Fucking commercials. I mean, REALLY.

I have to hand it to the advertising people.  You can make me go from angry to disgusted to laughing to crying in the three minute break you're provided in between real tv.  Somehow, I don't think that I give you exactly the response you were looking for.  Actually, probably not even close.  For example:

Cialis/Viagra/Extenze/etc.

First of all, I am not a dude.  This would mean that I do not suffer from erectile dysfunction, because I do not have the appropriate plumbing.  That should be enough, but it's not, is it?  Nope.  Watching Jimmy Johnson and his immovable hair (I'm pretty sure I've talked about this before, but it is disturbing enough to warrant a re-mention) talk about needing pills to perk up his pecker is enough to make me never want to eat again, much less have sex.  "Bob" and his megawatt smile because he can get a boner in the circa 1950s-esque situations just makes me feel like he's the creeper version of Ward Cleaver.  Beaver Cleaver's dad.  This shit just writes itself, doesn't it?!  Cialis - seriously, I don't care if I'm married to the hottest man alive, I don't want to take a bath out in the woods.  First of all, who dragged the tub out there?  If it's about to be sexy time, shouldn't we be in the same tub?  And really, if my husband gets a four hour erection, I doubt we'll be running to the emergency room.  *eyebrow waggle*

ASPCA

I love animals.  I can't bear the thought of anything happening to my dog.  But stop with the guilt.  My pet is loved, well-taken care of, and spayed.  You can also stop with the music that makes me want to perform haikus at poetry slams.  *snap snap*

DOUG

Dude, I get it.  You have mesothelioma.  I'm sure it is a horrible thing to go through, and trust me, I am sympathetic to your plight.  However, your commercial is on so much that the ambulance chasers you did the ad for probably light their cigars with lit Benjamins.

19.95/19.99/THREE EASY PAYMENTS!

These commercials drive me to the brink.  My dad and I this summer made it a game - "Will it be $19.95 or $19.99??? THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING ME!"  Not only that, everything that is under $20, my daughter thinks is the bargain of the year, and "MOM YOU NEED THIS! THEY HAVE SUPPORT STOCKINGS FOR NINETEEN NINETY-FIVE AND YOU GET A PAIR FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"  Yo, I might be older than the interwebs, but I don't need fricking support hose.  Or a hearing aid.  I'm choosing to ignore you, I'm not hearing impaired.

NUTRISYSTEM

I am so fricking tired of Marie Osmond's face, I can hardly see straight.  Great, you lost 50 pounds!  That really is awesome!  Now, what's your excuse for your hair?  At least when The Trainwreck Formerly Known as Kirstie Alley was the spokesperson for Jenny Craig we got some entertainment from her antics.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this:  "People in advertising, you left your A game at home.  Your B and C game, too.  STOP MAKING ME CHANGE THE CHANNEL WHEN YOUR SHIT COMES ON.  It takes entirely too much energy for my thumb to push the button.  Bring back the Budweiser Lizards.  THAT was fricking genius.  You're welcome.  Love, Kelly."

Taco Tuesday!

Not really.  It is Tuesday, (I think).  Calling this post Taco Tuesday was just my way of cleverly sucking you in.  Did it work?  Sorry about the no tacos.  Come over, I'll make some.  I just couldn't think of anything clever for the damned title.  So without further adieu, I now present:  Shit That Has Happened/I've Figured Out Lately and/or Really Dumb Things I've Done/Let Happen Lately.

1.  Set out a potluck dinner on the counter within reach of a two year old.  In my defense, who knew his arms were that long?  I thought they were T-Rex short, but turns out, he can reach a plate of hamburgers (they weren't fresh off the grill, so no burn hazard, just in case CPS is tracking my blog), pull them down, and chow his way through parts of three different ones while strategically placing the rest on the floor.

1a.  Two year olds are ninjas.

1b.  Give a two year old a plastic knife spoon and a plastic Dixie cup, and he's entertained for a good five minutes.  That's a record breaker, y'all.

2.  Placing toddler locks on doors when having a BBQ that will eventually result in several intoxicated grown men needing tutorials on how to open said doors.  (Yes, tutorials was plural on purpose.) Oh, and tutorials on how to open the toilet lock.  Which may or may not be slightly uncomfortable for both teacher (who is surrounded by drunk guys needing to pee) and guys who need to pee.  Real bad.  Right now.  At least they came inside to use the toilet instead of peeing off the deck, which is amazing in itself.

