Tom & Jerry make me want to kill myself

It's 11:21 p.m. and I'm up watching TV with The Dictator.

WHAT? I've never claimed to win any parenting awards. Besides, it's Christmas vacation, and nothing screams Jesus's birthday like letting your kids stay up until 2:00 a.m. and dragging their angry asses out of bed in the morning.

Anyway, I'd just like to say that TOM & JERRY SUCK ASS.

Seriously. Suck. Ass.

This cartoon is by far the lamest thing I've ever seen in my life (although quite a few Steven Segal movies come in a close second).

There's no talking, and the storylines are just pathetic, and really, how many times can Jerry hit Tom over the head with a wooden board?


I can't believe I used to watch this shit.

I'm off to kill myself (right after I check Facebook).

The Dictator and mud

The Dictator is drawn to trouble like a moth to a freaking flame.

The Hormone King plays travel baseball from July-December. This means that twice a month, we spend a full weekend on some sort of bat and ball facility, somewhere in Southern-ish California.

Like, the whole weekend.

Needless to say, The Dictator is generally bored to snot and willing to go to any lengths to amuse himself on these weekends. In all fairness, he is stuck on a baseball field for 8+ hours a day, so I'm not saying I don't get it, because I do. Holy shit, do I.

At one of our last tournaments, The Dictator disappeared for a bit. As Mother of the Year, I didn't feel it necessary to go look for him. Usually he's just brawling with little boys for their quarters or taking candy from the friendly man in the van with no windows looking for his puppy.

He wandered over a few minutes later and this is what he looked like:

And that's just his feet. The rest of him looked like this:

He was totally Pigpen from Charlie Brown.

His explanation? "We found mud!" Really? Never would have guessed.

I begrudgingly dragged him to the bathroom to clean him up. I was about 1/2 inch into the cleaning process when I realize it was utterly, totally, completely pointless. I threw away his socks and let the mud dry, praying to the Tide & Shout gods to throw me a freaking bone with this one.

I thought about getting mad, but seriously- it's mud and he's a boy. And a Dictator boy, no less.

A better (and messier) combination never existed.

The story of the turd-filled hallway

I have a story. It's about our hallway and how it became filled with Dictator turds. It's pure awesomeness.

The Dictator is 5 years old and amazing. He's sweet, funny and intelligent, and I adore him more than words can even begin to describe. Now, having pointed out his good qualities, I'd like to point out one of his negative ones.

He'd like to crawl back in my womb.

Like, now. At 5 years old.

But he can't, so instead he'll settle for begging me to do everything for him...from getting him a drink, to putting on his shoes, to wiping his ass.

So we've been working on it. I've tried gently explaining to him that his wife won't appreciate it when her mother-in-law comes over to wipe her husband's ass at 2:00 a.m. in the year 2029. I've tried gently explaining that mommy & daddy potty trained him for a reason. I've tried gently explaining that seriously kid, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, get off the freaking pot, you're going to wither away and die.

He's just not getting it.

I'm finally just opting for a wipe, I'll check. There. We're done. And it was working. For a while.


The Dictator took a marathon dump and decided to get all 'Big Boy' on us and wipe his own little ass.

And wipe he did, friends...wipe he did.

I honestly don't even know how many butt wipes he used to clean himself. I figure his cheeks are only, what, 8 inches in diameter? That means the hole itself is teeny tiny too, but the little Prince was apparently feeling pristine that evening, and took extra precautions to cleanse himself.


By my calculations, he used approximately 12 wipes.

And then flushed them all down.

Well, not really. Somewhere along the line, they got stuck. And the water kept running.

And running.

And running.

Until an hour later, when I walked into the hallway and my foot sank in mushy, shit-particle filled carpet. Lots and lots and lots of mushy, shit-particle filled carpet.



So, we filed a claim with the insurance company, which, in an ironic twist of fate, happens to be the same Big Insurance Company I work for. And a restoration company came out, ripped up our carpet and padding, and left us with removed chunks of drywall, missing baseboards and cold, hard concrete floors in the hallway and (appropriately enough) half of The Dictator's room.

This is what our house looks like:

Doesn't that look like a cozy, inviting place to hang out during this beloved Christmas season?

So, that's the story of my turd-filled hallway, which helped contribute to my already horrid Grinchy Christmas attitude.

As for The Dictator...well, I tried being mad at him. I really did. I was all, "Dictator middle name last name!" and then he looked at me like this

and I turned all mushy, sniffled, and walked away.

It's just a turd-filled carpet, after all.

Hey, remember me?

So I've been in blog denial for a while now. I was feeling Stoogey and Grinchy and just all around shitty this Christmas season, and I totally slacked off on blogging. It's hard when life is just kicking you in the ass again and again...I simply wasn't feeling amusing and thought nobody would want to read me any other way. Funny is good but the tougher times aren't, so I stayed away from my beloved Blogger because I didn't want to be the whiney buzzkill bitch.

