5th grade math is totally kicking my ass

I'd just like to say for the record that 5th grade is totally kicking our family's ass. Yes, all of us. All of us are getting our asses kicked by 5th grade.

Math seems to be the prime culprit here. Let me give you an example of what we dealt with last night, and why PPT's math homework took over an hour.

This was the problem:

195 x 3= ?

Simple, right? Written like this:

x 3

the answer is 585 and it take two minutes to figure out. No problem buckos, I am bright and fairly capable, it shouldn't take me more than 15 minutes to help my offspring with his homework.

But wait.

PPT's class isn't just learning multiplication, they're learning 'grouping'. Which means that this simple problem:

195 x 3= 585

turns into this ridiculously complex and mind-bending problem:

195 x 3= 3 x (100 + 95)
195 x 3= (3 x 100) + (3 x 95)
195 x 3= 300 + 285
195 x 3= 585

So, our simple little math problem has turned into sonofabitching quantum physics, and what should have taken up two lines on his page has now taken five.

As a result, what used to be a calm, manageable mom has become a psychotic bitch throwing a math book across the room and cursing out a sweet Lutheran math teacher.

5th grade math is totally kicking my 31-year old ass.

It's 80s Day!

My blogger pal Where's My Angels has asked all us co-bloggers to participate in a universal "80s" blog today, complete with totally tubular photos of ourselves. Before I start, let me post this standard disclaimer:

"The Boss Lady will not be held responsible for any mental or physical anguish caused to you by viewing old, extremely horrific pictures of her, including but not limited to: seizures, vomiting, diarrhea or painful urination. Furthermore, let it be known that The Boss Lady was born in 1977 and can blame most of the painful fashion faux pas on her mother, who was still dressing her in many of these photos. Dated this 30th day of October, 2008."

Let's start early on in my repulsive fashion career:

I'm guessing this is 1984, which would put me at 7 years old. Although the shorts pulled up to my nipples is attractive, I think my very favorite detail of this photo is my bowl cut-turned mullet hairstyle I was sporting that year. And the glasses? That's a recurring theme. You'll see.

1986. I've moved on from the boring tortoiseshell glasses and have picked up a snazzy new pair of bright blue ones. Apparently they were fitted by the same Lenscrafters, because they still take up 60% of my face.

This one is difficult to pin down, because it looks like every other picture I took for about four years of my life. I'm guessing it's 1987-88ish. Yes, the pink pants, flamingo shirt and high top Reeboks are amazing, and the hair...hell, I don't even know what the hair was. A perm, maybe? That means my parents paid someone to make me look like that. No, the best thing about the whole picture is the gas prices...look closely and you'll see that gas was 97 cents a gallon. Kill me.

1989. No, I didn't dress like this every day...but I might as well have. This was for Nerd Day at school. Something to remember- although I dug through my closet and picked out the most mismatched clothing I could, these options were still in my closet. I owned them. And kept them. And probably cherished them.

And just so you know, if I still had that polka dot skirt, I would wear it. EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Late 1989/early 1990. If you can look beyond the face, and the bangs, and the perm, and the again HUGE glasses (Lenscrafters must perish in a fiery Hell), you'll notice I'm wearing a "Don't worry, be happy" shirt. God, I loved that shirt. I wore it all the time and was totally sporting it that same year, the day I was hit by a car. Ironic, much?

Alright, I'm totally cheating here. This is 1990. I know that because it's my 7th grade picture. At this point, I'm fairly certain I was dressing myself...at least I hope so. Those bangs. Oh God, those bangs. I went through Aquanet like it was crack cocaine, and I remember waking up at the crack of dawn so I could take my time in perfecting my bangs.

And damn, they were good.

Here's something I found going through old photos. It's a special present from me to you.

Apparently I really, really, really, REALLY liked Keanu Reeves.

God bless the 80s.

The Dictator is channeling Russell Brand

Have I mentioned that we're growing out The Dictator's hair? We are. And it sucks ass. It sticks to his forehead when he's sweaty, his sideburns look like a really bad 70s flashback, and last week I bought my first-ever bottle of detangler.

Detangler. For a boy. I haven't used a brush on either of my kids in years, and now I have to buy strawberry scented detangler too? For the love of God, I have boys...I shouldn't have to brush or detangle. That is the innate beauty of the wiener-baring species.

But, he wanted to grow it out, so we are. And tonight, IT. WAS. FREAKING. AWESOME.

The Dictator's hair takes about 40 minutes to dry. I don't know why, I just know that about 80% of the time he falls asleep with wet hair and wakes up with a killer case of bedhead.

Tonight, he took a shower and watched TV afterwards for about 20 minutes. When I finally pried his little ass off the sofa to go get ready for bed, this is what I saw:

To give you an even better perspective, this is what his hair looked like in its full glory:

Apparently, he had been laying the whole time on his wet hair, and this awesomeness was the result. I honestly don't even know how to fix this for school tomorrow, so I'm just going to say screw it.

I'll tell everyone he's dressed up as Russell Brand for Halloween.

Sweet, I've TOTALLY been tagged!

Holy crap, somebody loves me! My super-sweetest-most-amazing-friend-in-the-whole-world Jenni tagged me, which came as a total surprise to me because I had no idea this was going around.

(See post below).

So, I'm supposed to list 7 random things about myself that you may or may not know, and since I'm the most random person on the face of the earth, this should be pretty simple.

1. I hate the word "moist". I don't mind typing it, but hearing it out loud makes me want to hurl all over my keyboard. It's a horrid, despicable word. Coming in a close second: "plump". Eeeew.

2. I don't sleep. Well, I do, but only with some medicinal intervention. Falling asleep isn't the problem, but staying asleep is, and it's only worsened since my mom died. So every night I take my generic nighty-night pills, and all is right in the world...unless I take them after 10:00, because then I'm in a sleep coma until 12:00 the next day. "Non-habit forming," my ass.

