Sunday, December 18, 2011

Christmas usually comes once a year...that's what she said.

Christmas is upon us, and I don't have a damned thing wrapped.  I love being a mom during Christmas - I pick out, buy, and wrap my own presents.  :o(  This year, I replaced my kindle with the kindle fire... oh, it's lovely.  I didn't even bother wrapping it.  In fact, I've been using it for two weeks.  Sorry, Santa.  I also traded in the ol' Honda yesterday for an upgrade on the mom-mobile; no more CR-V, oh no!  Momma got herself an Expedition.  2007. DVD player.  Remembers my seat position.  Navigation so I don't get lost (completely outdated and I'm not spending $200 to upgrade it, but it has a map, so I'm good.).  We want to eventually add to the brood, and since our mastiff puppy will soon be bigger than the CR-V, we just went ahead and did it.

I haaaaaaaaaaaaaate car shopping.  There's always that "OMGIMGONNABARFHURRYUPANDCOMEBACKFROMFINANCEANDTELLMEIMAPPROVEDIMGONNABARFIMGONNABARFIMGONNABARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRF!" feeling.  My salesman was rad though.  Offered me lunch and coffee and pop, and was funny.  And not pushy.  So I'm having three Christmases this year, once we get to Kansas!  Yay!

So this car.  It. Is. BOSS.  So much so, that when the Hubs and I were watching MTV True Life: I Want A Sugar Daddy (don't judge, it was quality family time), he said tomorrow I need to go get a mani-pedi and my hair cut.  And he and Captain Awesome can just sit in the car and watch a movie.  We also have to go to Tractor Supply and spend half a paycheck on dog food.  This. Dog. Can. Eat.

Happy Monday before Christmas, y'all.  Here's wishing you make it through the week without papercuts, lost receipts, and with enough booze/coffee/insert vice here to keep you sane!  I don't think I'll be back until after the holiday, so I truly hope you have a blessed Christmas and a Happy New Year!


Friday, December 16, 2011

I'd rather be waterboarded.

I've discovered a torture that would make even the most die-hard criminal (you know, Martha Stewart) break.  INFOMERCIALS (I know I've went on and on about this before, but evidently the powers that be give no shits as to what I think, since they're still airing these pathetic excuses for advertising.).  If I was privy to state secrets, or if I was an undercover CIA agent, or whatever, just make me watch fucking "as seen on tv" shit on a loop or ambulance chasing commercials and I'd spill my guts quicker than you can say "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

Let's start off with a trip to As Seen On TV land, shall we?  (Not to be confused with the channel, TV Land, although I don't go there either.  Maybe I should.  My 10 year old did make me feel about 87 this morning.)  My insomnia means that I watch a lot of crap TV.  There was a time when my bank account became very nervous when I'd have a bout of it, but that's when they had cool shit for sale on TV, like YEARS of SNL on VHS.  You know I bought THAT.  

Okay.  Tell me who the eff needs an Eggie?

Marketing geniuses, they are.

How many hardboiled eggs does one person need?  And really, if you're boiling more than a dozen, well, just fuck that, because your house is going to stink.  Also?  Is it that much of a pain in the ass to peel an egg?

Hey you!  Yes, you!  Do you ever get up in the night and wish you had a light to help you find the bathroom?  Need a snack?  Check on your kids?  How about those pesky errands you need to run in the middle of the night?  Look no further!  We gots lights on these here slippers!  Are you fucking kidding me?

It's now available in pink and navy blue.  I knew you wanted to know, so I doublechecked for you.  Also in kids' sizes!  (How's that for some effing customer service??)

The people on these commercials - I'm just going to throw it out there - I'm concerned for their mental health. No one talks in EXCLAMATION! POINTS! ALL! THE! TIME!  I think someone(s) need to submit for a urinalysis.  It's intervention time.  And these celebrity cameos?  Are you broke?  I don't care that The Bieb or Avril Lavigne uses Proactive or whatever it's called.  You're a kid.  You're gonna get zits.  Get over it.

I really need to find something else to do at 3 AM when I can't sleep.  I'd better make a trip to Hobby Lobby and find a project that does not need a sewing machine or a glue gun, because I can't guarantee my own safety when I'm that tired.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

My house smells like cake.

Mmmm.... cake.  I love cake.  Any kind you want to throw at me, chances are, I'll like it.  Really, if you want to throw some cake at me, that's fine.  Five second rule, and all that.

I realized today that I had done zero holiday baking, and I only have half the crap I need to start making candy (mmmm.....candy), so I'd make do with what I had, and that manifested in a red velvet cake.  Which I put in a really pretty bundt pan.  And if that motherfucker doesn't come out pretty.... well, fuck it.  We're just going to eat it anyway.  It's not like it's for a cake walk or a school function or potluck or whatever.  I EVEN MADE HOMEMADE FROSTING.  Well, because I was out of canned, and I had a box of powdered sugar in the cabinet.  I also swept and mopped.  Miss Suzy Homemaker, what?!

There's a few more things on my list that need to get done before the Hubs gets home tonight, but for now, I'm taking a break.  The divine Ms. Johi said to only get three things done a day (or something like that, I don't exactly remember, but I loved that post so so much), so I'm doing pretty good today.  Besides, The Preteen will be home within the hour, and I can't let her learning responsibility go by the wayside just because I got everything on my list done, now can I?

PS - I think my meds are working.  I feel eleventy billion percent better today, even with a temp of 100.7.

PPS - Anyone want some cake?  Coffee?  Leftover pizza?  Because that's what's for dinner, kids.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Adventures in Depression

That title makes this post sound entirely too exciting than what it actually is.  Actually, it makes me want to watch Adventures In Babysitting, which I may just do after the kidlets go to bed.  We got a satellite dish when I was in grade school, and I watched a lot of movies I really shouldn't have.  Hence, "DON'T. FUCK. WITH. THE. BABYSITTER." was a choice phrase a lot earlier in life than it should have been.  Don't hate.  That shit is awesome.  And this kid?  Rad as fuck.

Spaghettio's!  WITH MEAT!  I want that hat.  I want it bad.

Alright, back to business.  Heh.  That makes me think of Big Business.  With Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin. Don't judge.


I need a day just to watch crappy 80s movies.  That would refresh and rejuvenate me.  Not according to my doc, though.  Although he does think I need rest.  Rest in which I actually sleep for more than 45 minutes to two hours at a crack.  So I have a new cocktail to try, in the hopes that I don't sleep like a baby.  Because seriously - whoever came up with that crap has never had a newborn.  And when I say newborn, I mean kids period, because Captain Awesome didn't decide to sleep through the night until he was heartily past a year old.

Anyhoo, cross your fingers and your toes that this shit works.  Because if I don't get some decent sleep, I may self implode.  Oh, I also have the flu, so steer clear.  I'll try not to breathe in your general direction.

This is what sleep deprivation looks like.

I just poured myself a cup of coffee and put the coffee pot in the fridge.

The Preteen also got her choice of sandwich for her lunch this morning, because halfway through making one, I realized I had put peanut butter on one slice and mayo on another.

And I thought I did stupid shit when Captain Awesome woke up every 45 minutes to two hours.

Stay tuned  - I'm sure there will be more shenanigans that weren't purposeful.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

I need my mom to make me grilled cheese and tomato soup.

I don't feel good.  In fact, I'm going to the doctor, which I usually don't do unless I have to, and sometimes not even then.  I was due for a certain appointment in September.  Whoops.

What annoys me and I appreciate at the same time, is my doctor's office now does this thing where you call the scheduler (who is generally stupid), you give them your malady(ies) in a nutshell, they pass it on to the staff nurse, who then calls you and basically triages you over the phone, and then determines when you can come in.  I've been given the first available appointment tomorrow.  I'm tired of constantly being fatigued, going through the motions, achy, bitchy, anxious, oh okay, FINE, I'll admit it - depressed.  And a couple of other things that don't need to be mentioned.  I've had a fever for three days.  I never feel "good", I just deal.  And I'm tired of it.

I need more energy to be a better mom, to be a better me.  I don't want to work out, I don't want to wash clothes, or really do much of anything that doesn't require my ass to be in the recliner.  Which makes me feel incredibly lazy, but I'm not lazy.  It's weird and kind of hard to explain.

Ever feel like you want something to show up in bloodwork just so you can go, "Oh!!  That's it!" but not want anything to show up at the same time?  Yeah.

Back tomorrow, friends.

Monday, December 12, 2011

I don't remember seeing ducks in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

So because I can be an ass, and I love my friends from Tha Dirtay Jerz, I had to start some shit when I saw that there were Bumpits on sale for $3.75, because you know everyone looks like Snooki in New Jersey.  Except my friends.  And Chris Christie.  Dude totally needs a Bumpit.  I can hardly type right now I'm laughing so hard imagining him wearing a a Bumpit.  And a Mystic Tan.  And taking a picture of himself with a cell phone making a duck face.