2a. Please refer to 1a if you are concerned with all the lockdown goings on in my home.

3.  Providing deviled eggs to a crowd of hungry men who loooooooooooooooove deviled eggs results in needing several candles and bottles of Febreze.  And a spare room in which to either kick your husband into, or to go to yourself in the very early hours of the morning.

4.  Cleaning up beer cans after a party so your kids don't realize how much you drink really doesn't matter when your husband tells your kid to take the bags that are strangely light because they're full of cans out to the trash bin.

4a.  Kids are smarter than we give them credit for.

4b.  Kids will also go on cooler runs for you if you let them play Wii until they can't see straight during a grown up party.

4c.  Kids will also perform party tricks (such as "Hey go tell so and so bla bla bla) for the low low price of a dollar.

5.  When your husband feeds your toddler baked beans, prepare for an ungodly amount of dirty diapers the next day or two.

6.  Leaving the ice cream carton on the top of the stove while the brownies are baking WILL soften the ice cream.  Great, if you want to drink it.

7.  Never send "the good spoon" or a dish you ever plan on seeing again with your husband to a work potluck.

8.  Drunk men will try to talk you into giving your kid a mullet because "They're coming BACK!  I swear!"

9.  Putting vapor rub on anyone isn't pleasant.  However, when its your kid, and you accidentally get some in their mouth instead of under their nose, the dancing/screaming/hullabaloo is something you really should videotape.  And then show to their first boyfriend.  And at their high school graduation.  And at their wedding.

10.  When your husband tells you "But I'm not lactose intolerant anymore!" while drinking a huge glass of milk, run away as though aliens are invading.  Run, click your heels, dig a hole in the backyard and use it as a bunker - collect everything important to you and take it with you, but go nowhere near his ass.  You've been warned.

Grown up? I gotta grown up for ya right here.

The idea that I am an adult is not okay with me.  I have the humor of a 12 year old.  I can turn the most innocent thing Elmo says into a "that's what she said" moment.  At a BBQ yesterday, someone said "twiddle", and I had to try not to giggle.  I have the mouth of a sailor, and my sarcasm is off the charts.  I could potentially be creating a monster in my 10 year old, she is not able to distinguish that I'm kidding, for one, and two - she's doing it wrong.  Whereas I am hilarious, she is a snot.  Whoops.  Parenting fail.

I have hair that is becoming more gray by the day.  The girl calls it "sparkly".  I like that.  I'll keep them.  Partially because paying to have my roots done every so often is entirely too much maintenance and I'm lazy, and partially because I earned those fuckers.

Don't get me wrong, I know that I'm fixing to turn 35, I'm married, with children and a dog.  That technically classifies me as a bonafide grown up.  I just miss the zero responsibility days every once in a while (ignoring my responsibilities, like the humongous stack of homework sitting beside me begging to be done, but I'm blogging or playing Farkle online instead does NOT count).  That being said, although this may not be the life I planned, it certainly is the one I was supposed to have.

Cheesenrice.

Alright, here's the deal.  I am so behind in almost every aspect of my life that it is starting to become stifling.  As in I am choking on my own procrastination, and if I don't get out of this funk I'm in, I may not have electricity, water, a degree, any space on any surface of any floor in my house that is passable, or the internetz.  I am physically unable to motivate myself to do anything that I absolutely have to do, outside taking care of my kids.  I'm tired, frustrated, pissy, unable to focus (I read the same line 24817 times, and trying to put together a sentence for a homework assignment that seems somewhat intelligent - forget it)... what. the. hell.  The time in my life when I need to be the most productive, I am unable to do so.

Quite honestly, it is infuriating, yet I sit here on fricking Blogger instead of crossing things off my to do list.  This, I can do.  Talking about contemporary social work practices in a manner that doesn't make me sound like a three year old?  Not so much.  Putting away folded clothes - er, I have trouble with that on a good day.  I know I am capable of accomplishing what I need to, usually, the last two weeks have just been really difficult.  Granted, we've had a lot of change and adjustment with The Hubs coming home, but that shouldn't equate me staring at the wall like it's this magical mesmerizing portal to Oz or something.

I'm going to be 35 in a couple of weeks.  I'd planned on living longer than 70, so this can't be my mid-life crisis.  Unless it's possible to have several.

Bleh.  Sorry about the pity party, table of one.  I'll soon enough get through it.  At least, I'd better, or investing in a cattle prod might become a reality after all.

I'm just a preteen dirtbag, baby...

Sweet.
Baby.
Jesus.