3. I'm kind-of a teenage boy. Fart and weiner jokes make me laugh to no end, and I will seriously watch any movie that Will Ferrell is in. Any movie. I don't care if it sucks, it's freaking Will Ferrell! When I die, I hope to be buried with a copy of Anchorman. Anywho, I'm kind-of a teenage boy.

4. I'm way more sensitive than I make myself out to be. I don't get offended easily and am usually pretty quick to forgive, but I have tons of issues that have never been worked out and a big, giant marshmellow heart. I'll donate to anyone, anytime and will follow a stray dog for three miles just hoping to catch them and get them home. What can I say, I'm a sucker.

5. I LOVE tattoos, especially on guys. I've been telling Babe for 7 years now that he needs to get totally sleeved, then start working on his legs. I've promised sex every day for the rest of our lives if he does it, but for some reason he's just not buying it.

6. I HATE bending over. I hate it. I will spend 25 minutes trying to pick something up with my toes so I don't have to bend over. God knew this and thought it would be funny to give me three very messy boys to live with. And two dogs, all of which require lots and lots of bending over. (Insert Babe giggling like a 13-year old boy at the mention of 'bending over').

7. I sleep like a pretzel. It's something I've done since I was a baby, and I just can't shake it. Basically, I sit Indian style and then bend over. I have to put pillows down so my head doesn't just snap off and roll away from my body, but I love sleeping like that and will often do it without even knowing it.

As a side note, I'm a big girl...so methinks that last one is especially impressive.

So there you have it. I realized as I was typing this that I could literally type for hours on all the random things I am/do. What the hell, I'm amusing if nothing else.

This is the part where I'm supposed to tag some of my fellow blogger friends, but most of them have already been tagged, so I'm a little screwed. I do have a few more tricks up my sleeve though, so Nikki Crumpet, Where's My Angels, Deb, Angela, Jade...you're all tagged. Ha! So there!

Ah, this was fun.

My beef

I have a beef to pick, so pick it I will.

Instead of working today, I was blog stalking. Shocking, I know.

As I read my pals' blogs...you know, the ones I have blogrolled on my site...I noticed a trend. Everyone, it seems, has been 'tagged'. Everyone I've ever spoken to that has a cute little blog of their own.

Oh, wait. Everyone but me.

What the Hell, girlies? Am I not worthy of your tagging? What, you think I don't run out of things to blog about too? Have you read me recently? I've blogged about crickets, genital warts and Walmart for God's sake, obviously material's running short over here.

So, what's the haps? I'm talking to you, Jenni, Michelle, Daiana and Erin. Jerks.

However, because I'm a giver, I'm totally willing to forgive your lack of courtesy if one of you will just tag me. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST TAG ME!

*Edited 3 minutes after I wrote this: Oh hey, Jenni already tagged me. Lookee there! Sorry about that whole "jerk" thing...who knew?

Dear God

Sometimes, in my worldly travels to Ralph's Grocery Store, I come upon something that elicits a giggle and completely makes my day. Yesterday it was this little treasure laying delicately in the parking lot, waiting to be discovered by yours truly.

Dear God,

Thank you for not making me Dr. Jeffrey Lauber.


Bad Parenting 103

This morning, PPT was taking his sweet time doing EVERYTHING I asked him to do. What followed is another shining example of why my uterus should have been removed before I procreated:

M: PPT, finish your cereal, we have to get going.

*Eight minutes later*

M: Seriously? You're not done yet? Hurry up, we have to leave!

PPT: (Showing me his empty cereal bowl) OOOOHH! (Said in a very snotty, "You're so stupid and I told you so" pre-teenage voice. At least, that's what I heard.)

M: BAM! KAPOW! (The sound of me hitting him upside the head.)

PPT: What?! What did I do?

M: Didn't you just say "OOOOHH" to me, all snotty and bastard-like?

PPT: No.

The Dictator, piping in:

D: He didn't, mommy.

M: Oh. Well, sorry. And just so you know, if you ever do make that sound, I'm going to smack you in the head.

PPT: Yeah, I got that.

D: (Giggle)

I present to you: Bad Parenting 103.

Hell, at least I apologized.

My thoughts on Walmart

I just went to Walmart, and I am seriously in sensory overload. I could do a three hour post on all the people and things I experienced there.

But I won't.

Instead, I'll just made this general statement:

Walmart is where intelligence and class go to die.

The end.

Who wants to learn about ME?

My pal Erin lives in Denmark and always sends these cool survey things, which I absolutely hate but for some reason can't stop my fingers from answering. Instead of emailing this time, I'm going to blog my answers, so all four of my faithful readers can figure out what makes me tick.

Revised- I just read my answers, and turns out, I'm extraordinarily boring. But, by all means, read on.

What time did you get up this morning? Very unhappily at 6:33.

Diamonds or pearls? Diamonds. So shiny and mesmorizing...

What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Tropic Thunder. But now that Stepbrothers is playing at the $1.75 theater, it's on like Donkey Kong.

What is your favorite TV show? Dexter, Heroes, Nip/Tuck, Intervention. Oh wait, were we supposed to pick one? Oopsie.

What do you usually have for breakfast? Oatmeal if I'm being good. Reese's peanut butter cups the other 355 days a year.

What is your middle name? Liane (pronounced LeeAnn).

What food do you dislike? Pretty much anything colorful. I'm a "white food" kind-of gal.

What is your favorite CD at moment? Hmmm...I'm currently alternating between Guns N' Roses, Jack Johnson & Dropkick Murphys, depending on how I'm feeling on any given day. I also have Eminem, Don McLean and The Steve Miller Band in my car as backups. Wow, I'm random.

What kind of car do you drive? A Mazda minivan. Mega fun.

Favorite sandwich? Quizno's turkey & swiss. Or just good old PB & J.

What characteristic do you despise? Judgementalism. Is that a word? Hell. I don't like people who judge others. There.