Can't... brreeeeeeeeeeeeathe...

Haaaaaaaaah! Thanks, Pinterest!

Okay, here's how it is:  STOP with the Oompa Loompa Mystic Tan Duckface business!!!  The following images, while seared on my brain forever so it's not an issue, should never be forgotten as so not to make a huge fashion fuck-up:

Thankfully, I don't know who these people are.  I totally stole this off Pinterest.  Well, not stole, it was free.  Anyway, this is a prime example of "Oompa Loompa Duckface - You're Doing It Wrong".  

I don't think any more needs to be said about this one. Thanks, Pinterest?

Stop the insanity!  Where is Susan Powter when we need her and her platinum buzz cut?

Eat, Breathe, Move, Duckface? Thanks, Google Images!

Well, hell, I just shot myself in the ass with that, didn't I?  Well, who said she was stable anyway?  Stop your own insanity, SP!

It's Monday.  And Captain Awesome has watched Tangled approximately 1749817 times this weekend.  And wants to watch it again.  Someone shoot me in the face and pass the coffee.  And cheesecake.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

An Open Letter To My Dogs:

Let me start off with I love you.  I do.  Honest.  Even though after you read this, you may not think so, I really do.  You love me unconditionally, which I truly appreciate, and sometimes I think you may be the only ones who do.  That being said:

One of you is seven.  One of you is two months.  My expectations of each of you are a little bit different, considering the amount of time each of you has been on earth.  BUT: coming IN the house and peeing on the floor after being OUTSIDE is unacceptable.  You were just fricking outside!  If you had to pee, why didn't you do it before you whined to be let in?!  You obviously knew you needed to go!  Pee outside.  OUTSIDE.  And poop there, too.

Roxie, I know that puppy food is yummy.  However, you're already a little chubby heifer, and so you have to eat your grown-up-dog-who-is-a-fatass food.  Sampson is going to be 18 times bigger than you are by summer.  He needs his Flinstones.  Back off.

Sampson, fucking eat when you have the chance.  I'm not a waitress at a diner.

Roxie, stop fucking barking.  If you wanted out, why did you just come in?

Sampson, GO OUTSIDE ON YOUR OWN.  I'm not going to carry you out when you're 150 pounds.  You're not in trouble, I just don't want you to pee on my floor.  Again.

To the both of you:  my living room is not, contrary to popular belief, either a NASCAR track or a WWF ring.  Again, go outside.  And stop bleeding on my floor.

Sampson, Captain Awesome is not a chew toy.  Neither is my sock that is on my foot.  There are 4718947 chewies around here.  Find one.

Roxie, learn to share.  I mean, shit - in dog years, you're 49 years old.

To the both of you:  I know you fart.  Everyone farts.  Well, except me.  But could you spare me the watering eyes and nausea by just walking out of my immediate area to do so rather than cropdusting me?  It would be greatly appreciated.  Sampson, I'm surprised I don't have streak marks on my pants in the vicinity of your butt, and Rox?  The back of the recliner?  I think it is beyond Febreze or napalm at this point.

Despite all that, I wouldn't trade you for the world.  Well at least not this very second.  I'm sure my thoughts on that will change several times before I go to bed tonight.

Love, Mommy

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

I was supposed to, but then...

Alright, I've realized that lately I've had a whole bunch of "suppostas" (not to be confused with suppository) that have not come to fruition due to circumstances that were out (?) of my control.

Like today for example.  Today was all full of shit I was supposed to do that didn't get done.  Granted, some were by choice, some not.  I decided that I'm going to do the Couch to 5K workout.  Let me preface this by saying I don't run.  I've never been a runner.  I don't identify with anything to do with running.  In high school, I threw weights, and Mr. Walling and Mrs. Hageman (my coaches) would have us run a mile before going on to practice our events.  Well... we usually ran a quarter, and then told them we ran the full thing, and they were too busy watching the sprinters and shit to pay attention to us, and we'd go lift and then head out to the shotput ring and get a tan.  Anyway, the reason for C25K is I need to get off my ass, pure and simple.  I have a treadmill that I don't use except as a drying rack, and that is unacceptable.  SO, today, I was supposed to do Week 1 Day 1. Supposed to.  And then, I fell.  In the shower.  And jacked up my ankle and shoulder.  My parents should have named me Grace.

I was also supposed to count points today, but then I made biscuits that needed strawberry jam, and the potato soup from last night needed to be eaten, and the kidlets wanted burritos for dinner, and the wine needed to be finished up.  Whoops.

Tomorrow is another day.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Tuesday Television Tirade

Okay.  It's December 6.  People might have tinsel and reindeers shooting out of their asses already (to replace the usual rainbows and unicorns? 'Tis the season, after all.) but I don't.  I did, however, get out the majority of the Christmas decorations this afternoon and got things organized to wrap gifts.  I say the majority of the decorations because I can't find the rest.  They're somewhere.  That's what happens when The Hubs "rearranges" the garage. I had all the stuff out to wrap, but then Captain Awesome decided that 45 minutes was acceptable for a nap.  (He was wrong.)

December 6 is a little early, in my honest opinion (don't hate, I love Christmas, when it's Christmas, not September.), for Christmas specials.  TV doesn't think so.  And because The Preteen heard that Justin Bieber (OOOOOOOOOOOOOHJUSTINBIEBERISGONNABEONNNNNNNNNNNWEGOTTAWATCHITHEISSOOOOOOOOOOOOTALENTED!) was going to be on, and because The Hubs never turns down a moment to make fun of her for liking ol' JB (she claims not to, but she's a horrible liar - the minute he walked on stage, she sat up straighter and GLOWED), we watched.  And I fell in LUV with Michael Buble.  He is cute, he can sing, he sings about booze -what's not to love?  Except he had stupid Kellie Pickler on.  I'll forgive him.  Because he's ADORABLE.

I'm 30 minutes into The Biggest Loser Homecoming, and I don't think I've stopped crying yet.  I hate this show, yet I watch it pretty religiously, because my GOD, I want to see that change in myself.  The pounds and the numbers aren't the most important thing, but to love who I am and to be as healthy as I can be for the rest of my days - that's what it's about.  Oh, who am I kidding.  Of course the pounds and the numbers are incredibly important to me.  And I'm rambling.  This show makes me bipolar.  I find myself really cheering these folks on, yet being insanely jealous of their progress.  Of course, if I was at the ranch with all these amazing healthy foods at my disposal, and Bob and Dolvett working my ass off (I am not a fan of Anna.  Maybe its the whole dating Enrique "The Mole" Iglesias thing.  Ew.) I'd have that success, too.  Anyone want to come over and yell at me while I'm on the treadmill and force feed me vegetables?

Anyway, now that I'm the only one awake in the house, I should go get stuff done, but I really need to pee.  And I can probably come up with 8,000 other things to get started and not finish.  Like this bottle of wine sitting here.  FINISH WHAT YOU START, KELLY!  Let's start with the wine, shall we?

Observations I've Observed Because I'm Observant, I've Observed.

I only have to hear that damned "Give a give a give a Garmin" commercial ONCE to have it buried in my brain for the rest of the holiday season.  Carol of the Bells is a beautiful song.  Well, it was.

Dear daughter discovered the blessing and curse that is the snooze function her alarm clock today.  Part of me wanted to let her be late, but then I'd have to take her to school, and that would require actually changing out of my jammies, so waking her up seemed to be the best option.  And then she yelled at me that she was awake, and I wondered how she became 16 in her sleep, and I became very afraid of the future.  I'm not ready for a teenager, not at all.

Mastiffs should have been named Massives.  As in the size of their poops.  And he's only two months old.  And I think I met my match in the laziness department.  He doesn't even want to go up and down stairs.  Neither do I.  But I still do it for the children.  And the occasional shower.

All of Captain Awesome's favorite shows have been cancelled at one point or another, which means that they're all reruns, which means that we've seen them all eleventy billion times.  Which in some cases, it's okay, but when the kid is on a certain kick for a show, it means that the DVR is full of them, even though he'll probably only want to watch one episode on repeat.  Which means that we're looking for booze at 8:14 am.

Pediatricians should pass out DIY anesthesia so you can cut your toddler's finger/toenails.  I'd rather change the most disgusting diaper on the planet than cut this kid's nails.  It is a kevlar-needed situation.

I'm ready for snow.  Don't hate.  I love snow.

We have 800 Walmarts in this town and none of them carry the same stuff.  This annoys me.  Really annoys me.

Two year olds and puppies both like to eat board books.

I'm not in the Christmas spirit yet.  I think I need to start baking.  And eating.  And then cursing myself for eating.  And then drinking.  Because isn't that what Christmas is all about?

