Reason #156 that dogs kick ass

The other day, after shopping for groceries (one of my least favorite activities EVER, by the way) I pulled into our driveway and noticed an empty bag of rubber gloves. You know, the kind the doctor uses to stick his/her hand elbow deep up your vag?

They're not used for that in our house, much to Babe's dismay. He keeps them in the garage for...hell, I don't know. But he keeps them in the garage.

Anywho, I noticed an empty bag, picked it up, and threw it away. Done. I didn't think anything of it.

Until the next morning, when I woke up and found this lying on the floor of my playroom:

For those of you who aren't familiar with doggy digestion, those are barfed-up rubber gloves.

A whole pack of them. Some still fully intact.

This means Bad Dog (because she's the one, I can tell you right now. Good Dog is far too lazy to expend energy chewing up anything that doesn't involve food.) not only ate the rubber gloves, she swallowed some whole. And then yakked them back up, in almost exactly the same shape and form they take on in the bag.


I swear, Bad Dog could eat a porcupine, 14 steak knives, arsenic and 10 bottles of Drano and still live. That dog will never die.

Reason #156 that dogs kick ass? They eat rubber gloves whole and barf them back out the same way. Discuss.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, mom.

I miss you.

Thursday, November 27th. 11:56 p.m.

I want an Addison

My pal Angela just had a baby. Five days ago, as I ate a bowl of Fruit Loops and checked my bank balance, she pushed out a little human being.

Addison is a girl, and adorable, and the minute I held her my ovaries started dropping eggs like they were Hot Pockets fresh out of the microwave.

She is BRAND NEW. Unblemished. Unsoiled. Untainted.

She doesn't talk back and think she knows it all.

She doesn't heavy sigh when asked to pick up dog crap.

She doesn't bite other little children in preschool.

She doesn't put off a book report until the night before it's due so the whole family can stay up until 2:00 a.m. getting it done.

She doesn't have a screaming meltdown when you tell her she can't play Beer Pong on because it's just not appropriate for a 5-year old.

She doesn't give out her mother's cell phone number to her friends because she doesn't have a cell phone. This means her mother doesn't get texts all day long from some little stalker whore who just can't take a hint that she's already been broken up with.

She doesn't run around with her wiener flapping in the wind before she gets in the shower.

(I guess that last one is technically impossible).

My point is, she's new and soft and cuddly. She smells like fresh human and has no teeth. Her fingers are long, her fingernails are tiny and she has no neck control whatsoever. She's floppy and warm and sweet.

I love her.

Unfortunately, she belongs to Angela, which is probably the best thing for her anyway. But since Hubs has pretty much shut me down completely on procreating again, I'll just have to make do pretending she's mine for awhile.

Until she can talk. Or walk. Or have an opinion of her own.

Why do those damn babies have to grow up?

Apparently, the joke's on me

Alright, fine, so the joke's on me. I don't even care. Good job, you schooled me.

But I really want to know...


Delivered to my work, no less.

Thanks. Now the boss thinks I'm some sort of undercover lesbian fiend.

Which, of course, I'm totally not.


I'm going back to Stacy Keibler's bikini spread.


TGTSOTC redeemed himself

Two days ago, The Guy That's Snoring on the Couch totally redeemed himself. And that's great, because he was in some seriously deep dookie.

TGTSOTC has to be at work very early in the morning. He's up by 3:30(ish), to leave by 4:30(ish), to be at work in L.A. by 5:00(ish). This means that although his work day is over by 1:00 and he has the afternoon 6:30 every night he's pretty much toast, knocked out on the couch (hence the name).

And he snores. LOUD. So not only is he hogging the couch every night, he's emitting sounds that can only be described as Sasquatchian. It's horrific, and as much as I adore the man, I have to fight the urge to smother him to death in his sleep coma.

Instead, I resort to mumbling words under my breath as I walk by. These words usually start with an "F" and end with an "ucking jerk".

You get the idea.

Anyway, a couple of days ago he crashed on the couch, leaving me to take care of the urchins, and the house, and homework, and the dogs, and the toilet that wouldn't flush, and the dishes and the laundry. I was P.I.S.S.E.D. Methinks rightfully so.