Favorite item of clothing? Flip-flops.

If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? I honestly have no idea. I'd love to do a Disney cruise for the kids...but only for the kids, since I hate Mickey Mouse. Freaking 6-foot rat.

Favorite brand of clothing? Most things from Torrid (fat girl Hot Topic).

Where would you retire to? Colorado or Oregon. But I'll follow my kids wherever they go. Dammit, I'm not missing out on grandkids!

What was your most recent memorable birthday? My 31st this year, but not for good reasons. It was my first birthday without my mom.

Favorite sport to watch? Football! Not baseball, for the love of God, not baseball!

When is your birthday? June 14. Flag Day, can I get a whoop-whoop?

Are you a morning person or a night person? N.I.G.H.T. Morning is the Devil's downtime.

What is your shoe size? Nine.

Pets? Good Dog and Bad Dog. 8356 fleas currently co-habitating with us. They have their own room now.

Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I'm pregnant!


What did you want to be when you grew up? A Lawyer or writer. Somebody should have told me I don't have the brain capacity for either of those.

How are you today? Peachy freaking keen. Bronchitis is kicking my ass and four hours of sleep just ain't cutting it. But thanks for asking.

What is your favorite candy? Reese's peanut butter cups.

What is your favorite flower? Yellow roses. (Wink, wink, Babe, wink freaking wink).

What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? October 31st. I love Halloween.

What is your full name? Shannon Liane Huttner.

What are you listening to right now? Boston on Jack FM. No, really. The co-worker gets to pick the station the first half of the day, I get the second. Counting down the minutes until KROQ.

What was the last thing you ate? A brownie ice cream sundae at Katella Grill. Instant diarhhea. But so yummy.

Do you wish on stars? Sure, when I see them. Orange County has an awesome smog index rating.

If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Red. Because I'm a horny beast. Ha.

How is the weather right now? Hot as shit and windy. God bless the Santa Anas.

The first person you spoke to on the phone today? Hubs.

Favorite soft drink? Sprite. Although any sort of fruit-flavored soda comes in a close second...oh, how I love Orange Crush.

Favorite restaurant? Roma's, BJ's or Claim Jumper. All three have amazing artery-clogging pasta.

Real hair color? Damn. Now you'll all know the truth. Poopy brown.

What was your favorite toy as a child? GI Joes, baby. I always used to hope Flint and Lady J would get together. She obviously never realized what she missed. Whore.

Summer or winter? Winter, winter, winter! Sweaty fat rash is not our friend.

Hugs or kisses? Hugs. Especially just-bathed little boy hugs.

Chocolate or Vanilla? It depends...In-N-Out shakes, chocolate. Everything else, vanilla.

Coffee or tea? Vomit. Neither, please.

When was the last time you cried? Two days ago.

What is under your bed? Babe's shorts and a wooden baseball bat that we use to beat the bad guys' heads in with.

What did you do last night? Went to a baseball board meeting, ate a brownie sundae that gave me diarrhea and watched The Dog Whisperer for two hours. Wow, my life is awesome.

What are you afraid of ? That something will happen to my boys, or that they'll grow up to be creeps and it will be all my fault. Moths, crickets and clowns.

Salty or sweet? Sweet. Like me.

How many keys on your key ring? Five.

How many years at your current job? Eight.

How many towns have you lived in? Too many to count...we were nomads when I was a kid.

Do you make friends easily? Well, I never SHUT THE HELL UP, so I'd like to think so.

How many people will you send this to? Apparently anyone who reads my blog. So, four.

Well, that was fun.

An angel sleeping

I've never actually seen an angel sleeping, but I imagine they look a bit like this:

I'll bet they even have stuffed Pugs to cuddle with at night.

Dear Crazy Bitch

Dear Crazy Bitch driving the Nissan truck in my son's preschool parking lot,

Really?!?! Really?!?! You were really in such a hurry this morning that you couldn't wait for me to close my driver side door and/or make sure my offspring was not in the path of your wheels before backing out? Really?

I pulled in to my son's preschool this morning and parked my car next to yours, in between the white lines like a good little driver does (which is more than I can say for you). Since you apparently did not have the ability to fit your vehicle in the oh, I don't know...six feet of width alloted to you, you were over the lines, but I hugged the car next to me and made it work. Because I'm awesome, and you suck ass.

I opened my driver side door and squeezed my fat ass out a 4-inch crack because I didn't want to hit your car. Courtesy, you stupid whore, I'm all about courtesy. I completely crushed two boobies but made it out and opened The Dictator's sliding door in the back. He got out, got his lunchbox and we were good to go.

Until you came roaring out of the school gates, dragging your older, obviously miserable child with you. You were back in your car faster than I could say "Holy shit, that crazy bitch is running in the parking lot!", and although I'm pretty sure your child wasn't even sitting down, much less buckled in, you started backing up.

Three inches away from me and The Dictator.

In fact, you were so close to us, that you hit me with your side mirror as you were screeching out. YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR SIDE MIRROR. With my 5-year old standing right next to me, hugging me (and the car) as tightly as he could.

You're lucky I didn't sic his angry ass on you.

So, all I have to say is, REALLY?!?! You really couldn't wait 15 more seconds for us to get out of the way before attempting to run over a whole gaggle of preschoolers?

Unfortunately, I was so stunned I was only able to get out, "Hey, hey, hey!" like Fat Albert. But next time I see you, Crazy Bitch driving the Nissan truck in my son's preschool parking lot, it's on.

The Dictator's already sharpening his Captain Jack swashbuckling sword.

Not-at-all Sincerely,
The Dictator's mentally unstable and highly aggressive Mom

I am a criminal

I am a criminal.

Well, technically I'm not...but I could have been. You know, if I hadn't taken that EIGHT HOUR CHECK RESTITUTION CLASS in Diamond Bar this weekend.