Sunday, December 4, 2011

I was my biggest pet peeve today.

Rumor has it in March, we're getting a Publix (which I can't help but call PUBIX in my mind) grocery store. Do you know what this MEANS?!?!?  NO MORE WALMART!  (Sorry Kroger, but you suck donkey balls.  Except when you have 10 for 10.  That's cool.  But your 10/10 stuff blows ass.  Someone had to say it.)

I'm sitting here with a cup of tea (green, if you please - Tazo Zen - is there any other kind?!) snuggling with Sampson (who insists on farting in his sleep, disgusting, but not as bad as it could be since my nose is plugged beyond belief), and thinking about the day.  Which pretty much sucked as much as Kroger does.  I'll not go into details, because it was a combination of things that resulted in a shitball day, but we ended up making a FAMILY trip to Walmart.  And not just any Walmart.  THE ghettoy of the ghetto Walmarts in town.  Why?  Because The Hubs was along "and the lines would be too long".  Oy.  Anyway.

Well, Captain Awesome was wearing his pissy pants, and The Preteen forgot her ears, and taking The Hubs to anywhere that has an electronics area is just stupid if you want to get in and out relatively quickly.  Add on the fact that I've been out of my "take one and the chance of a anxiety attack goes down a little" pills for a couple of days (because my doctor's office scheduling staff are EVIL and hate me) - this trip was doomed by the time we realized we weren't going to find a parking spot within 1/4 mile of the store.

I was one of THOSE people today, you guys.  I yelled at my kids in public.  I did.  I did it willingly and without shame (well, until now).  I might have even said fuck.  Twice.  In the Walmart Subway.  And I was still the least offensive person in there.  So I cried about it, hugged my kids 1000 bajillion infinity times since then, and cleaned up a massive pile of dog poop in repentance.  And I bought swiss cake rolls (why are they swiss?) for The Preteen's lunch tomorrow and Spaghettio's with sliced franks for Captain Awesome (nothing like some fat and MSG for my kids as a reward.  Shut up already.)

Can someone say something to make me feel better?  Please?  Because if you don't, I might be forced to eat a pint of ice cream that I may have bought and hid from everyone.  (It's Phish Food.  That shit is like currency around here.  And it's MINE.)

Thursday, December 1, 2011

I am going to disinfect everything that will sit still in my house.

Gah!  I hate being sick!  More than being sick, I hate being "kinda sick".  You know, when you feel pretty much okay except _____?  Well, my _______ is this raging sore throat.  I feel like I've swallowed razor wire that was dipped in gasoline and set on fire.  (Ahh, my flair for the dramatic rears it's ugly head.)  I'm starving, but eating hurts, and if I drink any more warm drinks, I'll likely wet the bed in the middle of the night.  (This is where I want to cuss my dad for taking his whiskey home with him.)

Captain Awesome has had a runny nose for a week, and started coughing tonight.  Not so awesome.  Dear daughter evidently has an immune system made of iron, because she has only been the carrier for all these germs that were most likely percolating in her school.  PARENTS:  STOP FUCKING SENDING YOUR KIDS TO SCHOOL SICK!  RAWR!  Because of you, I couldn't eat the pizza we ordered tonight!!!  And I don't WANT yogurt, and all the chocolate pudding is gone!  (Yep, I'm kind of grouchy.  And it's a HUGE pet peeve of mine when people come to work sick, and send their kids to school sick.)  Quinn is also working on his two year molars, which, let me tell you - I am so close to slitting his gums open with an exacto knife just so he can get some relief!  (Disclaimer:  I would never fucking do that.  I am a drama queen.  And I like to keep you on your toes.)  In all seriousness, I hate seeing my kids hurt, and these teeth have stolen my sweet boy and replaced him with Satan.  There's not enough Children's Advil and Backyardigans episodes in the world to make him feel better.

So yeah, I kind of want to spray the whole house down with Lysol, but let's face it - that takes energy and motivation, so I'll vacuum and mop and call it a day.  Maybe.  Besides, I don't have any Lysol.  My intentions are really good, though.  A for effort?

Old McKelly Had A Farm, E-I-E-I-O.

Yesterday, Quinn (now known as Captain Awesome due to the shirt he doesn't want to take off.  Ever.) and I drove 5 hours to this teeny town in Missouri that is halfway between us and my parents' home in Kansas to meet my dad who was bringing us our Christmas present.  His name is Samson.

His FACE!  I want to just squeeze him to pieces!

He is a Mastiff.  He's only 9 weeks old, and he's bigger than Roxie. 

I'M CUTE, TOO, DAMMIT!!  (This was obviously her face before Samson came home.)

All things considered (including her being old and bitchy), she's taken to him quite well.  I think she's getting a kick out of actually being the boss of something.  Such a girl.  Samson has settled in, hardly whined last night, ate like a champ this morning, pooped on the deck because he hates the stairs, and has shared his rawhide with Captain Awesome (I'll try to get that on film.  Gross, but necessary to show his girlfriend later on in life.).  He isn't a fan of going outside - he's fine once he gets there, but I kind of have to toss him out the door.  Perhaps it is because he is not the most graceful being, and he trips over, well, everything and nothing.

Was I ready for another dog?  Not really.  Am I looking forward to the puppy phase (which I haven't dealt with in seven years)?  Nope.  Am I going to give him back?  No way.  He's soft, and snuggly, and dumb, and he'll eat more than my human kids do, but I am now his mommy.  And housebreaking him means that I can backburner potty training Quinn (which terrifies me.  He can stay in diapers until he's 12 as far as I'm concerned, although that would be a scosh awkward...).  

Well, I suppose I should check on the wee beastie.  He could be digging a tunnel to China for all I know.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

The Elf On A Shelf is a total creeper.

I've already established in many previous posts that I suck the fun out of life.  I hate Halloween, heights, scary movies, basically anything that causes undue anxiety is just not for me.  I know you're thinking, er, what in the name of la-di-dah is remotely anxiety-provoking about the Elf on a Shelf?  It's his wee beady little eyes!  (YES!  A "So I Married An Axe Murderer" reference!  My life is complete!)

Seriously though, I can't STAND things that appear to look at you.  My aunt is an amazing seamstress, and has eleventy billion dolls in her house in order to make doll clothes which she then sells.  At least she has a reason for having those fucking dolls whose eyes open when they sit up and close when they lay down.  *shudder*  Anyway, when I would go to visit her, THE DOLL ROOM was MY ROOM, and those fucking DOLLS WATCHED ME SLEEP.  I wish I were kidding.  Granted, none of them looked like they'd been attacked with a weed whacker like Chucky, but STILL.  I don't know how I ever slept in there, since I just knew I'd be grabbed by little plastic hands in the middle of the night.  Even now, as an adult, I would love to sleep with a foot sticking out of the covers when I get hot, but YOU CAN'T LEAVE THE SANCTUARY OF THE EDGE OF THE BED.  If you want to live, that is.

In my old office, there were pictures of, well, let's just call them community VIPs.  They were the type of photos where they looked directly into the camera, so no matter where you were in the office, the PICTURES WERE WATCHING YOU.  Made you think twice about taking a ream of paper home.  I get the same feeling with the Elf on the Shelf (a shelf?  The shelf?  Whatever the fuck.  I don't know.)  I do understand that I would be the one moving the thing around the house, but what if I wasn't?!?!?? (Don't give the Hubs that much credit, he wouldn't move it, he'd totally forget.  Love him, but it's true.)  My luck I'd wake up to that thing sitting on my bed shrieking, "I'M A REAL BOY!!!"  Fuck. That.

I know people are using this instead of "Santa is watching you."  Seriously people, get your kids to listen to YOU.  YOU are their parents and authority figures, not this little plastic creeper who looks like he'll grow up to be on the sex offender registry.  And not for peeing in a park in the dark.  (If you haven't seen Horrible Bosses, you go watch it.  You go watch it right now.)

That is all.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Stuff I Wish I Could Say Out Loud: The Family Edition.

To my son:  "You are why we can't have the nice things.  Don't worry, next week, when the bullmastiff puppy we just adopted gets here, HE will be the reason why we can't have nice things.  But for now, it's you.  Fucking knock it off.  Quit touching shit.  Stop reprogramming the remote because I can't figure it out and then we have to wait for your dad to get home to fix it.  When you've got diarrhea, please lie still while I'm changing your diaper; it is NOT the time to make sure your balls are still attached.

To the lady at Walmart who seems to be the only checker working every time I go: "Yep, I used to live in Barstow, California.  Yes, I remember that you used to live there, too.  How many fucking people do you think live in Clarksville, Tennessee that have a Barstow, CA address on their driver's license?  Am I that forgettable?  Thanks for carding me, though."

To my daughter:  "Today, you were the funnest kid alive.  Please don't be an asshole tomorrow, okay?  I need some consistency."

