me money, I get to keep my clothes on and I can drink all of the Coke I can fit into my over-caffeinated body and I still don't wanna go.  I'm just an ungrateful wretch.

Does this fat make my fat look fat?

So Hubby and I just got done meeting with our lovely friend Eric (check out his awesome work at www.creativelight-photography.com)who will be the photographer for our upcoming nups in August.  Gee funny me never put together the fact that having a photographer at your wedding would imply that you actually HAVE TO HAVE YOUR PICTURE TAKEN!?! Having my picture taken is seriously one of the worst things my crazy little mind can endure.  I hate it.  It hurts.  Something completely un-wonderful happens to me somehow when my image is captured on film.  Somehow I go from looking like me, or what I thought I looked like the last time I checked, to Natalie from The Facts of Life.  It is a real phenomena-ask Danielle-it's been wellllll documented.  

And so, on August 16th I will be the blushing bride hiding behind toilet.  

An open letter to the a** face that stole my bike:

Dear Sh!t Head,

Thank you so very much for bringing me back to reality from that fuzzy marshmallow yummy place that I had been occupying.   Thanks for the one-way-ticket to Suckyville mister!  Here I was, believing that one of my most prized possessions would be safe from sticky-fingered little bastards if it were parked ON MY OWN DAMN FRONT PORCH!!  Silly me.  I guess you must have woken up that morning after a meth fueled clown molesting drinking binge the night before and heard those demons in your mulleted head telling you that all would be well as long as you could find a mint condition vintage Schwinn in a beautiful orange with starbursts, a bell and a mighty handy removable basket on the front.  Did you stop and question yourself as you walked up my front steps with the intent to physically remove my property?  Didn't that drunken over-medicated and under-educated mother of yours teach you anything?  You don't f@ck  with a man's car and you don't f@ck with a girl's bike.  Take that little tid-bit of advice and stick it where the sun don't shine man, that is if you can get the 13 gerbils and midget you stole from the circus out of there first.  I hope you realize that there is a special place in hell for the low-life bottom-feeders like yourself who steal other people's bikes-it's on the same block with people who drown puppies or have sex with goats.  Well, at least you won't have to make new friends!

And so dear motherhumper, if your world is so terrible that the only way you have to get your probation meetings is by riding on a stolen bike then I wish nothing for you but this:

I hope you wake up tomorrow to the fact that a rabid wolverine has gnawed off your manhood and has eaten it for breakfast only to decide that you taste like sh!t and has regurgitated it into your mouth and when it dawns on your pock-marked brain what has happened and you go to ride to the hospital before you bleed to death from your bloody mangled crotch, you realize that someone has stolen your bike.

Everybody hates me

A Conversation with my Dude while he cries on the toilet

Dude: Everybody hates me! (sob, sob)

Me: Nobody hates you!

Dude:  Yes the do!  They don't love me too! (sob, sob, sob)

Me:  No, we all love you!

Dude: Everyone is sooo mean to me! (pouty lip, sob, sob)

Me:  Why is everyone mean to you?

Dude: They just are.  Nobody loves me. (pouty lip tear wipe, tear wipe)

Me:  You're being silly!

Dude: Do you love me? (goo-goo eyes filled with tears)

Me:  Of course I do!

Dude: Really? (sniffle)

Me: Of course, why do you think that nobody loves you?

Dude: Cuz they won't help me. (sniffle, sniffle)

Me: That's silly.  Mommy loves you.  Mommy will help you.  What do you need help with?

Dude: Wipe my butt?

Don't tell Hubby, but yes I did it.  Sometimes love is wiping a 5 year olds butt.

Conversations with the midgets in the mini-van

Why I am taking a sabbatical when the midgets are teenagers

Bunny: Did you know Zoey 101 is pregnant?

Dude: What's pregnant?

Bunny: That means she is going to have a baby.  She's only 16 years old!

Dude: How does a 16 year old get pregnant?

Bunny: I dunno.

Dude: Mommy do 16 year olds have babies?

Me: Yeah, sometimes but it's not a good idea.  That means she didn't listen to her parents.  Zoey 101 is baaaaad!

Bunny: Bad like when I put purple nail polish on my who-ha?

Dude: Bad like when I pooped my pants and hid them in the dresser?

Me: No, bad like if you two ever do it I'll kick your a**es!

Dude: Mommy said a**!

Bunny: If you can say a** why can't I say a**? The same reason I can't say f@ck?

Dude: You said f@ck!

Me: Enough!  Saying f@ck and a** are bad and so is having a baby when you are 16!  No more baby a** f@ck talk.  Now we're playing the quiet game until we get home!

Silence

Dude: F@ck!

Bunny: A**!

So apparently Mariah Carey got married and the ring that her hubby gave her was the same one that he had already given to his last fiance!  Damn, that takes balls you can bowl with!

Thanks to Karl for turning me on to The Ettes-they are quite lovely. The lead singer totally sounds like Viva from Filthy Divine me thinks.

http://www.theettes.com

After much prodding and poking (and not in a good sexy dance kind of way) I have finally decided to get of my ever increasing arse and do this blogging thing.  I love to write, it's far easier for me since then no one knows that more than three words in a sentence makes me stutter and I don't have to mess with the whole eye contact thing (although I don't actually do that when I'm talking either-FYI peeps, I'M LOOKING AT YOUR CHEEK!)  At present my life is a little like a sit-com, but even as a sit-com it would seem insanely contrived...................

Tonight on NBC: "I Think I'm Wearing Underpants" (Re-Run) A hilarious romp featuring a 30-something divorced mother of two who is engaged to be married to a non-practicing interior designer and become a step-mother  to a teen-age boy who thinks she is the anti-Christ in a pony-tail.  Antics insue as she tries to juggle her day-job as the sole employee of a staffing agency and her night job as a waitress at a strip club, raise three kids with no volume or bowel control and the vocabulary of a bunch of drunken sailors, tries to convince the man of her dreams that she isn't crazy-just a tit bit off and off is FUN, contend with a mother with a garlic addiction and who is convinced that a tribe of Indian (feather not dot) ghosts live in her attic, keep from killing an ex-husband with a penchant for dating college freshman and the nasty habit of telling anyone that will listen that our hero is a drug-addicted/bi-polar/manic-depressive/anxiety-riddled stripper, and defend herself against a cat who tries to gnaw her feet off while she sleeps. Language, Nudity, Violence.

And so peeps, welcome to the jungle..............