*Middle finger*

So I wrote a bad check. I didn't mean to, and it was written when Babe had knee surgery and was off work for six months, so it's not like I planned for it to bounce. Honestly, Your Honor, I wasn't trying to get my $23.00 worth of sports pictures for free. Luckily, you kind folks in the courts system have allowed me to fix my mistake- by threatening to press fraud charges, imposing a $250 class fee and forcing me to drive 25 miles (each way) to Diamond Bar on a Saturday, where I got to spend eight hours with some of the most entertaining (and well rounded) people on the planet.

My personal favorite part of the class? You know, besides the part where I got to miss The Dictator's soccer game? My favorite part was when we got in groups to discuss our specific situation with the whole class. Because really, there's nothing like fessing up to bouncing a $23.00 check at the age of 30 because you're a moron. It's good for the soul.

Our teacher was a nice-enough woman named Bonnie, who kept saying, I suppose to reduce the embarrassment of why we were there, "We're all adults, we're all smart, and we're all responsible."

I disagree, Bonnie.

Erika sitting next to me looks like she's 12, so I'm pretty sure she's nowhere near being an adult. And Lisa across the way...not only is she obviously blitzed off her ass, but she blows your smart theory out of the water. And responsibility? Ha! Sweetie, I bounced a $23.00 check, or did you forget that when I had to say it out loud four times?

I must say though, Tony almost made my class worth while. He is your typical government-conspiracy-know-it-all-middle-aged-loser who has an opinion about everything, and has no qualms with dragging your time out two hours longer than should be just to get his point across. Every single time Bonnie would ask him a question, he over-answered, complete with reasoning and in-depth explanations of his feelings and situation in life. At the end of the class, when we were getting our "Bad Check Certificates" (anybody know where I can find a gorgeous frame to commemorate such an achievement?), Bonnie asked all of us to tell one thing we learned in the horrid class. About the third person in, we learned that if we just said, "budgeting", we would all move along quickly, thus returning home to our beloved families. But oh no, not Tony. When Bonnie asked him, he started his answer with, "Well, my specific situation was a little different because I don't really think I should have been here to begin with..." The entire room breathed a collective heavy sigh and walked out, hitting Tony on the back of the head as we exited.

Surprisingly, Tony is still not ready to "own" his situation.

But I am. I'm a moron, I wrote a bad check, I suck and I'm lucky I wasn't thrown in a river with some rocks. I learned my lesson, believe me. As of this point in my life, I am willing to do WHATEVER I have to do to never return to that horrid class again.

And as for my $273 baseball pictures, they own a very special place on my Wall of Fame. I'll be clearing out a spot tomorrow right next to them for my hard-earned Bad Check certificate.

Perfection, thy name is Gerard

For the record...

It's 11:56 p.m. and I'm watching "300" for the well-over 300th time. And can I just say-


*Dreamy sigh*

So beautiful I can even look past the Scottish accent coming from a Greek warrior's mouth.

Perfection, thy name is Gerard.

Me and four fleas

Tonight was a relaxing evening in our humble abode. Hubs and I were deeply engrossed in a phenomenal episode of "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" and couldn't wait to find out who the third burnt body was, and how the hell did he end up with the Mexican Mafia guy?

PPT was watching The Military Channel in the playroom and asking rousing questions like, "Did Adolf Hitler kill himself before he was caught?" and "Did you know that China has been at war for over 200 years?" Damn that Current Events class he's been taking in school. The other day he actually asked me what I thought of the $750 billion dollar bailout plan. I just blinked and walked away.

The Dictator was on the computer under the pretense of playing games on Cartoon Network, but I'm fairly positive he was perusing midget porn or looking up ingredients for a McGyver house bomb. That's just how he rolls.

All in all, a soothing, electricity-hogging night.

Then, as I was rubbing Good Dog's large belly, this happened:

M: You're so cute, Good Dog, yes you are, you're such a good...WHAT. THE. HELL. IS. THAT? Oh my God, it's a flea. It's a freaking flea. Good Dog has a flea. I'm going to barf. Seriously. Get me a...OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD, there's another one. What are we going to do? If there's two fleas, that means there's 300 fleas, and-

H: Calm down. It's just a flea.

M: No, it's TWO fleas. Which means 8004 fleas. Which means they're going to crawl up my nose and eat out my eyeballs when I sleep and-

At this point, I've started scratching my arms like some sort of heroin addict on a bad fix. And I'm on a mission. A mission, dammit. I'm going to find every damn flea I can and make it suffer. Because that, you dirty little vampires, is how I roll.

I call Bad Dog over, and she immediately flops on her back for a tummy rub...and WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS? Two more fleas. Sons of bitches.

Now I'm in a full fledged panic.

M: Oh my God, what are we going to do? Do we have to bomb the house? What if they eat The Dictator whole? What if we wake up and he's missing because the Flea Tribe has carried him off in the middle of the night to meet their leader and he's going to be their human sacrifice, because you know there are 4 billion of them in the house now and-

H: Seriously.

M: I'm going to Petco, and I'm going to buy every single flea product I can find to wipe this whole God-forsaken flea species off the planet. I'll teach these little jerks who's boss around here.

And so, at 8:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, I went 185 miles per hour down Tustin Avenue to Petco. And I got flea shampoo and flea medication, and held a lengthy conversation with a Labrador owner about the benefits of neutering.

But that was just the beginning of my evening.

This was the rest of it:

1. Drag both dogs outside for a flea bath at 9:30 at night with freezing hose water. Relax, they were fine.

2. Strip their dog beds of all washable materials and put them in the washer, on high, high holy-crap-my-eyebrows-are-burning heat and the 'Sanitize' cycle. Put both dog collars in there too. EVEN THE LEATHER ONE.