To my husband:  "Maybe the reason your stomach hurts is that you are lactose intolerant and you just drank a glass of milk.  Or maybe it's the beer you had after it.  I'm sure you wouldn't drink a combination of beer and milk, but that's just what you gave your stomach.  If I were your stomach, I'd hate you too.  I do know that I hate the smell eeking out of your ass.  Next time, you might as well eat a dozen deviled eggs on top of it.  Swamp ass is not sexy."

To my dog who has no idea we're getting a puppy:  "Shit's gonna change around here.  You're gonna hate it.  You'll get over it.  You'll still be my favorite as long as you stop acting like a douchecanoe.  Stop the barking, stop the begging, stop the whining, if you're sick of the toddler, go where he can't reach you.  And please, stop eating random shit outside and barfing it on the floor."

To my husband and my daughter:  "Stop fucking looking for Christmas presents.  We have no storage in this house, and shit is hard to hide.  I actually am almost done shopping before December for the first time in my life.  Every time someone finds a hidden present, Santa kills a reindeer.  You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

Things overheard at my house this weekend: Thanksgiving Edition

Ahh, the holidays.  When family is forced to be together and the booze eventually flows freely in order to be able to tolerate each other.  Actually, I love my family, and I love spending time with them.  My brother and I revert to being 12 years old, we try to fire up my dad by seeing how many times we can say "fuck" before he tells us that we're a bunch of heathens and starts drinking before noon, and I tend to forget I have children for a while.  Unfortunately, Brother Trucker wasn't here this weekend, but it was fun nonetheless.  So, without further adieu, here is a list of the more memorable comments made over the course of the weekend:

Mom: "You know those Sing-A-Ma-Jig things?  Their mouths look like puckered assholes."

Me:  "Get your foot out of my armpit."

Me:  "Hey Dad?  Fuckity fuck fuck fuck."

Dad: "Kelly, you can be a real asshole.  It's a good thing I love you."

Mom:  "Your new dog is going to shit piles that are bigger than your other dog."  (WE'RE GETTING A PUPPEEEEEEEEEEE!  More details later.)

Daughter: "Mom, can you pretty much do whatever Dad can do?"
Me:  "Yep.  Except pushups and I have to pee sitting down."

After putting together the trampoline we got the kids for Christmas since it was 65 degrees here almost all weekend (and now it is fucking 35 and raining, go figure), daughter says, "I'm not sure buying us this was a really smart thing to do, since it's almost winter."  To which I reply, "Well, I was running out of things to do to make you mad, so I figured a trampoline in the backyard that you can't use would be the perfect solution to that problem."

Me:  "I would never ever act like those women on Maury, because I'm a lady.  And fragile."
Everyone else:  Laughing until they needed Depends.

Guest at Dinner:  "I'm just going to stick this in there real quick."
Me: "That's what she said."
Guest: Look of disbelief.

Me: "Can someone get me a beer?"

Me:  "Why is all the wine gone??"

Me:  "If cheesecake for breakfast is wrong, I don't want to be right."

Niece on the phone:  "Aunt Kelly, I didn't want to talk to YOU."
Me: "I'm taking your Christmas presents back if you're going to talk to me like that."
Niece:  "I love you, Aunt Kelly."
Me: "That's what I thought."

I can't wait for Christmas.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


Ah yes, the day is here.... the day before a major holiday.  My to-do list actually has shit crossed off (AND IT'S NOT EVEN NOON!), but I keep adding more shit to it, completely negating the fact that I've already accomplished anything.  Depressing, no?

Usually, this is a common theme around our house:

Don't fuck with the mom-person.

But when I have people over, I want to IMPRESS, dammit, so I'm kind of going all-out.  Yes, I need praise. Yes, I need my ego stroked.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step.

I went to Walmart last night, sans kids, at 8:00 pm, to pick up everything I forgot the other day when I was trying to be super shopper extraordinaire.  Usually, my view on WM is this:

BUT!  Last night, it was almost a pleasure!  There was no one there!  (This is where I pat myself on the back going grocery shopping TWO days before the holiday instead of today, where most likely people are shanking each other with shit they made over in the personal hygiene department with a lighter to get the last can of crescent rolls.  I might watch too much Lockdown for my own good.) 

I'm not gonna lie, I'm still in a twist over hosting people that I've never seen before.  You know, good first impression and all that.  I mean, I swear in front of my parents (my dad haaaaaates the fuck word, so I try to not use that one) but I am seriously going to have to gorilla glue my face shut tomorrow because I doubt my colorful everyday language isn't even on the appropriate spectrum until we bust out the booze at about 11 am.  THERE'S A LOT OF HOURS BEFORE THEN, PEOPLE!

Doesn't everyone?  Just me?  Oh.  Well, then.

I say this a lot more than I probably should.  Hey, at least I apologize, right?

So I'm baking up a storm this morning, with the plans to clean this afternoon.  The house isn't dirty. per se, but cluttered and I've already dropped an egg and some oil on the floor (I never said I wasn't a klutz), so there's some cleaning and de-doghairing that needs to happen around here.  Usually, I have this attitude:

I motherfucking wish.

Regardless, I'm sure tomorrow will be a good time.  And if not, well, the fridge in the garage is full of booze, and there's pie, so we really can't go wrong, can we?  I just need to remember this:

Wouldn't that be something to put on a resume?

Mostly, I just hope that no one finds me in the bathroom, curled up in the fetal position, muttering this:


And if all goes to hell in a handbasket, then you'll probably overhear this conversation between my mom and I at the nail salon sometime this weekend:


Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Xanax me!

You know, like "beer me"?  Or is it just us rural Kansas kids who say that?

Anyway, the reason for the need for plenty of chill pills on hand is that I'm hosting my second Thanksgiving.  What?  The second time should be a cake walk compared to the first?  Usually, except when you're hosting people you don't know.  AND THEIR PARENTS.

My parents are coming, which is awesome - I miss them so much.  That, and they're bringing a bunch of stuff for dinner, including pastries from our home town bakery (they're so good, I'm salivating just thinking about them), and their truck, so I can finally get all of the shit out of the garage and to the dump so we can actually park our cars inside.  What a novel idea!  Park cars IN the garage!

Soooo... I had the amazing idea earlier this fall to invite Hubs' soldiers who can't/aren't going home for the holiday, for whatever reason.  I figured it would be us, my folks, and the guys, really laid back (i.e., I'm wearing sweats and a t-shirt, I need an expandable waist, duh, there's PIE.), football, beers, leftovers, tryptophan coma, the usual, right?  Oh nooooooooooo... not even close.  One of the guys is bringing his PARENTS.  Let me be clear, I think it's awesome that his parents are so cool to be "hell yeah, bring on the holiday with strangers!  And let us bring the bird and our fryer!"  (I love them already.)  HOWEVER... this totally means that I have to dress semi-appropriately.  Meaning jeans and a t-shirt that doesn't have Perry the Platypus on it.  I'll probably survive.

So today I'm making a last minute dash to Walmart (I hope I don't get stabbed trying to score some olives and cream of mushroom soup) and maniacally cleaning.  Because you know his mom will be wearing white gloves and staring at my ceiling fan that hasn't been cleaned in a year.  I know I'll do all of this cleaning for nothing, but hell, between the scrubbing and the inevitable anxiety attack or three that will happen between now and then, surely that means I'll have burned off enough calories to have several pieces of pie, right?

Monday, November 21, 2011

For once, I have nothing to say.

I had planned a post about the mental meltdown I suffered during my son's first haircut yesterday, but the funny has vanished today after receiving some sobering news.  All is well, never fear - I just think today is a day for reflection and for once, not trying to look for the funny in it.

As soon as I sort things out in the ol' noggin, I'll be back in full force.  Besides, it's a holiday week, so there will be fodder galore - of that, I am certain.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Mayhem. And I ain't talkin' about Allstate.

Speaking of Allstate, does anyone else think it's awesome that the "You're In Good Hands" guy was the "Fuck You, JoBu" guy on Major League?  Also?  The Mayhem guy used to be on Law and Order: SVU.  I'm full of random knowledge that gets me nowhere.  It's a heavy burden.

Anyway, back to the original topic, which I never properly introduced, and is not be anything resembling funny, is the current state of our nation.  I am saddened, disgusted, and embarrassed by what is going on inside our borders.  And while that is what I'm feeling, people outside our borders are pointing and laughing at us.  Now, part of me is trying to put a silver lining on this insanity, thinking hey, at least this shit is out in the open, and we are being forced to acknowledge that bad shit happens in America, and hopefully the citizens of this country have learned a fucking lesson about standing up for those who can't stand up for themselves, you cowardly pricks!  Maybe NOW, FINALLY, we can spend some time, attention, and resources on DOMESTIC issues, rather than borrowing money from countries to pay them back (if someone can tell me how the fuck that makes sense, I'd appreciate it).  