The next day I called my friend Jenni to vent and cuss. She is a good wife and a normal, emotionally healthy human being, and told me that I need to focus on the positive until we go back to counseling in a week. She pointed out that TGTSOTC picks up the kids and hauls them around every day and makes dinner every night, and that most men wouldn't do that after electricianing for 8 hours. I responded with, "Mmm, friggin shittin blah sheeess mmmm bbbbbblllh aghhh" and drove home ready to brawl.

I ended up taking the urchins to Target to buy some stuff for The Hormone King's Operation Christmas Child box (more on that later). I came back, pissed as ever because TGTSOC still hadn't called me to grovel for forgiveness or hung a huge banner outside the house that read, "I'm a moron and you're the best woman on the face of the Earth".

I walked inside and just about shit my giant panties. TGTSOTC had:

- unloaded the dishwasher
- done the dishes
- taken out the trash
- put away the clean laundry on the bed
- gone to 2 stores to get stuff we needed
- picked up the house
- fed the dogs

and was outside shop-vaccing leaves out of the garage. I was stunned.

I picked my tongue up off the ground and went over to say thank you and tell him that he's out of the shitcan he was in.

To quote the wise Salt N' Pepa- "What a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man."

I'm torn

Somebody large and supremely frightening needs to come to my house, forcefully pry my laptop out of my hands, and ensure that I can never, ever go to The Cutest Blog on the Block again. Ever.

I'm like a kid in a freaking candy store. My miniscule mind is reeling from the options.

So what do you think of the new blog background? I thought I liked it...and then I didn't...and then I did...and then I was ready to rip out my hair and rock myself to sleep. Somebody needs to make this damn decision for me. Do your eyes ache whilst trying to read my blog?* I mean, even more so than usual?

What's the haps...likee or no likee?

*Seriously, I used 'whilst' in a sentence. I think I even used it correctly. I'm obviously brilliant.

Fire sucks

I'm sure that by now, everybody knows about the fires raging in Northern Orange County. They're pretty nasty. But here's a vision of how nasty they are:

I took this picture from my backyard on Saturday around 12:30. The fires had only been burning for about three hours at this point, but our normally blue sky had already turned brown and orange. One of the parents on The Dictator's soccer team put it perfectly when they said, "It looks like Armageddon."

Fire sucks. Especially when it destroys people and memories.

Say a prayer.

Dear Blogger

Dear Blogger,

You sir, are a bastard. I love blogging, and because I'm already all set up with an account, and my page is all super cute and shit, I'll keep you...but I am SO not a fan.

Here's my laundry list of reasons why I wish you would explode in a mass of microchips and technology.

1. Why won't you let me figure out my own freaking spacing? God forbid I actually want to post a dreaded picture on my blog, because it means it's going to take me two hours to get the spacing just the way I want it, and I have to save, and then fix, and then save again, and then cross my fingers, and light some incense, and kill some sort of livestock and pray to the Lord that you actually put things where I want them to go instead of where you think they should be, which is always like, four inches below the post. Seriously. LEAVE MY PICTURES ALONE.

2. What do you have against refreshing the everloving page? Refresh, jackass, refresh!

3. You have more "scheduled outages" than any company I've ever used. Seriously. Those rolling outages scheduled by the electric company have got nothing on you.

4. Sometimes I tool around on your "next blog" link in the navigation bar, hoping to find another interesting blogger to stalk at 10:58 on a Sunday night. Know what I find? Nothing in English. Nothing. I don't even know what half the languages are, but I'm pretty freaking sure IT'S. NOT. ENGLISH. And it's not just the first 2-3 blogs that pop up...I've gone through 15 of them without finding one I could read. I'm more than willing to blog stalk, but damn, with me!

P.S. Whoever has the 4387 blogs devoted to Dylan and Cole Sprouse needs to die. Now.

P.P.S. I just attempted to test this language theory, and the first 5 blogs I pulled up were all in English, and actually pretty entertaining. Meh. Blogger obviously knows I'm planning this post and is trying to discredit me. Bastard.


Whatever, Blogger. At this point, I'm ready to call truce and sing your praises if you'll just give me my spacing back. PLEASE. Give me my spacing!

Off to shave my legs, watch Dexter and ruminate on what to complain about next.

Sometimes, just a little bit Sincerely,

The bitch with the pink blog

Full House, indeed

So I was online this morning, checking out one of my celebrity whoring sites, and I found this:

Holy 90s flashback, Batman! When the hell did Uncle Jesse get so freaking hot?

