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...

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.

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.

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.

Signs that blatantly point I should not have gotten out of bed today.

It is only 0943, and already I should just call it a day.  It's one of those days where I'm surprised I'm not in a full body cast or a straitjacket.  Here is a list of what has happened so far this morning.  Those people who say bad shit happens in threes have obviously not lived with me.

0400:  Hubs' alarm clock goes off like an air raid.  I ram my funny bone against the corner of the bedside table in an attempt to silence the ridiculousness that is our alarm clock.  I almost cry.

0422:  Hubs' leaves for work.  I get up to go to the bathroom since sleep has run for the hills.  I'm not sure what scared it away, the alarm or the fact that my elbow is still throbbing.  Once in the bathroom, I slip on some water from Hubs' shower and pull something in my lower back.  Awesome.

0427:  Crawl back in bed.

0624:  The last time I remember looking at the clock.

0700:  Daughter's alarm clock goes off.  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

0710:  Spill coffee grounds all over the kitchen floor.

0715:  Make daughter's lunch.  She wants to eat at school.  Fight ensues.  She wins.

0730:  Stub toe on the wooden lip thing that separates the kitchen floor from the hallway.

0800:  Begin to contemplate giving myself an at-home hysterectomy with a butter knife and a melon baller.

0812:  Daughter out the door and on the bus.

0814:  I slip on the throw rug and fall flat on my ass.

0817:  Pour third cup of coffee and stare at the news.

0859:  Realize that son is not squalling to get out of bed.  Also realize that this is two hours later than he usually sleeps.  Internally freak out that he's not okay.

0901:  He yells.  Breathe sigh of relief.  Internally berate myself for being an idiot.

0910:  Commence chasing naked two year old around the house, begging for him to not start cleaning up pee in the hallway.  Eventually tackle and successfully get diaper and pants (gasp!) on him.

0940:  Breakfast eaten, mostly. Let dog in to clean up Cheerios and egg on the floor.

0943:  Sit down to blog and wonder what the hell else is going to happen today.  And then realize I've most likely jinxed myself, and should probably go buy some bubble wrap, but the potential for something happening in public is entirely too high, so a day at home it is, without using anything remotely dangerous like fire or microwaves or towels.

::sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhh::

I wore a dress. On purpose.

This weekend was the military ball, and contrary to popular belief, I do actually own a formal gown and wore it someplace appropriate.  There's photo documentation, even.  I even did my hair and makeup, and I wore fake eyelashes - and got them on right the first time without getting glue in my eyes or looking like Tammy Faye Bakker!  Usually these events are rather stuffed-shirtish, until someone's wife gets tanked, and then everyone feels free to really not have the slightest shred of decency.  I take that back.  We feel free to talk louder about the people we were whispering about before.

Let's talk about silver dress lady.  First of all, her dress was low-cut enough in back that you could see her crack. Second, I'm pretty sure she thought we were at a Def Leppard concert the way she was whoopin' and hollerin' during the Colonel's speech.  Rock on, you classy thang, you.  She was shithoused to the point where everyone was watching her instead of what we should have been paying attention to.

Some guy proposed to his girlfriend of eight years in front of all 2,000 plus in attendance.  Before you think "how romantic!" I'll remind you that they've dated for EIGHT years.  After three, I would have probably punched this jackhole in the ear and told him to shit or get off the pot.  She said yes.  Like she had a choice in front of all of us.

The venue was amazing, the company was great, we hit downtown and took over a bar, and a great time was had by all.  Even the guy who fell asleep under the table and his face was kind of stuck to the floor.  I really think he probably changed his mind about the great time he thought he had after waking up in a puddle of half-dried goo.  Actually, I'll be surprised if he remembered his own name.

When predicting the end of the world, is the third time the charm?

Aw, hell, y'all... evidently the Rapture is happening THIS weekend.  For real this time.  I guess the last two times what's his face predicted the end, those were just dress rehearsals.  Can you call something a "dress" rehearsal when you get sucked into oblivion naked?  I just don't understand how people actually think this guy is legit!  How does this guy have followers?  He must make some uh-maaaaaaazing kool-aid.  This is just another reason why I really don't like people so much.

Anyway, in the event the Rapture does happen (and you KNOW that I'm poofin' up with the best of 'em... I am, right?), I will need someone to go to Nashville to pick up my clothes that will inevitably be left behind.  And since I spent good money on that ball gown (not so much the shoes, you can donate those), I'd appreciate it if someone would not leave it on the dance floor or in some bar on Broadway.

I certainly hope that when I do poof, that I magically get the body of Anne Hathaway or someone equally hot.  Because if not, I'm just not going to be okay with going naked.  I don't need worldly possessions, but a t-shirt and some yoga pants would be nice.