3. Vacuum the ENTIRE house. At 10:00. Move everything. Fleas are tricky little bastards.

4. Scrub walls behind dog bed area with baby wipes, because...well shit, I have no idea why.

5. Stay up waiting for dryer cycle to be done with dog beds so I can put the white load I need by tomorrow in the dryer.

6. Blog about it at 11:40 p.m. and watch Snakes on a Plane to stay awake.

And so, my peaceful little evening turned into a flea hunt of epic porportions. I'm scouring every square inch of this house looking for the fallen fleas' angry brethren, and when I find them, they'll wish they'd never stepped foot on Good Dog or Bad Dog.

But here's a neat little fun fact: fleas can't swim. They paddle their loathsome little legs and try, but they can't. So hypothetically, if you were to get a plastic Islands cup full of water and shove them in there, they would drown. And you could watch and laugh maniacally at their suffering.

You know, hypothetically.

I'm never going in the kitchen again

If you happen to live in the city of Orange and see a fat, freckled redhead galloping down the street barefoot, boobies flopping in the wind, and she's screaming like she hasn't been on her meds for a few months, that's probably me.

Because as I was minding my business, tooling away on the computer, I glanced over and saw this on my kitchen wall.

Freaking sonofabitching ninja cricket.

Bastard can have the kitchen. I'll blog from the front porch.

You just wait another six hours until Babe wakes up...then your nasty cricket ass is grass, shithead.


Sunday night was our monthly Girls' Night Out (GNO), and this month, my pal Anita was nice enough to host us for an evening of eating, playing 8th grade paper games and screaming loud enough to wake not only her little girl, but the whole damn neighborhood. Thanks Neeters!

The Guy That's Snoring on the Couch has these fantasies about what we gals do at GNO. His fantasies involve Catholic school uniforms, pillow fights and high pitched giggling. He's a little off base.

Want to know what us party animals really do at GNO? We eat. A LOT.
And we laugh. And we tell stories about vaginas, and childbirth, and all kinds of nasty stuff you don't even want to know about. And we take 4002 pictures of ourselves on Vern's camera and put stickers on the ends of our already huge and massively accentuated noses.
Oh wait, that's just me. Holy shit, I only have one (very pointy) chin! It's a Christmas Day miracle! The cute one with scary earrings is Gina, by the way.

But we've never had a naked pillow fight. And I don't think any of us even owns a Catholic School uniform. Sorry, Hubs.

We did play the best game EVER, which I simply can't recommend highly enough. Appropriately titled "The Paper Game" (an ode to our 8th grade creativity), here's the gist of it: each person goes around and says something they've never done. For example, "I've never had sex with an animal." Then, everyone who has done that thing (in this case, someone who's had sex with a goat, cow, sheep...you get the picture) puts a piece of paper in the middle of the table and everyone in the room now knows that person has screwed a hairy creature of some sort.

Really, it's a compassionate game, because said person never even has to tell anyone they like to get it on with dogs...we all just know because of their pristine white scrap of paper.

Don't judge.

I'd fill you all in on some of the topics we discussed, but I'm afraid a gang of middle class, almost-middle-aged, church-going women would bum rush me and burn me at the stake this evening.

Good times.

I love you all, and for the record, there's nobody I'd rather be talking about threesomes and vericose veins with.

Big green wiener

This weekend was one big, long sports fest for our family. PPT had a football game Friday, two football games Saturday and a baseball game on both Saturday and Sunday, and The Dictator had a soccer game Saturday. Babe and I were juggling kids, which sucks but is a necessity.

Anyway, I was going to do this post about how amazing PPT is at both football and baseball. And I was going to post this picture and talk about how much I love him, and how proud I am of the person he's become.

But then I downloaded this picture, and realized he's holding his bat like it's a big, green wiener. And I can't stop giggling about it, so the mother in me is gone and the 13-year old boy has taken over. Sorry.

But really...BIG. GREEN. WIENER.


Communication is key

The Dictator and I were reading a book about whales last night:

M: When whales want to communicate, they make...?

D: Babies!

*Note to self: Hubs is no longer allowed to speak to The Dictator. Somehow, this is his doing.

Dear Time Warner Cable

Dear Time Warner Cable,

Pardon my language, but just shitgoddamnasssonofabitch you.

It's 12:20 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I'm finally sitting down anxiously to watch my DVR-ed episode of Dexter I've been looking forward to all night. Yes, it means I'll be up until 1:15 on a work night, but for my adorable little serial killer, I'm willing to make the sacrifice. This simply can't wait until tomorrow.

So I cozy down in my loveseat and start my beloved Dexter, and all is right in the world. Until I realize that holy shitbricks and coffee cakes, I'm going to have a seizure any minute. Why, Time Warner Cable, you want to know why?

Because you suck ass. And my digital cable looks like it's being run by a crack whore all juiced up on speed. My eyeballs are shaking from trying to focus, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a migraine in 14 minutes. Maybe I'll try crossing my eyes and jumping up and down, because judging by the quality of the "picture" on my TV, that might actually work.

I hate you. And Dexter hates you. Ack. That's all I have to say to you.

Bite my ass,

A horribly pissed-off Orange customer, currently making plans to call The Dish Network asap.

P.S. If you'd like to keep me as a bill payer, fix my Dexter. And find out what's up with Jimmy Smit's accent. Why is every other word he says in Spanish? I can barely keep up with this intelligent series banter in English, now I have to figure out Spanish too? Great.

Reason #12,643 that I'm the best parent on Earth

Last night, I actually said these words to PPT:

"Opinions are like assholes, sweetie...everyone's got one and most of them stink."

Maybe I should call Kaiser and see if they have a child psychologist.

You know, just in case.

Note to self

*Note to self: Don't ever Google Image 'warts'. EVER.

Dear Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome

Dear Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome,

Why do you feel it necessary to ruin my dining experience?

For years, I've been going to Taco Bell and ordering the same thing...a taco with no lettuce and a soft taco with no lettuce. For a long time, my tacos were correct and lettuce-free, and all was right in the world. But the last few years, I started noticing that my tacos are not correct, nor are they lettuce-free, and I could never figure out why. I've pondered and struggled to understand, and I think I finally get it.