My 10 year old is starting her journey towards becoming a woman.  Why does that make it sound like it is a magical trip through Narnia on the back of a unicorn while tree sprites and other creatures toss flower petals on you?  Because the reality of it is that puberty suuuuuuuuuuuucks.  Not only for those going through it, but those of us who are forced to live with those who are going through it.

Now, here is my hope: that having a daughter going through it first will make anything boy-related seem like a walk in the park.  For those of you who have had boys go through it first, and if I'm wrong, just nod your head and smile.  I prefer to remain ignorant.  I don't want to think of my two year old doing gross teenage boy stuff yet.  He's still precious.  Kinda.

Anyway, back to the girl.  So, she broke her wrist on the first full day of school.  How exciting!  A cast!  Signed by her BFFs!  Rad!  Bathing her?  Not so rad.  I like to think I'm a good mom, I take care of my kids, I even feed them and change their litter boxes, but giving my 10 year old girl who is developing a bath?  It was so awkward for the both of us, we had ice cream for dinner.  She had hers topped with chocolate sauce, I sprinkled Xanax on mine.  September 12 is when she gets the cast off, and I think both of us will be happier than we've been in weeks.

I'm really hoping that she has Health class before I have to give her the sex talk.  We've done an abbreviated version of the period talk.  Of course, that was after she saw her baby brother running around the house with two handfuls of tampons and a wrapped (and NEW, just in case y'all freak out) maxi pad in his mouth.  With my defense mechanism being sarcasm, I don't think talking about wee-wees and hoo-hoos is going to be my shining moment.  Just thinking about this is making me break out in a cold sweat.  I'm not real sure how I wound up with this as part of my job description.  Maybe her dad should... Oh, God - NO.

Holy Mother of God, It's Football Season.

I wait for this the second after the Super Bowl.  Preseason football means that fall is on the way, and I love me some fall.  I also love me some fall beers.  I can't wait to crack into the first Oktoberfest of the season, and I KNOW they're out already, but drinking heavier beers when it's still in the mid-90s is not okay.  I love football, too.  I'm more of a collegiate fan (GO HUSKERS!!), and I do root for the Chiefs, but football is football, and I love me some men in butt-huggin' pants, wrasslin' each other while I drink heavily and eat chips and dip.  I just realized that made it sound a little gay-pornish, but be it as it may, bring.it.on.  BRING. IT. ON.

I do have a bit of an issue with all the criminals (Michael Vick, Plaxico Burress, Brett Favre, etc.) making ungodly amounts of money playing ball (What's that you say?  Favre isn't a criminal?  Well, he sure has hell stolen a shit ton of my tv viewing pleasure...).  What kind of example does that make for our kids?  Break the law and swim in your cash, kiddies!  Well, at least they give me something to rant about while loaded.  I'd even throw popcorn at the tv, but I love my tv to much to do that to her.

So, to recap.  Football equals fall, amazing beer, gay porn, prison, and love.  Got it?  Good.

My dreams make me question my sanity.

When I was pregnant, I had this reoccurring dream that involved Alan Jackson and a golf cart.  Very Bonnie and Clydeish, we had stolen said cart and were blazing around Lincoln, Nebraska.  The cops were in pursuit, but for some reason, could not catch up to us with our magical golf cart.

When I was a child, I had this reoccurring dream that I was running for my life through our shelterbelt, because I was being chased by this Godzilla-sized gorilla.  I'd run, and trip (because there's a bunch of random shit in our shelterbelt), he would gain on me, I'd run faster, I'd trip, and eventually I'd fall face down, to flip over and feel the hot breath and drool drippings of the gorilla on my face.

Of course, when I was a kid, I also convinced myself that, at night, my floor was covered with writhing snakes, so if I had to pee in the middle of the night, I had to jump as close to my door in order to escape the snakes.  Very Indiana Jones and his snake pit anxiety.

Last night, my dream involved Quinn, The Pioneer Woman - Ree Drummond - (I should clarify that I don't know her personally, although I sure wish I did, by her blog, she sounds like a complete kick in the pants, and I envy her cooking skills hardcore), one of their ranch hands, and her eldest daughter.  For whatever reason, we're driving towards their ranch, and all of a sudden, a tornado appears out of nowhere.  At this point, Quinn and daughter disappear, and PW, ranch hand, and I head for a quonset (because THAT makes perfect sense in a tornado), where we pull down a bookshelf (don't ask, I just report the news), and wait out the storm.  After the tornado passes, I realize I'm not wearing a bra, because I had decided that if I was going to die, it was going to be in comfort, I guess.  Quinn and daughter headed to the house with a BASEMENT, like normal people, and were perfectly fine.