The movie Innerspace makes me paranoid.

Tell me you've seen that movie... Dennis Quaid, Martin Short, a syringe, and an inner body experience?  God, I love 80s movies.  Anyway, I digress.  I'm sitting here, after lunch, and my stomach is making the most Godawful noises.  Okay, I understand, it's digestion and it's normal, but my brain is certain that someone injected me with a microscopic submariney thing with Dennis Quaid in it and he's fighting miniscule zombies or some shit in there.

Hey Dennis, can you take a trip south and maybe punch me in the cervix if I'm pregnant?  You know, like an inner high five or something?  Then I can stop spending my retirement on pregnancy tests.  Those bitches be expensive, yo.

My kid hates pants. And other assorted gems.

I'm pretty sure I let Q watch too many Donald Duck cartoons.  The kid haaaaaaaates pants (and wearing diapers, for that matter.  Apparently, I'm raising a freeballer.  Be free, my son.  Be free.  But only after you learn how to use the toilet, okay?  Thanks.) and since DD doesn't wear them, I can only assume that this is the connection.  That, and the kid can throw a Donald-esque tantrum like no other.  Hmm.  This could be another reason Walt Disney (well, his descendants) should be paying for my meds.

Lately, my dreams have been quite vivid, and how should I put this... um, strange to the point where I'm questioning my sanity.  For example, a few nights ago, I was dreaming that I was running late to a doctor's appointment.  The reason I was running late was due to dear daughter taking her sweet ass time in the bathroom.  (Not unusual.  Hold on.  The weird is coming.)  After hollering loud enough that people in Kentucky could have heard me, she opens the bathroom door.  She's still in a fricking towel!  And on the phone!  And drinking a glass of wine!  This is where I need to remind you that she's ten.  (Are you ready for my amazing parenting skills?  Because here they come.)  Did I yell at her for drinking wine?  Like any good parent should when they discover their TEN year old is imbibing mommy's stash?  Nope.  I yelled at her to hurry her sloth ass up and why the hell was she on the phone without permission!?  Evidently, in this dream, we lived in Italy, where baby bottles are filled with merlot.  Dream number dos:  I had just taken an at home pregnancy test, in which there was a very faint positive!  Hooray for babies!  Except the daddy was Gary Busey.  Good thing I have a laptop, because I'm still under the kitchen table, curled in the fetal position.

Dear daughter is in the fifth grade, where her science teacher thinks that assigning a research project is acceptable.  Seriously, like the parents aren't doing this assignment?  FML.  Anyhoo, we turned in (do you like how I said we?  This is so MY grade.) the rough draft a few days ago and just got it back.  We got a 98!   Wait.  We got a NINETY-EIGHT on a FIFTH grade project?  That I virtually wrote?  Wait a GD minute!  Turns out, as I go through the paper, that dear science teacher learned grammar at the same school that teaches "ask" is pronounced "axe".  Now I wish I would have told her that her D&G glasses and high heeled Mary Janes only make her look like she's about to star in a librarian porn, not look smart.  I swear, each year that goes by makes me want to homeschool my kids more, but then I'd probably end up killing them, and I'm too delicate for prison.

In other news, I punched my husband in the armpit.  It was rather effective.  I thought it was my quick-like-a-ninja skills, but it turns out that he had just never been punched in the armpit before.  That'll be the last time he sits in MY recliner.  I guess in the event I ever to get sent to the Graybar Hotel, I can use my armpit-punching skills.  Thank goodness for that.

Just call me Sasquatch. Minus all the hair.

I am just about the ungirliest girl I know.  I don't wear much makeup, if I can't wear with both jeans and khakis I usually don't buy it, and I wear flip flops year round (usually with a not-so-fresh pedicure).  However, we have a ball this weekend, and it's kind of a big deal.  Read: I'll need to look better than as if I was headed to Kroger.  Anyway, I'm set on hair and makeup, because that's kind of one-size-fits-all.  HOWEVER: when you are a size 11 shoe, you might as well just fricking GIVE UP on finding something cute without having to order it from "Hey, You Got Some Big Ass Feet" online.  Not only do I wear a size 11, but one of my feet is wider than the other due to a graceful fall down the stairs at my brother's wedding, which is another post entirely.  Finding shoes is hard.  Finding cute shoes is harder yet.  Finding shoes that don't look like they belong on 80 year old women's feet who also suffer from a bad case of gout is damned near impossible.

Such is the life of the Sasquatch.  No wonder they hide in the woods of the Yukon or Seattle.  You don't need cute shoes when you're an imaginary forest creature.

Evidently I woke up a polygamist this morning.