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Just ask the NFL.  Disclaimer: before people get all fucking pissy, that I am NOT, in ANY WAY, discounting the seriousness of breast cancer awareness, or research. That being said, October is ALSO Domestic Violence Awareness Month.  April is Child Abuse Awareness Month.  Millionaires who throw a ball around (and that I religiously watch every week), have the easiest platform imaginable to be a part of something immensely important.  The Penn State debacle, while a tragedy and a permanent stain, is a microcosm of the child sexual abuse that happens every day in our country.  

The "Occupy" movement is driving me insane.  Mostly, because I have no idea why they're occupying anything, and chances are, a big chunk of them don't either.  However, whatever you people are protesting, I'm not sure what gives you the right to rape and murder and toss Molotov cocktails in businesses that you have probably shopped in before.

I am embarrassed of our government, and for them, quite honestly.  The only thing that I can be proud of at this point is that I did not vote for Obama.  Sir, with all due respect, quit fucking spending what you don't have, and quit making everything about YOU. (It's WE the people, not I the President.)  My bank doesn't let me spend when I'm out of money, so why do you get to?  And really, all you fucking senators and representatives who were worthless enough to not get voted back into office - why the hell do you get a pension?  Your jobs are to represent those who aren't in Washington, and all you do is represent yourselves and your own interests, such as insider trading.  

I am a patriot.  I am PROUD to be an American.  I am married to a US Soldier.  But this bullshit?  This is NOT what America is about.  I don't know how these people sleep at night.  I don't know how they can pin the Stars and Stripes on their lapels and not be overcome with guilt as to where they are taking my country.

I chose to use this space for this rant, which I really needed to get off my chest, and if anything that I've written is blatantly proven to be false, please feel free - in a non-asshole way - to educate me.   I apologize for any shitty grammar, sentence structure, etc. because to be honest, I typed out my frustration and hit publish.  Back to the funny tomorrow.  Promise.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

A dash of OCD plus a sprinkle of lazy equals normal?

At least I hope so!  I told you I'm not good at math!

I tend to be a little obsessive occasionally.  This tends to manifest itself in two ways.  1) my face, and B) the level of cleanliness of my house.  Awesomely, one of these I can blame on my mom!

Ever since I can remember, I've had an obsession with having zit-free skin.  Unfortunately, I have pores the size of the Grand Canyon, so there's been plenty to "pore" over. Bwahaha!  I think my mom instilled this habit since a common saying around our house was "Kelly, you need to go work on your face," after which, I'd sit on the vanity in the bathroom or in the hallway in front of the long mirror and pick and poke and prod and practically count every single crevice in my face where dirt and gunk could accumulate.  If I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, I'd have red marks on my legs from leaning against the counter for so long.  Instead of Mom encouraging this time wasting obsession, what she should have told me was:

and just wash your damn face with product that you didn't buy at the grocery store.  So I feel like I have to scour my face for potential blemishes and I've spent an equal amount of time searching for the perfect face product so that the going over my face with a magnifying glass is no longer necessary (but I'm sure I'd still do it.  Le sigh.).  Sephora is my own personal hell, because by the time I get to my shopping cart to purchase all the goodies I've supermarket swept carefully selected, I owe three paychecks and my firstborn child.

Picture courtesy of Michelle Elise Photography and ME because she let me buy the copyright.  She rocks.
He's cute, no?  I wonder how much he'd be worth in beauty products...

I love having a clean house. There's nothing more satisfying (especially when you have a husband and kids) than having a freshly cleaned room stay clean for more than five minutes.  That being said, I haaaaaaaaaaate to clean.  Except when I'm really pissed off.  Then I'll scrub the shit out of whatever will sit still.  So when I clean and turn around 2.482948 seconds later to find a mess, I tend to go Ghengis Khan all over everyone, no matter who made the mess.  (Yes, I realize that expecting a toddler not to make a mess is stupid.  I also realize that expecting a 10 year old to do anything without being told 87 times is equally stupid. And yes, I realize the insanity that I must suffer if I think that the Hubs won't throw a saucy piece of pizza crust on the beige carpet for the dog.)  After I am through throwing my internal hissy fit and resigning myself to the fact that I'm cleaning AGAIN, the fuck-its set in.

I feel like this guy.  A lot.

And this is the story of my life:

Honestly, if the honey badger don't give a shit, I shouldn't either.

So yeah, as much as I love coming downstairs to a clean living room, play room, and kitchen (because those are the only rooms that have no doors to shut, effectively hiding the mess), most of the time it looks as though someone tossed a grenade into Toys 'R' Us.  I know I'll miss the mess someday.  At least that's what I tell myself when the guilt starts to kick in.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

There's something strange... In the neighborhood...

Who ya gonna call???  Anyone who can get my effing toddler to GO THE EFF TO SLEEP!  I swear, I need Mary Poppins to float down to my driveway as soon as she is able.  Preferably within the next 15 minutes, or I am going to flip. my. shit.

He's cute.  Super cute.  And gets away with murder.  I KNOW IT'S MY FAULT, STOP READING WITH THAT PATRONIZING LOOK ON YOUR FACE ALREADY.  It's just me and him during the days, and I am able to ignore a lot of what I feel is him just being an ornery boy, but when it is bedtime and, let's face it, kid - you BEGGED to go to bed (well, begged in the way that any two year old who doesn't have many words can), then the natural conclusion would be that you would go the hell to sleep!  But no, you've been in bed now for an hour and a half, and if it was Nirvana playing on the iPod instead of Nature's Lullabies (or whatever I've got going on in there), I'd think you were in the middle of a mosh pit.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that he enjoys being in his room - like he has a choice, he's still caged in his crib, because nights like this I know he'd be running like a little woodland creature who just escaped the clutches of something bigger than him yelling FREEDOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He'll eventually conk out.  And if he doesn't, there's always that nighttime Triaminic...  I kid!  Maybe.

It's like exactly like Fight Club. Sorta.

I am a military wife.  I chose this lifestyle, and with along every way of life comes good and bad, blessings and curses, joy and pain, sunshine and rain.  Somehow that turned into song lyrics.  Sorry 'bout that.


One of the blessings/curses is The Commissary.  OOOH THE COMMISSARY!  Where you can only shop if you have ID!  I happen to live a good 20 minutes from said store.  Therefore, it's not really convenient.  I may even spend more in gas than what I save shopping there.  But there's a lot of stuff that the local groceries don't carry that you can get there.  Like sushi.  Yum.  I love sushi.  It very well might be worth the trip just for that.  Or for all the German foodstuffs.  Or their bakery.  Holy shit, I'm hungry.

ANYWAY (again)... I hate the commissary, as well.  Why?  Well, because I'm an idiot who happens to decide to go near/on payday.  Payday at the commissary is AWFUL.  Everyone and their fricking MOTHER is there, and those tiny little Asian ladies have sharp elbows.  People have two carts that are overflowing, children are running amok, and you are guaranteed to wait in line longer than it took you to shop.  Hmm.  Sounds strangely parallel to a trip to WalMart...

Let's do some math! (Which I don't EVER think I've said before.  In. My. Life.)

Gas + likely homicidal thoughts + long lines + fisticuffs over the last chicken breasts on special - sushi - amazing ice cream selection - fresh bread - someone carrying my stuff out to the car = I think I'm going this afternoon.  Nevermind.  It's PAYDAY.  I'll have to stifle this sushi craving and go later in the week.  Besides, I'm not in the mood for a black eye.  I already have a split lip because my lips are so flipping chapped, and I don't want people to ask me if I need a victim advocate.

Monday, November 14, 2011

If I were Catholic, I'd be Sister Mary Buzzkill.

I realized this weekend that I suck the joy out of my children's lives.  As in, I'm no fun whatsoever.  I'm not okay with the kids using the furniture as indoor trampolines, having WWE/UFC smackdowns in the living room with their dad (well, more UFC because blood was involved, and we all know WWE isn't real.  Neither is Santa, The Easter Bunny, or The Tooth Fairy.  We had that discussion this weekend too.  I'll get to that in a minute.), sledding down the stairs, or microwaving spoons.  I can only imagine that when I tell my kids no (in a very calm, non-sarcastic, loving way) they see this:

I have a pretty high tolerance - wait.  No, I don't.  Maybe it's because I got a rush from being the ultimate good kid growing up, while my brother consistently got in trouble for pretending to be Evel Kinevel (or however the hell you spell his name).  Maybe I'm a big chickenshit.  Maybe my anxiety levels are through the roof without my kids attempting to kill themselves all in the name of fun.  Maybe I'm consistently pissy because my freshly vacuumed carpet is now full of smashed strawberry cereal bar and shredded leaves that came in on the dog and why wouldn't we shred them and we just realized that I shoved the entertainment center over the vent so now our favorite game of taking the vent off and throwing shit down it is over so we're screaming and my leg is covered with spit because the boy is in a licking phase and all he wants to eat is spaghetti and the girl is a snotty preteen who just needs to get her period already so we can have some relief around here and the Hubs is quick to point out that the boy needs his diaper changed because he stinks but hey there's Battlefield 3 to be played rather than changing a diaper and he thinks he gets a free get out of jail card because he went to bed at 730 so he was up at 5 and had coffee made before I woke up.  And that was the longest run on sentence in history.  And I have no idea what I was originally talking about because oh look! Something shiny!