The above dreams were brought to you today by the letters W, T, and F, and the number crazy.

There are many more dreams where I wake up thinking what the fuck is wrong with me?!?!? but I can never remember them long enough to write them down.  However, last night's dream was so vivid, that the details are staying with me.  I'm pretty sure that if I told any type of professional, they'd up my meds and probably add some more, or just say screw it, and take my measurements for that comfy white robe with the velcro straps they keep talking about...

Happy Saturday!

Stop! Hammah time. Or collaborate and listen.

Things that are currently happening in my world that need a cease and desist order:

1.  My son needs to stop playing with the toilet brush.  Read: chewing on it.

2.  My dog needs to stop bringing locust shells to the back door.  There's literally a pile.

3.  My dog needs to stop eating grasshoppers and puking them up on my every-rental-in-America-beige carpet.

4.  Justin Beiber needs to stop breathing.

5.  My 10 year old needs to stop being so concerned with Justin Beiber's love life and the fact that there was a street named after him and the street sign was stolen.  Read: She needs to realize I don't give two shits about JB.

6.  Cialis needs to stop showing their commercials during times when I'm trying to eat.

7.  Extenze needs to stop putting men like Jimmy Johnson on their commercials, because the last thing I need to imagine is him in the sack.  Naked.  With his immovable hair.

8.  ASPCA needs to stop with the commercials that make me cry even when I'm not PMSing.  Just so they know, I turn it every time it comes on.  And stop with the Sarah McLachlan music already.  It reminds me that I do have a soul.  And it's ruining my image.

9.  If Terry Bradshaw is going to commentate football, he needs to stop shotgunning beers in the parking lot before gametime.  Stop distracting me from the real reason I watch football.  To drink my own beer.

10.  Summer needs to stop.  If my kids are in school, temps pushing 100 are no longer acceptable.  Football is on, my yard is dead, bring on the cooler temps.  It's hard to want to light the firepit and drink outside when you sweat and/or choke on the humidity the instant you walk out the door.

11.  Sesame Street needs to stop ignoring the fact that Bert and Ernie are more than best friends.

That is all.  For now.  I need to extract my kid from what sounds like inside the dryer.  Which needs to stop, as well.

Things I learned and/or realized on my firstborn's second birthday.

1.  A two year old can TP an entire hallway in the amount of time it takes me to change my clothes.  I'm talking a practically new Mega Roll, people.

2.  Take pictures of events such as previously mentioned.  It's just toilet paper.  It's not like he whitewashed the hardwood floor with White-Out or motor oil.

3.  Having awesomely overstuffed, oversized chairs is usually the most wonderful thing in the world.  Until you fuck your back up and it takes the jaws of life to get you out, and your coffee has kicked in, and the dog spies 73819 squirrels that need chased 73819 times.  Make that 73820.

4.  Watching President Obama on tv talking about coconut cream pie instead of jobs makes me want pie.  And a job.  Maybe if I send him a pie, he'll give me the job I just applied for?

5. Two year olds really don't believe in naps on their birthday.  Their moms do, though.

6.  Maybe this back pain I have is just me reliving the back labor I had ALL.DAY. two years ago.  Thank you, induction medication.  Thanks even more to the two epidurals.

7.  It never fails, on a day where I'm not feeling my best, that that will inevitably be the day that I have to unpinch fingers from cabinets, retrieve a toddler from the dining room table, pull him out of the front load dryer, change 5 number 2 diapers before lunch, and realize that we're out of my favorite creamer.

8.  Fifth graders are really easy to embarrass in public.  Add that to my newest Facebook "About Me" update.

9.  I'm grateful even more today for my husband, who wisely talked me out of buying the floor piano (like on Big) for Quinn for his birthday.  Even though I really wanted it for me.  I'm pretty sure I'd already be ready to claw my eyes out.

10.  Buying gifts that don't make noise or require batteries is the biggest win of my life.

Signs I know things are back to normal in my house.