Curse those lucky goddamn Olsen trolls.

There's a wrestling match in my pants

PPT is a sneaky little bastard. He loves nothing more than to play with a toy for a few minutes, enjoy it immensely, and then promptly hide it where either Babe or I will unknowingly find it.

For a long time, the freezer was his drug of choice. Everything he hid, he hid in the freezer. He literally froze EVERYTHING. That ended when the plastic cup he had filled with water and two army men exploded, destroying the cup and the army men. Somebody should explain the whole "expanding molecules" thing to him.

Lately, he's been playing with his Lego characters in the shower and strategically placing them in hidden spots we will only find 3-5 days later. Nothing brightens your day like finding a Star Wars Stormtrooper behind your John Frieda shampoo.

Hey, you've got to enjoy the little things in life.

So yesterday, when I went to remove my pants that I hang dry from the hanger in the hallway, I wasn't too surprised to find this:

I know the picture isn't that great, so I'll just tell you that it's three wrestlers fighting on my pants. The one in the belt loop doesn't seem to be faring so well, so I'll pray for him.

My kids freaking rock.

Living on a corner kicks ass

Hey, wanna see the view from my kitchen window on Sunday?

Why, lookee there! There seems to be something in my front yard. Let's look closer...


A freaking GMC, to be exact, and it somehow ended up in my front yard, accompanied by a newborn baby, a hysterical mother and a bleeding old woman.

Fine. It wasn't so much in my yard, more on the corner, but I'm short on blogging material these days, so let's just pretend.

Basically, there was a car accident in my front yard. And yes, we all ran out to see, and thank God I actually had my boobies wrangled up in a bra, because those firemen...oh, those firemen. Holy hotness, Batman.


I need more accidents in my front yard.

The best/worst school picture ever

Oh goodie, my blogger pal* Scary Mommy has asked us to post our absolute worstest, most horrendous school picture for viewing entertainment and mockery. What a great idea! I'm in!

Truthfully, I have so many awful school photos to choose from that it would take me a year to go through them all and decide. I have perms, no perms, bangs, no bangs, one chin, two chins and three chins, surfer shirts, flowered shirts, brown hair, orange hair, red hair, pale with freckles and crispy fried sunburn with freckles. Truly, my possibilities are endless.

BUT- I keep going back to this beauty. I showcased it in my 80s Day blog, but since it's so appropriate for today's blog as well, it's going up again.

1984, folks. Second grade. And yes, this was my school picture. Apparently the school was going for a new "retro" look that year, and decided to snap us all at our desks, working so diligently at gathering knowledge...except if you look closely you'll notice that my pencil is upside down, so I'm guessing I wasn't working too diligently. But the books! Look at the books! I must be getting a good education, because I had so many books!

It's a beauty, isn't it? Those turquoise shorts hiked all the way up my crotch. The pastel bead bracelet. The shirt...hell, I honestly like the shirt. I'd wear it now if I had it.

I think what gives this photo it's charm is the combination of hair (the apparent hybrid lovechild of Dorothy Hammill and Joe Dirt) and glasses (I'm not sure why nobody ever actually measured my face to see if they'd fit).

I'm indecisive about this photo. To me, it's the Walmart of school pictures...I hate looking at or being near it, but I just can't stay away. Yes, it's embarrassing...but seriously, look at how freaking awesome it is at the same time. Its charm is undeniable.

Like me.

*Not really, unless the definition of "pal" is "A blogger I stalk on a daily basis who doesn't even know I exist." Then we're best friends.

The Dictator vs. The Pavement

The Dictator decided to brawl with The Pavement.

You think that's bad? You should see The Pavement.

Perfect freaking love

Although he's a GIANT pain in my enormous ass cheeks, I'd like to give you an example of why I love The Dictator to pieces.

This was our conversation tonight:

D: I wish I could be part of you.

M: What do you mean?

D: You know, like Zak and Wheezie.

For those of you who don't have babies, toddlers, or little tiny humans taking over your house, Zak and Wheezie are the attached twins from the show Dragon Tales. They look like this:

A little disturbing, sure, but that's not my point.

Basically, my sweet little boy loves me enough to be connected to me at the sternum. And maybe even enough to turn into the green portion of a green and purple dinosaur that wears music note necklaces and sings high-pitched, horrifically annoying tunes.