I guess what I initially tried to say is I'm not a fan of my kids bleeding and crying unnecessarily.  I don't enjoy trips to the emergency room.  I don't enjoy bathing preteens who wear casts, as I've previously mentioned.  Does this make me a big boring jerk?  Probably.  In my defense, I do let a lot slide, but I have limits.  Unlike anyone else I live with.

In other news, we broke it to the eldest that there is no Santa, Easter Bunny, or Tooth Fairy.  This wasn't planned, but after she started talking about how "We need to get Santa a gift because he's given so much to us" and I swallowed down the vomit from that sickenly sweet and completely false statement, we decided it was necessary.  After she called us liars, she took it rather well.  Especially after we threw her inability to tell the truth about mundane things such as brushing her teeth in her face.  Parents - 1, Kid - ZERO.  Man, that felt good.

Friday, November 11, 2011

My husband should trade me in for a new model: Episode 5.

Well, here it is.  The last installment.  I have to say that this has been an interesting week in Wife School.  I think it's safe to say that I failed with flying colors, although I have a new-found appreciation for Valium, gin, and plastic-covered furniture.

1.  BUY HIM SOME SEXY BOXERS: Buy several pairs of sexy shorts for him! Try silky, colorful, and glow in the dark! Make sure you tell him what a hunk he is while he's wearing them! Okaaaaay... maybe it's just me, but "silky, colorful, and glow in the dark" boxers just screams bad 80s porn to me.  As far as getting sexy goes, I don't need to feel his boxers, because isn't the point being out of them?  I also think using the term "hunk" went out because of 80s porn.  

2.  WEAR THE LINGERIE HE LOVES: Some wives love it, some dread it, but just make sure you wear it! First of all, I'm not the lingerie wearing type, as evidenced by the Nebraska t-shirt and yoga pants I wore to bed last night - which I also wore all day yesterday, don't judge.  Besides, the last time I wore something sexier than usual to bed, he didn't even notice.  I'm fortunate to be married to a man who finds me wearing one of his shirts sexy.  

3.  PLAY HIDE AND GO SEEK IN YOUR NIGHTIES: Put on your sexiest negligee and challenge him to a game of hide and go seek. He'll say, "Ready or not, here I come!" Fuck. This.  If he's saying "ready or not, here I come", I highly doubt it's gonna be during a game of hide and seek... unless that's what they're calling it these days.  Please see part 2 in reference to my "sexiest negligee".  And really, I have kids.  Chances are, I've played "chase the kids" all day long, and since I kind of am claustrophobic, and fuck it - I hate hide and seek.  There.  I said it.  I'm pretty sure I've established in a previous post what a weenie I am about suspenseful/scary shit, so hiding in my house somewhere from someone who is coming to find me is not my idea of foreplay, but rather has me feeling I need to be armed.

4.  MAKE LOVE UNDER THE STARS: Find a secluded place and throw out a sleeping bag. Make love by the moonlight as you gaze at the stars.  Does this really happen outside of cheesy movies and Cialis commercials?  The idea of sticks and rocks gouging me while I'm going at it probably ensures that I'll be a little distracted, not to mention that a) I live in town, so there is no secluded places that aren't already taken by teenagers and dirty old men watching said teenagers, and 2) if we are able to find a place where no one has taken, there's probably going to be critters watching.  And really, I could be comfortable doing it in my own house and letting the dog watch, if that's the case.

    Happy Friday, y'all.  Thanks for going on this educational journey with me.  It's been...real.  Real weird.

    Thursday, November 10, 2011

    My husband should trade me in for a new model: Episode 4.

    Well folks, there's two days' worth of glorious suggestions left to make me more of the wife I'm supposed to be, according to this whackadoo.  So, without further adieu, Wife School: Part 4:

    1.  BUY A BUMPER STICKER: Put a "I Love My Husband" bumper sticker on your car.  Do people really put bumper stickers on their cars still?  Why not a "I Love My Husband" magnet that will inevitably come off in the car wash?  And seriously, really?  That's just about as obnoxious as "My (insert gender of child here) is an honor student at (insert grade school here)."  I will admit, though, that I do have a "____Elementary School" magnet on my car.  It's official.  I'm old.  Besides, if you bought one at back to school night, you got a chocolate chip cookie.  So you can see where my motivation comes from right there.

    2.  DON'T CONTRADICT HIM IN FRONT OF OTHERS: This will only embarrass him and cause people to lose respect. This is especially important if you have children. Have you met me?  I contradict MYSELF in front of others, so chances are, I'm going to contradict the Hubs, too.  And let's face it, he's never right.  Well, sometimes.  So mistakes need to be corrected, right?  I just saved the fucking day, fuggetabout being embarrassed.   

    3.  GREET HIM AT THE DOOR: Don't wait for your husband to say, "Honey, I'm home!" Watch for him, and greet him at the door with a hug and kiss. Should I change my name to June Cleaver and learn how to make a martini the way he likes it?  Then I'm gonna need a prescription for "mother's little helper" and put some plastic on my couches.  

    4.  DON'T TRY TO BE HIS MOM: Remember you are his wife, not his mother. Don't jump him every time he leaves something on the floor or his clothes don't match. It's OK to lovingly remind him, occasionally, but don't nag him. This one is not an issue for me, because I'm nowhere close to being... well, let's just say that I will never in a million years be like his mom.  And I gave up on nagging a long time ago, because a) it didn't work, and 2) I was annoying myself.

    Wednesday, November 9, 2011

    My husband should trade me in for a new model: Episode 3

    I don't even know what to say to get this ball rolling, except I'm seriously considering attempting these "suggestions" and documenting the Hubs' reaction, which may be even funnier than this bullshit this woman is trying to schlep.  

    1.  WRITE A NOTE ON THE STEAMED-UP BATHROOM MIRROR: While your husband is showering, sneak in and write, "I love you" on the steamed-up bathroom mirror. This will steam him up as well, especially if you seal it with your lip prints! Hmm.  I guess part A of this idea is kind of sweet.  Except when you're a little OCD about things and know that it will leave marks on the mirror when the steam evaporates.  And then you have to clean it.  And even though you're OCD, you hate to clean and it causes this vicious cycle that inevitably ends up with you eating something you shouldn't.  Besides, Hubs showers at about 0345 every morning, and I'm not getting out of warmth and comfort to go scribble on the mirror.  As far as kissing the mirror goes?  Getting up on the sink to perform such a sweet act would be an interesting story to tell the paramedics when I most likely slip and fall and break my face on the faucet.

    2.  PUT LOVE IN HIS SUDS: I'm talking about a bar of soap! Scratch "I love you" into his soap so he'll find it the next time he showers. (You may not want to seal this note with your lip prints, though).  She's witty, no?  First of all, who uses bar soap anymore unless you're camping, deployed, or are too much of a man to use a loofah?  And seriously, if you actually say you're too much of a man to use one, I'd bet there's one in your shower.  And you use it.  Even though it's your wife's.  It's no secret that mine smells like Old Spice Swagger when I get around to showering.  Besides, even if he DID use bar soap, I highly doubt he's inspecting it before he shoves it in his armpit. 

    3.  PUT A SIGN IN YOUR YARD: Place a sign in your yard such as, "THE WORLD'S GREATEST HUSBAND LIVES HERE." Let everyone know how special your husband is to you. Where does this woman live?  Disneyland?  Seriously?  This just, man, I almost simultaneously choked and peed at the same time after reading this one.  No one is going to drive past your house with a big "AWW", they're going to think that some fricking nutjobs live on their street.  You might as well buy a powerwasher to battle the certain eggings that will happen, and not just on Halloween.

    4.  LET BYGONES BE BYGONES: If your husband has done or said something to hurt you, forgive him. Don't keep bringing up the past every time you get into a disagreement, especially if he has shown remorse.  This is probably actually some sound advice.  Except if I let bygones be bygones, I wouldn't have any leverage or potential blog material.  And I do forgive.  But I don't forget.  Because someday that shit is gonna be funny, and I'm. Telling. EVERYONE.

    Tuesday, November 8, 2011

    My husband should trade me in for a new model: Episode 2.