1.  The alarm is set for 0400.

2.  The amount of laundry has almost doubled.

3.  Cereal for dinner just doesn't cut it anymore.

4.  I find random things in my bathroom sink like boxers and t-shirts.

5.  You'll find spit cups galore, and the little playing with empty Copenhagen tins.

6.  I get "Love You" texts before 6 am.

7.  The sounds of SOCOM, Call of Duty and NCAA Football 2012 resonate through the house.

8.  His wedding ring is back on his finger rather than on a chain around my neck.

9.  I have no covers in the middle of the night.

10.  ESPN comes on first, because the news is important.

11.  My bedroom floor is littered with dirty socks, damp towels, and boots.

12.  My anxiety levels are almost back to normal, which means medium to high rather than off the charts.

Dear Husband is home, safe from Madam Afghanistan.  The kids and I couldn't be happier.  My OCD is in overdrive, and I'm trying to make reintegration as smooth as possible, even though it is usually impossible for it to be seamless, but, he is home in one piece.  For a while. And that's what matters.

Have your kids break their bones. Really.

So dear sweet daughter fell off the monkey bars at school today and landed on her wrist.  Right before I was about to take a shower.  So, stanky me plus half-way-through-nap-toddler plus three hours at the ER plus attempting to make a game out of tongue depressors plus a stop at DQ equaled our afternoon.  She has what is called a greenstick fracture (whatever the hell that is), and is in a splint/sling combo until we see our doc tomorrow.  So in the lobby, I'm lamenting MY situation.... "Fuck this!  Who is going to pick up the crap I don't want to?  Who is going to take out the trash?  Who is going to get me the remote?  I have to BATHE her preteen hormonal self?  FUCK THIS!"

And then she walked in the door, picked up a few toys with her good hand, went to the bathroom by herself, asked for just sandwiches for dinner, and figured out how to play her DS with one hand.

I don't give this kid quite enough credit.  Maybe I'll have her try to pottytrain her brother next.  God knows I don't want to do that real bad.

Someone please, kick.my.ass.

Hi, I'm Kelly.  And I'm a procrastinator.

Why is it that I can get everyone else's stuff done on time and/or early except my own?  I have LATE shit for school this week, and I really don't care.  I can find 78143817 other things to do instead (damn you, Facebook and Investigation Discovery) and it is paaaaaaaainful to sit down and do what I know I need to do.

If anyone has any sage advice for keeping myself on task, please let me know.  Oh, look!  A squirrel!  Something shiny!

Dick Jokes and Hoarders

1.  I have learned that it is entirely possible to eat too many blackberries, contrary to my previously held belief.  Results are not pleasant.  And THAT is your PSA for the day, folks.

2.  I am a new fan of have a leaning towards unhealthy obsession of Investigation Discovery.  And I wonder why I don't sleep at night.  On the bright side, watching Deadly Women makes me happy to be married to a dude.  Those females are vicious, y'all.

3.  My Monday night plans now consist of Hoarders and booze. In tandem.  This way, I feel okay with my clutter and I'm too drunk to let my OCD run amok.  Winning?

4.  I'm pretty sure if I attend a movie with two certain someones again we will banned from the theater. When you go to a movie that's full of dick jokes, I don't understand how you can possibly get offended at the other patrons' own personal dick jokes.  After all, I said them during quiet parts.  Jeebus.

5.  65ish year old women who go to movies like Bridesmaids and Horrible Bosses are my heroes.  I can only hope that I stay as silly and vibrant as those women when I am their age.

6.  Rabbit turd ice makes everything better.

7.  I've come to the conclusion that my rage control issue is anything but controlled, since I am starting to make tally marks of people that need punched in the throat and/or kicked in the vag.  Oh, companies who make push-up bras and hootchie shorts for 10 year olds also go on this list, as well as the people who buy them for said 10 year olds.  Seeing a grade schooler with a cameltoe is nothing I ever want to see again.

8.  Number 7 just straight up pissed me off again.  I'll save it for another post though.  It's a doozy.  And not remotely funny, which is unfortunate for all parties involved.

I'm like the Terminator. Without the illegitimate children. Because I don't have a maid.

Well, friends, I'm back in the land of Jack Daniels.  I took a break away from life in the "New South" (it's on our watertower, so it has to be true, right?) to visit my folks and recharge my batteries.  School is back in session for me, dear daughter starts tomorrow, and dear husband should be back from deployment before long - like within the next twoish weeks.

I'm not funny today.  I just haven't been outside of my little bubble to find anything to amuse and/or piss me off today.  But, to quote Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow IS another day.  And I'm sure someone somewhere will do something stupid enough to grace the blog.  It makes me want to twiddle my fingers a la Mr. Burns.  (And yes, I giggled when I typed twiddle.  I'm 12 like that.)