If that isn't perfect freaking love, I don't know what is.

Hubs and the big, shiny washer

I had a Little League board meeting tonight. It started at 7:00 and ended sometime around 9:30, but since I can't shut my yapper for longer than 3.5 seconds, I didn't end up getting home until almost 11:00. My therapist would kill me if she knew, so hopefully she's too busy deconstructing marriages and solving daddy issues to ever find out.

Anyhow, Hubs and The Dictator were home alone tonight (PPT is spending the night at Goob's house because there's no school tomorrow), and since nobody in our house has clean socks, I asked Hubs to throw in a load of whites, since, you know, I wouldn't actually be inside the house to do it myself.

This is the note I found on the counter when I strolled in at 11:00:

We've had our washing machine for 6 MONTHS and Hubs doesn't know how to get it started. Granted, it is shiny and red with lots of pretty electronic gadgets...but really?

*Note to therapist: I have a topic for next week's discussion, and for once, it ain't my daddy.

Dear Daylight Savings

Dear Daylight Savings,

I appreciate you. I really do. Because of you, when I roll my crabby ass out of bed at 6:30, it's actually light outside. It feels like morning, bright and sunshiney, and I only feel the need to hit snooze 13 times instead of 14. In the shower, I can hear the sweet little birdies singing outside my bathroom window and it makes it just a wee bit easier to wake up grumpy PPT and even grumpier The Dictator.


I have an issue with this whole "gets dark at 5:10" thing. It's really pissing me off. Seriously- I go to work and leave my office at night. Like, midnight. Okay, not really, but that's what it feels like. I actually have to turn my lights on driving home and the other day...get this...I had to defrost my window. DEFROST MY WINDOW. In Southern California. What the hell?

And don't even get me started on bedtime...I drag my ass around the house, barely able to keep my eyes open. I scream at PPT to hurry up and get his homework done, HE. NEEDS. TO. GET. IN. BED. and then realize it's only 7:30.

So, although I appreciate your efforts, Daylight Savings...I'd like you to move on to another section of the country now. You're seriously messing up my schedule.


The West Coast

My executive decision wasn't such a good one

Can I just recant an entire blog? I mean, I know I can delete it, but can I recant it too?

In my last blog, I made the executive decision that I was going to cuss in my blogs. Granted, I cuss now, but the word I really wanted to use was the F-word, because honestly, it's a word that floats around in my mind in many situations every single day.

My thinking was that I had to blog about every single thing I think, exactly the way I think it.

I think I was wrong in my thinking about my thoughts.


The fact of the matter is, yes, this is my blog. And yes, I write for myself, but I also write in a public forum that anybody can read. And, believe it or not, I actually have readers. Most of them are my friends in real life, not just Blogland, but a few are people that have stumbled upon my blog in passing and actually enjoy reading it. They actually care about the shit I ramble about. That astonishes me.

The point is, I love these readers, both friends and newbies. Because I love them, and because they make me just as happy by reading my blog and commenting as I make them by telling stupid stories, I respect the fact that the word that I love to think is sometimes highly offensive to hear.

Not to all, but to some. Some of my readers, and some of my friends.

So, I'm making a new executive decision...I won't use the F-word. I'm not going to lie and say I'll stop cussing altogether, because that's not going to happen. But out of respect for those that have loyally followed my blog and may actually despise that word, I won't use it.

That's how much I love you guys.

Is 'freaking' okay? Good. Because I'm not giving that one up.

Big, smooshy hugs and kisses to all.

I'm making an executive decision up in this bitch

So, I've been blogging pretty regularly now, and it is truly an outlet for me. I love doing it. It makes me deliriously blissful being able to put my feelings and thoughts into words and get them out of my jam-packed, slightly warped brain.

But as much fun as I've been having, and as many positive reactions as I've received, I'm still holding back. I'm still not being "me", completely and totally, for fear of offending someone, or losing a reader or two. Because that would make me sad, being the delicate little flower I am.

Specifically, I haven't really cussed on my blog. Oh sure, I've said 'bitch' and 'shit' and 'ass', but let's be honest here...if you've met me, you know that doesn't even begin to enter the arsenal of swear words I have at my disposal.