    Okay folks, time for the second installment on how to get fired from being a wife:

    1. MAKE YOUR HOME HIS REFUGE: Let your home be a haven were your husband can retreat from the stresses of life. Do your best to make it a pleasant environment. Well, in all honesty, he does have a refuge. We have a bonus room in the house where the big tv and the playstation is. And it's not so much a place to retreat as it is to hide from the kids and the mess and the cartoons and the yelling and the whining and the tantrums and (do you see where I'm going with this? We have kids. And a dog. There is no such thing as an entire home having a pleasant environment at this time in our lives.)

    2. CHECK BEFORE THROWING THINGS AWAY: If your husband has some things that seem useless to you, don't trash them until you've made sure he doesn't need them. But you just told me to create a "pleasant environment"! And having shit lying around is not pleasant! Seriously, Captain Obvious, if there is something work-related or I don't know what it is, I don't throw it away without asking, but I'll remind you that I'm married to someone who thinks that putting trash on the counter BY the trash can is throwing it away.

    3. GIVE HIM A ROMANTIC CARD: Don't wait for a special occasion to give him a card. Find the most romantic card you can find and leave it in his car. Don't forget to add your own personal message! Maybe you'll even make him nervous, wondering if he forgot an anniversary! Oh, so now just signing my name isn't enough? What if the card said everything I needed it to? Wait. A card? You want me to buy a romantic card. I need to stop laughing and wipe the tears away before I can type any further. Obviously this woman works for Hallmark, not Bluntcard.

    4. LET HIM BUY THAT TOY: Permit him to buy that toy he's been wanting so badly. Better yet, put some of your own things off, save the money and buy it for him yourself! Permit him?? That would insinuate he asks permission before he buys the next Call of Duty, SOCOM, or Battlefield. And put some of my own things off? Lady, go run around this house real quick and tell me what I've bought for myself lately besides shampoo. Go on. I'll wait.

    5. RUB HIS FEET: Steer him to the recliner and pull off his shoes. Rub his feet for at least 20 minutes. It has been told that this may even improve his health! I. Don't. Do. Feet. I don't even like my OWN feet. He wants his feet rubbed, he can go get a pedicure. Or hell, make one of the kids do it. Isn't that why we have kids? To do the stuff we don't want to? Like pick up dog poop in the backyard.

    6. MAKE YOUR BEDROOM A LOVER'S PARADISE: Turn your ordinary bedroom into any lover's dream without a lot of expense. Remove clutter and anything that doesn't belong, and replace it with scented candles and fresh flowers. Hang pretty curtains and find some comfy bedding. Place mirrors to reflect candlelight, and misting fountains for a romantic effect. Oh, where to begin... Scented candles, fresh flowers, pretty curtains, mirrors, and misting fountains - what smut novel are we living in? This sounds something straight out of Lady Chatterly rather than "I can't wait for the kids to go to bed so we can too, and maybe if we both can muster up the energy we'll do it quick and then fall asleep by 930." Besides, if either he or I walked in to a bedroom that was set up like that, I'm certain we'd burn more calories laughing than having sex.

    There's more. Lots more. I think I'll probably be divorced by the end of the week, at this rate.

    Sunday, November 6, 2011

    My husband should trade me in for a new model: Episode 1

    So, I was spending quality time on ye olde Pinterest this morning, and came across this blog that had "101 Ways to Be Nice to Your Husband" or some shit like that.  So, I clicked on it.  And what I read made me simultaneously choke on my coffee and wonder why I'm still married, since according to this blog I fall into the "shittiest wife alive" category.  This is evidenced by the following:

    1. TEXT HIM A LOVE MESSAGE: Send him a romantic text message on his cell. Make sure it's sweet but spicy! Okay.  I text him "love you" all the time.  I'm so sweet.  Spicy via text?  Uh, I know the guys he works with.  I also know they get a hold of his phone occasionally.  Probably not going to happen.  The last three text conversations with Hubs? 
      1. Him: Bring me a beer upstairs, will you? Me: Get it yourself, asshat.
      2. Him: Want to order a pizza? Me: Yesssssssssss.
      3. Me: We're out of beer. Him: You go get it. Me: Fuck you.  You go get it. Him: Please? Me: Fiiiiiiiiiiiine.
    2. DO ONE OF HIS CHORES FOR HIM: Pick a chore that he dreads, such as mowing the lawn, and do it for him. Watch him as he sighs with relief. Eh, well, I'm a stay at home mom.  I do all the chores.  With the exception of the lawn, and occasionally he'll take out the trash.  PS - he LIKES to mow.  He was pissed that I hired it done while he was deployed in case they (you know, the professionals) should screw it up.
    3. START A HOBBY TOGETHER: Sharing a hobby together such as horse back riding, completing a home improvement project, or selling on eBay can help keep you close. Ok, we don't have a horse, we don't own our house, and we attempted selling shit on eBay rather than having a yard sale and almost killed each other in the process.  What we do together is drink beer and watch football.  Hobby?  I'm counting it.
    Folks, it just keeps getting better.  Stay tuned for episode two.  I'd better stock up on the tissues for when the new wife shows up.  And the champagne.  

    Friday, November 4, 2011

    Dear Crappy Cable Company:

    How do I loathe thee?  Let me count the ways:

    1) You suckered me in to your shitty service with the price of your tv/phone/interwebz package.  Money talks, unfortunately.  Thanks for that two year "locked in" rate, meaning I can't get out of this bullshit.

    2)  It's raining.  Not snowing, not hurricane-ing, not tornado-ing.  Raining.  So tell me why a little bit of rain should affect my tv and phone and internet!  Besides, aren't cables underground?

    3)  Your new "service" of calling me a few days before my bill is due might be convenient for some people.  I find it fucking annoying.  Call me when you're about to shut off my service due to my brain either not remembering to pay you or refusing to because you suck, not before.  While we're on the subject of you calling me, if I want HBO or Starz or whatever, I'm pretty sure I can figure out how to get in touch with you to order it, since I was able to find your stupid number to set up your shittastic service in the first place.  Leave. Me. Alone.

    4)  Is there a reason that other companies have 8629471 more channels in HD than you do?  Maybe I'm spoiled, but once you go HD, you don't go back.  FIX IT.

    5)  This may make me a horrible person, but 99.99999% of the time that I call (or one of you call me), I can barely understand the person due to their unintelligible "English".  Help me help you by giving me someone to talk to that I can understand.  (obviously, this is not just a complaint with my shitty cable company.  I could go on and on about this topic.)

    6)  I don't think there's ever been a time that your "automated customer service rep" has ever been able to solve my problem.  People were invented for a reason.  I don't want to talk to a fucking robot, who can't distinguish whether I said "YES" "NO" "CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE" or "FUCK OFF YOU FUCKING FUCK OF A FUCKING EXCUSE FOR A ROBOT".

    7)  When our service was interrupted on a Thursday due to one of your dipshit technicians sawing through OUR lines instead of the neighbors, and you couldn't get anyone to fix it until the following Wednesday, crediting my account more than $3.79 would have been really fucking nice.  Since I pay more than that per day to have your service.  Helpful.

    8)  Changing your cable boxes to touchscreens might be super cool.  Except when you have little kids who love to push buttons and fuck all your shit up.  Options are nice.  Upgrades aren't always better.  Besides, who gets up to push buttons or a touchscreen?  That's why God invented remotes, jackholes.

    I think that the above pretty much covers it.  That is, until the next time I have to deal with you people.


    Thursday, November 3, 2011

    I converse with inanimate objects.

    I should probably get out more.

    I've realized that lately, when the little one is napping or playing in the toy room, that I talk to the TV, the can opener, the fridge, and I find this to be normal.  It is normal, right?  RIGHT?

    Anyway, here is a sample of what I spout off to the things in my home that have no choice but to listen to me.  Someday, they'll learn to either respond, or do what I tell them.

    To the TV:

    "Seriously, must you show transvaginal mesh disease commercials during lunch hour?"
    "Dude, your eyes are shooting in two different directions.  Who put you on TV!?"
    "Weathergirl, showing your cleave ain't gonna get you a primetime slot.  Well, unless you're willing to have surgery.  But you need more work than your boobs.  Oh, did I say that out loud? My bad."
    "FUCKING. BASEBALL.  Why the hell do I bother to DVR anything during playoffs?  Terra Nova kicks baseball's ASS, TV!  GAWD!  FIX THISSSSSSSSSSS!"
    "TV, what does this commercial have anything to do with what they're advertising?  You don't know either?  Some help you are."

    To the ac/heat vents:

    "For the love of PETE, why didn't the stupid ass people who built this stupid ass house tack you down?  My kid likes to throw things down you, but as I am somewhat certain that there are things living down there that will grab my arm and pull me down (Yes, I know.  There is now way possible that I can fit in this 4x12 rectangle.  Shut up.  You calling me fat?  Bring it on, asshole.)... where the fuck is the Gorilla Glue?"