It's you, isn't it, Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome? It's you.

You lurk behind the steel bins full of processed meat and cardboard lettuce, waiting for a chance to get your revenge on all of mankind for whatever harm was done to you as an innocent toddler Gnome. You wait, giggling and rubbing your hands together maniacally while you devise your master plan, until you hear the magic words: NO LETTUCE. Then...you spring into action.

You watch the Taco Bell workers carelessly gather up the rubber meat and plastic cheese and toss it on the tortilla. Then, as they turn their hair-netted heads to double check the paper order, you pounce, gently placing one little piece of disgusting, wretched lettuce in the taco. The workers, too busy and full of hatred for that little mircophone in the drive-thru, don't even notice you. But your evil plan has worked. You've now officially ruined my tacos. Both of them. And all it took was 10 centimeters of that horrid green shit.

Why, Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome, why? Why do you desire to destroy my nourishment? What have I done to upset you so? Please let me know, and I will fix it immediately. I'd like my tacos lettuce-free again.

And in the meantime, I'm ordering the nachos and a cheese roll.

A Huntington Beach/Orange Taco Bell patron

P.S. I drive a silver 2005 Mazda MPV, and am always very nice to the cashier. Even when he calls me "Honey", which makes me want to bash his friendly little face in.

PPT & The Crocodile Hunter

PPT, God bless him, is on a Crocodile Hunter kick. He's holding full-on debates with himself to try and perfect his Australian accent, and it's driving me bonkers. This was our conversation this morning as he was getting ready for school (this whole discussion was in a horrible, 10-year old version of an Australian accent, so use your imagination):

M: PPT, are you finished eating?

PPT: Crikey! Ay mate, I'm finished.

M: Then go brush your teeth, we have to go.

PPT: Crikey! I'll go brush me blooming teeth. Did you see the kangaroo in the hallway? I almost got the little bugger...

M: GO!

PPT: Crikey! Don't yell! You'll scare the koala bears.

M: I'm going to kill you.

PPT: Crikey! She's a wild one, I don't want to scare her. I'll just creep up quietly...

M: Your life is over.

PPT: (running down the hall) Crikey! Crikey! Crikey!

Remind me to cancel Animal Planet, stat.

My clients kick ass

One of my policyholders just came in, and he was born and raised in Egypt. This was our conversation:

C: My brother works at Connell Chevrolet, and he's the same color as you...

M: White?

C: Red.

M: Pink?

C: Red.

M: Lighter skinned with some brown freckley accents?

C: Red.

M: Thanks.

C: You're welcome.

I can't make this stuff up, people. My clients kick ass.

Best parent ever

If your children are 5 and 10 years old, and you ask them what CD they want to listen to on the way to school and they reply:

D: Ooh, do you have Jay Z? Or Guns N' Roses?

PPT: No, it's my turn! Dropkick Murphys...or do you have Linkin Park?

Then you might be the best parent ever. Like me.

Thank you for being a friend

I'm feeling all pink unicorns and rainbows and shit today, so I'm going to blog about my friends and why I love each and every one of them so dearly. Look for your initials, because that means I've known you since I was in the womb and I love you more than life itself. And if you're not in there, it's because we may be friends, but we're not super close yet. So just suck up to me and do everything I ask, and maybe next time, you'll make the list.

If your initials happen to be J.D., I know you read my blog and you're going to stab me for not listing you...but since these are all my childhood friends, you don't fall in that category. So let me just say that I love you to pieces. I can tell you anything, and you make me giggle even when I'm Bitter Betty. I call you every single day and start to panic if you don't answer the phone, because you're totally my Lifeline. And I'm so glad PPT played baseball and I got to meet you. But really, we shouldn't ever go out to eat together again, because $63.00 each at Red Robin? Ack!

And pals' husbands, although I adore you all, aren't listed. Sorry boys...this is strictly a vagina thing.

A.J.: You have one of the most wonderful hearts I've ever known. You don't judge me, and you're so mellow, and I know you've survived so much that your strength just amazes me. I know you're there for me no matter how bad anything gets, and I adore you for that. And I want to be like you when I grow up. BONUS POINTS FOR: Having me pick you up behind your back fence the night you ran away from home...for one night.

C.F.: You're so amazing and brilliant and have done so many wonderful things in your life. You take everything in stride and truly find the good in everything. You don't have a mean bone in your body, and live by what you speak...faith and simplicity. And I know you'll be there for me, always, no matter what. And you have a killer body. BONUS POINTS FOR: Getting mad at me for being late when I got hit by a car in 6th grade.

E.C.: You might be one of the most direct people I've ever met, and since my mouth tends to speak before my brain can stop it, I truly appreciate that. You are driven and determined and know what you want, and you're younger than me but much more successful, which pisses me off but also makes me admire you tons. And I think you're much more sensitive than you want anyone to know...and I feel you, sister. BONUS POINTS FOR: Almost brawling with me during Bunco over a weekly planner.

A.G.: You're a new addition to the group, but man, do I dig you. You're funny and outspoken and opinionated and I think you're really whipping your husband into shape. I love that you blog stalk and are obsessed with UFC just like me, but seriously...Frank Mir is not a vampire. And Rich Franklin is not Ace Ventura. And I can't understand a word George St. Pierre says. So there. BONUS POINTS FOR: Telling the other girls to take the Sharpie away from me at your baby shower. You already know my evil ways.

G.G.: You're honestly like my sister, which sometimes makes me want to punch you in the eye but most times makes me love you. We disagree about lots of things and probably will continue to...but I know if I need you, you'll be there in two seconds flat. And I'd do the same for you, because I love you to death. And you make me laugh like no other, besides Hubs. But I have to wash his stinky underwear and clean up his pee around the toilet, so you rank higher, as far as I'm concerned. BONUS POINTS FOR: Living with me (twice) and making me cry by saying New Kids on the Block sucks.