My husband is so on the shit list this week.  First of all, he makes me watch The Biggest Loser, which makes me feel like the laziest schlub alive and also makes me wonder if he's sending me a message, and THEN, he forces me to  watch that fricking Fiat commercial with fricking Jennifer Lopez.  And THENNNNNNN, he rewinds it and watches it another FOUR fricking times.

Okay, okay.  I get it.  She's talented, she's wealthy, she was a Fly Girl, she's desired.  Fine.  What's NOT fine, is that she is Hubs' first fricking pick for a sister wife.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen... times have changed.  No longer do you pick "the list", you pick sister wives.

There are both pros and cons to this development.  My laziness level will increase - those sisters have to earn their keep, if you know what I'm sayin'.  We'll also probably need a bigger house.  I'm not about having 18 kids to a room.  I'm not about having 18 kids period, to be honest.  Besides, I don't think I'd be a good sister wife.  I swear, I have little patience, and I like coffee, pop, and booze.  Hmm.

Maybe we should have brother husbands instead.  Off to make my list.

Fair warning: I'm highly caffinated.

Alternately titled: Random shit that doesn't fit anywhere else but I needed to say.

So, being a transplant in Tennessee and missing southern California makes me watch my old local news station online.  Weird?  Maybe.  Where else can I find oompa loompa orange newscasters and weathermen with names like Lance Mountain?  Anyway, last night, there was a story regarding this gentleman who turned in a man with a cache of child porn!  What a hero!  Except the whole reason he found the cache of child porn is that he visited said man's apartment in order to rob his ass blind.  Ahhh, America.

I'm fairly certain I know why I'm never invited to be a test screener for new television shows. Especially shows directed at children.  Because most likely, my comments would be something similar to "Exactly how cracked out were you on when you decided this was a good idea?" or "What LSD/shroom-laced delight did you feed your test crowd when you screened this amazing pile of crap?"  Not that I am sitting here with mountains of potential TV show scripts just waiting to be discovered or anything, but I certainly watch enough kids' programming to know when something is entertaining and possibly educational, and when something has been written by a drug-addled chimpanzee.  If my two year old won't watch it, then you got problems, people, because he'll pretty much watch anything.  So if he's staring at the screen with a (very well honed, mind you) "what the hell is this bullshit?" look on his face, chances are you've produced a load of crap.  You're welcome for the feedback.

NBC cancelled The Playboy Club.  One of the few new shows I actually kind of enjoyed.  Evidently some conservative parents' group is involved.  Now, I happen to feel that I am a relatively conservative parent, and I saw nothing wrong with the show, as intended for ADULTS.  Where were you, conservative parents' group, when shit like Lusty Island (or whatever the hell that was called - you know, the show where you go to a tropical island with your mate and see if you end up with the same person you showed up with) was on?  If you're going to wail on TV, first of all, cable is an OPTION, not a requirement.  Two, find something to do with your evidently large amounts of time, like perhaps, spend it with your children without the TV on.  Or get a life.  I think the last option will probably suit you best, if you can figure out how.

I think that's it for now.  I should probably eat something, since I've had enough coffee that I could probably manage to do the pollen count with my own eyes.

Happy Friday!

I am one step away from being the agoraphobic crazy cat lady.

Except I don't have cats.  And I don't have a Jodie Foster-esque panic room.  Although, sometimes I wish I did.  Maybe then I could pee by myself.

However, I realized today that I very rarely get out of the house except for obligatory grocery shopping, doctor's appointments, etc.  Maybe it's because my sinuses have decided that I (and the little) are deathly allergic to Tennessee in the fall (eff you right in the ear, goldenrod!), or maybe it's because "just walking around" the mall (I hate teenagers and career shoppers) or Hobby Lobby with a two-year old (I'd rather poke white-hot metal in my retinas) just isn't very appealing.

What brought upon this revelation, you may ask?  Well, looking at my wardrobe (currently, a longsleeved t-shirt and cut off sweats), the fact that my toddler was rubbing my stubbly legs and laughing (hey, I could technically chalk that up as a Montessori sensory project - I am awesome), and that I'm excited for Thursday because it's parent-teacher conference (I'll finally hear the truth about so much, but that's another post all together) AND the book fair (!!!!) and I realize how lame I've become.  We don't go to the park because we like to breathe through our noses (even though I'm temporarily a mouthbreather, ewg).  I don't go walk around Target, because I'll buy shit I don't need.  Asking a two-year old to sit still during story time at the library is laughable.  Taking him anywhere that has items of a fragile nature is just begging me to hand over my checkbook.

I know, I know, this will pass.  Opening the door will not result in me needing an IV drip of Dayquil soon, there will be lots to do outside where we won't feel like we're setting our lungs on fire, and before long, the little will understand that no means no, not "OOH, A CHALLENGE!"  But until then, here's to another night in, brought to you by Papa John's and netflix.  I might even shave.  Watch out, now.