So, I'm going to cuss. I'm probably even going to use the dreaded 'F-word'. It's my blog, with my thoughts, and I need to be 100% real to enjoy writing. I'm sorry if this offends you, and you always have the option of not reading...but that would probably not be such a great idea, because sometimes I totally KICK. ASS.


So, let's get this enormous elephant in the room the hell out of here.

(Close your eyes and click down on the mouse if you don't like icky words).


There. I've said it once, and now I can say it all I want. I'll even put a cute little disclaimer on my sidebar.

This blog was never really intended to be meant for kids. Truthfully, mine don't even know I have it, and yours probably shouldn't either. Well, especially not now.

So please...keep reading. I'd really love it if you did. But if my ugly mouth offends your tender ears, I understand.

Did I mention that sometimes I totally KICK. ASS.?

Halloween memories

So as you all know, Halloween has come and gone. And it was fun, like it always is, and I ate 43 pounds of candy, like I always do. Unfortunately, now I'm paying the price, because it's time to start buckling down on Dub-Dubs again...but that's another blog for another time.

My wonderfully domesticated and totally non-dysfunctional family decided to carve pumpkins this year because it seems to be a tradition we've skipped out on the last couple of years.

Now I know why.

Here's what I imagined would happen:

- The Dictator, PPT and his friend (we'll call him 'Goob' because he's the biggest goober on earth besides PPT) will lovingly place their pumpkins on the table.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will then proceed to quietly and joyfully scoop out all of the pumpkin guts and place them neatly in a bowl nearby.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will take turns copying extremely intricate templates from a book on to their pumpkins, then share with and support one another while they carve their pieces of art.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will then gleefully show off their creations and hurry over to the sink to help wash off all the pumpkin guts and remove the seeds in preparation for cooking.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob will then all congratulate each other on a job well done and clean up.

- Babe and I will watch with joy, hearts swelling with pride at the wonderful little humans our children have become and the amazing memories we're creating with them. I will take pictures of every moment and Babe will patiently help the boys perfect their pumpkins with fatherly love.

- All this will happen in less than 1 hour.

Here's what really happened:

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob fought over who got to use the saw first.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob fought over who got to spoon out the guts first.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob whined for 44 minutes about how gross the guts are. In fact, I think the look on PPT's face in this picture pretty much sums it up perfectly.

- The Dictator, PPT and Goob whined about the pumpkin smell.

- PPT whined that his pumpkin was warmer inside than The Dictator's and Goob's. No, really.

- PPT and Goob took approximately 2.5 hours to trace their templates and cut them out. The Dictator gave up after 7 minutes and Babe finished it. At 11:00 p.m.

- PPT accidentally cut on the wrong line and his skull had no eyes. Commence pouting for 25 minutes.

- The Dictator spilled the bowl of guts all over the kitchen floor and then skipped off to watch TV.

- I opted to do the dishes instead of listening to the commotion.

- Good Dog & Bad Dog ate every single pumpkin seed they could find and barfed on the rug later in the evening.

- We finished. 4 hours later.

Here were the astounding, wonderful, simply PHENOMENAL results of our efforts:

That's a skull with no eyes, on the left. And a spiderweb with a spider, on the right. Big kudos to Babe for that one, because The Dictator sure as hell had nothing to do with it.

It's funny, I remember carving pumpkins rather fondly as a an adult, not so much.

Oh, and Halloween? Fun as always. Trick or treating in Old Town, party at the Beasleys', WAY too much sugar. The boys got all hopped up on candy and then crashed hard...when The Dictator murmured the words, "My tummy hurts," visions of regurgitated Sweeties & M&M vomit raced through my head.

Nobody barfed but I'm sure our dentist will be ever so thrilled with us at the next appointment...nothing like cramming candy down the kids' throats and then letting them fall asleep without brushing their teeth. Tooth decay, much?

That's Captain Rex and a Stormtrooper, and the cutest damn ones on earth, in my opinion.

The Dictator went bobbing for apples. Can you tell?

I'm not sure why PPT chose Captain Rex for his costume, when it's fairly obvious that it simply takes a blond wig and cop glasses for him to pull off the coveted 'Chester the Molester' look.

Ah, memories. They're freaking grand, aren't they?

For the record...

For the record...

If you get an email in your inbox from a pal and this is the first sentence:

"OMG! I'm watching 'Taboo' on National Geographic on transsexuals...thought of you!"

Then you kick ass. Like me.