    To the can opener:


    To the coffee pot:

    "Hurr....rrrreeeeeeeee... I'mmmm.... dy.......innnnnnnng....."

    To the fridge:

    "I wish you would magically fill up with delicious goodies that would require no work whatsoever.  I'm going to shut the door, and reopen it, and you make it happen, okay?  Okay. ... ... ... You let me down every. fucking. time."

    Am I the only one that does this? Yes?  Hmm.

    Wednesday, November 2, 2011

    Wherefore art thou, sleep?

    For reasons unknown, sleep runs away from me, stops just out of my reach, and taunts me, just like the damned squirrels who run amok in our yard until the dog goes outside, then shimmy up the fence and stick their little squirrel tongues out at her.  Fucking squirrels.  Anyway, I'm exhausted.  I feel like I could sleep for days.  I even went to bed early last night with the hopes of getting some rejuvenating zzz's.

    What happened last night was this:  I feed the kids and fix a plate for the Hubs to eat when he gets home.  Get daughter to attempt to take a shower in less than an hour, and get son in his pjs.  At this point, he is begging to go to bed.  I'm thinking, this is great!  He'll be in bed, I'll get the girl in bed, and I'll go to bed right after!  I'll be in bed by 9, easy!  Well, I was in bed by 9, listening to the boy moshing in his bed, and having the time of his life.  I was also listening to the Hubs, snoring away in dreamland.  (This is where I would normally spout off in a jealous rage about how he can put his head on a fricking rock and fall asleep in seconds, and I might still in a little bit.  I haven't decided yet.)  Anyway, I figure I'd better go regulate on the boy and at least attempt to do something motherly and tell him to go to sleep, so I go in his room and there is stuff EVERYWHERE, so I pick it up (while he's giggling because I'm a huge sucker), I give him a hug, tell him to go the fuck to sleep (well, not really, but I wanted to) and I trudge back to bed.  And as soon as I get my covers situated, I have to pee.  So I go to the bathroom, feeling like I'm going to fall asleep on the toilet, get back to bed, remove my covers from the clutches of the Hubs, get comfy, close my eyes, and I am WIDE. FUCKING. AWAKE. and really pissed off about it.  So I get the iPad, check Facebook, play a little Words with Friends, check email, check it again, go back to Facebook, read two chapters on my Kindle, look at the clock, and it's now 11:30. PM.  As in, I've pissed away two and a half hours of sleep because I can't pass out, for whatever reason.  And Hubs' alarm will go off at 4:00 and then I have to get up at 7:00, and I'm not even close to falling asleep.

    I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but the air raid alarm clock blasted me out of bed at 4:00, and the boy woke me up with his squeals of well-rested glee at 6:30.  A quick peek in the mirror only confirmed my suspicions - I look like Medusa mated with a Shar-Pei and had a baby.

    The Hubs just called.  Here is a transcript:

    Him:  "How'd you sleep?"
    Me: "Oh, okay.  You?"
    Him: "Like absolute crap.  I didn't get much sleep at all."
    Me: "Uh.... ::siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh:: that's too bad, I hope today gets better for you." ::begins bashing head into wall::

    Tuesday, November 1, 2011

    I'm not funny today.

    Anxiety is a monster.  It is a possessing nasty with red eyes, huge talons, and shark-like teeth that sink in and grip a person like a gator grabs and death rolls an unsuspecting deer.  Gators eat deer, right?  I'm not from Florida, I don't know these things.  It is like a shadow, always there and very real, even though I can't touch it.  Just when I think that things are going well, it makes its presence known - maybe just poking me a few times, or slamming me in the face with a baseball bat.

    Today is a baseball bat kind of day.  It will pass, but it kind of sucks right now.  I hate it, I hate how it makes me feel, and I hate how it controls me on days like today when I need to be the best mom and wife that I can be.  It is never welcome, and always enters without knocking, and it is not making any indication that it is ready to leave.  I'd eat a brownie, but I feel like I'm going to puke, and that's just a damned waste, right there.

    Monday, October 31, 2011

    Let the flogging begin: I hate Halloween.

    There, I said it.  I can't stand this "holiday".  I find no joy in dressing my kids up to get 8000 pounds of candy that will eventually wind up in the trash because I won't let them gorge themselves on it. (Read: I need to ensure that I don't binge on it.)  I hate having ungrateful kids give me dirty looks when they show up at my door near the end of my candy stash and all that's left is mini boxes of Milk Duds.  I hate when kids who are too old to trick-or-treat show up and expect me to goo and gah over their costume.  I hate when parents of infants think they need to get some candy for their baby so they can "eat it when they get home".  Wha?!!

    Maybe this makes me a complete buzzkill and weenie, but so be it.  I hate scary movies, I hate when people wear masks and I can't tell who they are, I just think the whole thing suuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.  Halloween isn't about All Hallow's Eve anymore, it's about freaking people out and candy and costumes that make middle school girls look like hookers.

    Now excuse me while I go prepare for the little shits who will probably egg the house because we're not handing candy out this year...

    Friday, October 28, 2011

    My brain is speshul.

    So, I'm spending quality time on Facebook this afternoon, and I notice my friend Amber posted this picture of a black jellybean on a paper towel.  Now, I usually question my own sanity, not too many others' (well, except the Westboro Baptist Church, but that's a given), so I click on her picture to see what the deal is, because she is a very level-headed chick.  Turns out, it was NOT a nasty licorice-flavored jelly belly, oh no!  It was a Godzilla-sized TICK that she found on her FLOOR because it was so effing FULL of her cat's BLOOD, it FELL OFF, completely satisfied.

    Now, not too many of God's creatures freak me out.  I can deal with most spiders, one or two types of snake (provided they are no where near me or are appropriately caged in a Houdini-proof box, and if I had to, I could probably deal with a rat (since daughter has begun begggggggging for one for Christmas - don't worry, it's SO gonna get vetoed).  But TICKS?  Bloodsucking, nasty-ass critters who have no sole purpose on this planet except to gross me out?  FORGET IT.  Not only do I not understand their existence, there is something in my psyche that makes me feel like I'm crawling with the damned things the minute I see one, even a picture on the interwebz.

    So, excuse me while I go over my dog, kids, and myself with a fine toothed comb, and vacuum everything that will sit still.  (Yes, I know the tick was in HER house, not MINE.  I can't help it.)

    Tell me I'm not alone in this.  Please.  Lie to me if you have to.  It's okay.

    Thursday, October 27, 2011

    Oh no, I didunt...

    Oh yes, I did.  I said something to Hubs that I vowed I would never EVER do.  I uttered the phrase, "If you only knew what it was like to _________."  In this case, it was a last resort after he kept bugging me and bugging me and bugging me (do you see where this is going?) and it was a certain time in every lady's monthly schedule where you JUST DON'T DO THAT, and he just would not get the hint.  And I instantly felt like the biggest asswagon alive.  I even apologized for being "one of those wives".  Which, in all honestly, should win me a damned medal - apologizing is HARD, y'all.  Especially for saying something that should have stayed an internal monologue, but didn't hurt him a darned bit for hearing it, except it's just not me to be such a shrew.  But dangit, when "No.  No, thank you.  Raincheck?  NO!  I SAID, NO, GAWDAMMIT, THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT ME THAT IS REMOTELY SEXY RIGHT NOW, INCLUDING MY BREATHE RIGHT STRIP AND MOUTHGUARD!" doesn't work, one must resort to what Hubs understands: passive-aggressiveness.  I'm not proud.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?  Shit, I'm already on step 5 - I done made amends already.

    Wednesday, October 26, 2011

    I'm no meterologist, but...

    This weather is just about to straight up piss me off.  It is as bipolar as my mother-in-law off her meds.  Case in point: today's high is 77, chance of showers, relatively mild, no wind, kind of a nice day.  Little warm for my liking this time of year, but can't really complain. The low for tonight?  54.  Cool enough for an extra blanket on the bed and to turn the space heaters on in the kids' rooms.  I sleep next to a man-shaped furnace, so to turn the heat on would be equal to me sleeping in a sauna, thank you, but no.

    Here is my quandary:  If the low for tonight is 54, meaning that's as cold as it is supposed to get, then how in God's name is the high for tomorrow 52?????  Isn't this "simple" math?  Daughter asked me how that was possible this morning, and although I like to pretend I'm smarter than a fifth grader, I was completely stumped.  I just changed the subject.  Kind of like the other day when she asked me what a sister wife was.

    Thank you, Weather Channel.  I like to start off my days feeling like I have only a handful of brain cells left.  In case you were wondering, I need my kids to believe that I'm smarter than they are, and YOU ARE RUINING IT.