*Side note: Didn't I get a message from you this morning asking if I'm going to the NKOTB concert? 18 years later, FACIAL DISCRIMINATIAL!

J.B.: You're my go-to gal, and the true definition of a friend. You listen when I need to talk and laugh at my stupid jokes. You don't mind when I drop an F-bomb (well, I know you mind, but you don't say anything) and you always seem to make the right decisions. I have honestly thought so many times when I'm struggling with something, "What would J do?"...and that's not Jesus, that's you. I value our friendship immensely and love you for loving me, faults and all. BONUS POINTS FOR: Googling unmentionables when your mom walked in, and that cockroach that flew down your shirt...one of the funniest things I've ever seen. EVER.

K.O.: First of all, your initial are K.O.! How have I never noticed that? You are so considerate and thoughtful, and are always thinking of other people. You never miss a birthday and even know most anniversaries, which boggles me. You've listened to me rage about Babe and know just when to say, "Mmm-hmm" or "I know" to make me feel better, and you don't feel like you need to put up the appearance of perfection. Honestly, I adore you for that, because we all know how screwed up I am. And you're super sensitive but somehow put up with me, which you deserve much kudos for. BONUS POINTS FOR: Laughing at Babe's sleep mask in Vegas. I think you're the first friend I've ever called a bitch...to her face.

N.N.: So, you moved far away and I never see you anymore. But I still love you. You're kind and sweet and always, always laughing...even at yourself. When I see you, it's like we're in 9th grade again, and nothing has changed. Except I've gained 100 pounds. But you're still cute. Whatever. And...you were a delivery nurse, so if ever there is a vagina question that needs answering, you're the lady to call. BONUS POINTS FOR: Getting me grounded after our double date with I don't even remember who to Black Star.

S.C.: You're full of piss and vinegar and we should hang out all the time. You're only 4'10", but honestly, you terrify me and I wouldn't ever call you a bitch to your face (sorry K.O.) because you'd probably beat my ass. But underneath all that, you're a girl who would truly give the shirt off her back to a friend in need. You have a heart as big as Kansas and an incredible inner strength that I truly admire. BONUS POINTS FOR: All the funny shit you've said when you're blitzed off your ass. I can't even remember it all, I just remember it ruled.

S.A.: You're so freaking cute and stylish and your hair does things that mine never could. You're always there for anyone in need and have a heart of gold, and although we're not super close, I get the feeling that I could call you to vent and you would totally listen and never judge. So you rock. And you make me laugh. A lot. BONUS POINTS FOR: Introducing me to "J/K, J/K, LOL" and "Shake it off!" These are regulars in my vocab now.

V.S.: There should be a law that nobody can be as cute as you are and be hysterical, brilliant and kind. You love me with all my ugly, and that is priceless and so cherished by me. You are a true friend, one that is there when needed and doesn't pry unless asked. And you don't judge me, even though there's plenty to judge. You're a survivor with a tender heart, and I worship the ground you walk on. And James is hot. BONUS POINTS FOR: James. And sleeping in the doorway of your room during an earthquake.

And that, dear pals, is why I love you all. Here's my thought: we all need some warm fuzzies every now and then. Why don't we all do this? If you have a blog, blog about why you love your friends. If you don't then email me. I mean, them.

Alright, fine, I really just want to know why you guys love me in return. So if you don't blog or email, I'll think we're not buddies anymore, and I'll draw an X across your yearbook picture and you WON'T get B/F/F next to my name. So there.


Bathing, bonding & pokey hair

I was checking out my posts today, and I realized I post about The Dictator way more than I post about PPT. It's not because I have a favorite child...rather, it's because The Dictator tends to get in more trouble, cause me more grief, and he has a way with words, to put it nicely.

PPT is a glorious child...moody at times, yes, but nowhere near as high maintenance as the little gnome that popped out of my womb 5 years ago.

So tonight, Hubs and PPT went to Michael's to buy materials for a book report that's due on Friday, which left The Dictator and me home all by our lonesomes. I decided to take a bath while he was playing Wii, which was wonderful...until his keen 5-year old brain sensed that mom was relaxing, and that simply can't be done on his watch. He came in, butt naked, and declared he was getting in the bath with me, which he hasn't done in about a year.

Now, let me start off by saying that I am not a small girl. And the bath is not a big bath. So by myself, I was pushing maximum capacity. But fear not, fellow crimefighters, for he is clever. The Dictator was able to firmly wedge his little ass in the tub, and we were able to bond, he and I, me hugging my knees and suffocating on my own boobies and him playing with his wiener.

Here are just a few gems that came out of The Dictator's mouth while we were enjoying our time together in the tub:

D: You have a lot of hair. (Legs, you perverts, legs.)

D: This tub doesn't fit you.

D: Your hair is pokey. (Legs!)

And, my personal favorite:

D: You're the best mommy with a big stomach EVER.

*Note to self: Repeat three times quickly: Children are a blessing, children are a blessing, children are a blessing.

Fun with art and The Dictator

At 5 years old, The Dictator is not only a soccer protege, but quite an artist. He's graduated from drawing giant penises all over every single piece of paper he can get his grubby little hands on to scribbling lollipops with stick legs.

Here's what he usually brings home:

This particular specimen seems to be missing a couple of limbs, but you get the idea.

The other day, The Dictator brought home this:

Now granted, I'm no Picasso- but I'm fairly positive that my angelic little spawn has been watching too many TLC programs, because dammit, if this isn't a sperm fertilizing an egg, then slap me twice and call me Sally.

He is so my kid.



File this under "Things I wish I'd Known 10 Years Ago."

Sex thoughts

The Guy That's Snoring on the Couch always complains that we don't have sex enough. I'm not sure why two times a month isn't enough for that nympho, but I've tried explaining to him the difference between me (complex woman) and him (single cell organism).

Nothing's working, so I'm hoping this can clarify for him.

Here's what's going on in our respective minds as we lay in bed and prepare for "doing it" (as he ever so romantically puts it):

TGTSOTC: Weiner. Vagina. Boobies. Fun. Sleep.

M: God, I'm so tired. I hope I got everything ready for tomorrow. Did I put PPT's cleats in his bag? Does The Dictator have his bedding ready? Did I finish the whites? I think I finished the whites...no, that was the darks. Damn, the whites are still in the washer. Now they're going to mold and the whole washer's going to stink for three days. And I love that washer. It's red, and I love it. I'm so glad I got it, and what a great deal, because I had that coupon from ebay. I love ebay. I need to go on tomorrow, I need a new watch. Watch...shit, what time is it? I'll bet it's late. Did I set the alarm? I can't get up late, PPT's got to be at school at 7:30...7:30! Who in the Hell gets to school at 7:30? That's insane. Is he touching my boobs? He is. I should get a new bra. Note to self: go to Kohl's tomorrow. Look for a white bra, because the pink one you got last time shows through all your shirts, and then you look like a hooker. Hookers have it rough. I can't imagine getting it on with people you don't even know. Did PPT finish his math? I think he did. Poor kid, he's really struggling with that subject. I need to get him a tutor. "Tutor? I don't even know her". Ha, that joke makes me laugh every time. Did I let the dogs out? I should get up and let the dogs out, otherwise Bad Dog will pee in the house, and I'm almost out of dog pee cleaner. I need to go to Home Depot and get more. I should get new plants while I'm there too, because the ones we have need to get the Hell out of my life. Damn shrubbery. I water it and it dies. What's that about? I need to go to the grocery store. I hate the grocery store. But we're out of produce. Did I just think the word 'produce'? Who uses that word? Apparently I do. God, I'm tired. Am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Nope, he's still feeling my boobs, so I must be awake. How is that he falls asleep while I'm talking but all of a sudden when boobs and vag are involved, he's wide awake? Caveman. I saw the new Geico commercial today. Pretty funny. My favorite is still the one where he's in the airport. What time is it now? Can I go to sleep yet?

And that's just a small sample of why we only have sex twice a month.

Baby on Board

The other day I was driving on the 22 freeway, or, as I like to call it, "The Path to Hell". In my usual commuter fashion, I was trying to juggle a water bottle, the radio dials, my purse, two Target bags, lotion, an old sippy cup of milk and my God-forsaken Bluetooth while steering with my elbows. What? I have 25 minutes all to myself, I have to multi-task.

In the process of debating the benefits of Jack Johnsons versus Guns N' Roses and hanging up on someone (blow me, Bluetooth), I seemed to forget to brake, thereby causing me to stop .00003 inches away from a minivan's back bumper and leave a nice trail of smoke billowing up behind me.

Yes, I put (almost) everything down and started steering with opposable thumbs. But the woman I nearly hit was none too happy and felt the need to glare at me the rest of our 14 minute ride home. Whatever. I was far too captivated with her "Baby on Board" sign to give two shits about her evil eyes.

Why on earth does someone feel the need to advertise that there's a small human in the vehicle? Does that tiny yellow sign scream, "DO NOT HIT ME. I HAVE AN INFANT IN THE CAR. GO FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO HIT, PERHAPS SOMEONE WITH A TODDLER. THEY ARE NOT BABIES SO IT IS PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE TO SLAM INTO THEM."

I'm just saying...the tiny yellow sign almost didn't stop me.

I'm off to find a car full of 5-year olds.

Top 15 reasons The Dictator kicks ass

Today is The Dictator's birthday, and because I don't have a warm fuzzy blog, I'm going to honor him by making a list of the top 15 reasons I think The Dictator kicks ass.

1. He makes me laugh, every single day. Sometimes it's intentional, but usually it's just him being him.

2. He loves to cuddle, and actually asks me to schedule it in for him- "Mom, is it cuddle time yet?" It makes my cold heart melt.

3. He takes the longest craps I've ever witnessed. Honestly. Every single time he gets up from the toilet, he has a ring around his ass because he's been sitting there for 25 minutes. And he gives you a play-by-play of what's happening. "Okay, I'm pushing again. This one is big!" And bath water motivates his bowels, because the second his bath is done running, he has to poop. And then his bath gets cold, so I have to run the water again. But I still love his marathon craps.

4. He knows almost every word to every song he's ever heard. It's amazing. He hears a song once and the next time it's on he's singing it.

5. He's always hungry. If we eat dinner at 6:30, by 6:45 he's hungry again. And this continues every 15 minutes until bedtime at 9:30.

6. His favorite show in the whole world is Wipeout, and he insists that we all sit down and watch it with him. And we do, because seriously...it is the BEST. SHOW. EVER.

7. At 5 years old, he's smarter than me.

8. He remembers everything you've ever told him since he was in utero. And where he was when it was said. And who said it. And why.

9. He loves his brother more than anything on earth, and will share everything he has with him. When he's not socking him in the stomach as he walks by.

10. He is very, very, VERY strong-willed. Right now, that makes me want to smother him, but when he's older, it may actually do him some good.

11. He believes in God and Jesus, always, no questions asked. There is no faith with him, it's just fact.

12. He's the slowest eater ever.

13. He looks like my family. Not me, so much, but my family...especially my mom, and that's a nice little reminder now that she's gone.

14. He has absolutely no impulse control. He says whatever pops into his head and does whatever seems like a good idea at the time. About 98% of the time, it gets him in trouble.

15. He's the sweetest little boy in the world...unless he's the meanest. But mostly the sweetest. Sometimes.

And that, my friends, is why The Dictator kicks ass. And why I love him forever, no matter what, more than anything in the whole wide world.

Happy Birthday Dictator!