But I'm better now.

So, I'm going to post. Probably a lot.

We'll see...

Tagged again! Something to blog about!

My darling little Vern tagged me again, and I'm not gonna lie...I love it. It gives me blog fodder, something to write about during this season of money spending and shit-water flooding my house-ing. (Another time,'ll hear that story another time. Maybe when it's less aggravating and more amusing for me.)

So of course I'm going to post the tagging, and of course you'll all read and find out how uber amusing I am. Or not.

I need a Xanax. Or twelve.

Oh, and the rule for this tag is that your answer has to be the first one you thought of, and it has to be one word. Should be really easy for me, since I'm not long winded at all. (That was sarcasm, hence the italics).

1. Where is your cell phone? Car.

2. Your significant other? Frustrating.

3. Your hair? Red.

4. Your mother? Missed.

5. Your father? Soulless.

6. Your favorite thing(s)? Sons.

7. Your dream last night? Forgotten.

8. Your favorite drink? Milk.

9. Your dream/goal? Contentment.

10. The room you’re in? Bleh.

11. Your fear? Loneliness.

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Happy.

13. Where were you last night? Lamppost Pizza.

14. What you’re not? Subtle.

15. Muffins/donuts? Yummy.

16. One of your wish list items? Bike.

17. Where you grew up? O.C.

18. The last thing you did? Peed.

19. What are you wearing? Black.

20. Your TV? Whatever.

21. Your pet? Unconditional.

22. Your computer? Evil.

23. Your life? Crazy.

24. Your mood? Shitty.

25. Missing someone? Yes.

26. Favorite pastime? Napping.

27. Something you’re not wearing? Socks.

28. Favorite Store? Target.

29. Your summer? Hot.

30. Your favorite color? Brown.

31. When is the last time you laughed? Yesterday.

32. Last time you cried? Tuesday.

33. Who will re-post this? Erin?

34. Four places I go over and over? Home, work, school, Target.

35. Four people who e-mail me? Julie, Vern, Jenni, Keri.

36. Four of my favorite foods? Bubblegum ice cream, pizza, chicken pasta, pazookies.

37. Four places I would like to be right now? Bed, Colorado, bath, Cheesecake Factory.

38. Four people I tag? Erin, Debbie, Jade, Angela.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas in our dysfunctional household. The tree is up, Bad Dog is eating all the glass bulb ornaments and Babe and I haven't paid the cell phone or insurance bills yet because DAMMIT, THERE ARE GIFTS TO BUY!

Because it's December, the boys are in a gift-anticipating daze. Everything revolves around Christmas, Santa Claus and what his totally realistic flying reindeer are going to be bringing them.


Today, The Dictator called me in the bathroom after his morning pee, and announced, "Look mommy, it's a stocking!"

He was referring to the pee bubbles in the water that had formed a striking resemblance to a certain gift-bearing sock.

And holy balls if he wasn't right on. It really was a stocking.

Even my toilet thinks it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.


So today I actually removed my fingers from my keyboard, stood up, and dragged my fat ass to Weight Watchers.

And holy shitbricks and coffee cakes, I lost TWO POUNDS! Two pounds, folks! That's like...shit, I don't know, but that's two pounds, and hell if I won't take it. I am officially two pounds less fat than I was last week.

So I drove back to work deliriously happy, with visions of rainbows and pink unicorns and fuzzy bunnies running through my head. And I ran (shut up) to my desk, logged in, and typed in "" as fast as my chubby little fingers could.

I logged in my weight, grinned, and pushed the "submit" button, waiting for the screen to pop up and tell me how wonderful I am.

And instead, I got this little diddy:

"Please note: You're probably excited to be losing weight, but you're losing faster than is recommended. Although it's normal to lose over 2 lbs in 1 week, if you lose more than an average of 2 lbs per week over a 4-week period, this could pose health risks, such as heart irregularities, anemia or loss of muscle mass. Please slow your weight loss; your doctor can help you do this if you're not sure how, or ask your Leader for ideas."


The evil little Weight Watchers computer tramp thinks I'm losing weight too fast. What a pessimistic, sabotaging, horrific little buzzkill.

She obviously doesn't realize that I totally worked for this two pounds. She doesn't realize that instead of having 56 bags of fun-sized Skittles, I only had 2. Or that I parked a good two more spots farther in the Target parking lot than I normally do. Or that MY GOD, do I want cake right now.

She's probably skinny too.


Just life


I've got nothing, folks. NOTHING.

No amusing anecdotes, no happy tales, no sad stories.

I've got nada. Zippo. Zilcho. Nil. Bazonga.

I've just been busy living, trying to maintain my sanity this horrid holiday crowd-bringing month.

I've gone shopping for toilet paper and groceries. I sat and pondered on how to blog about that, but nobody wants to hear about my great deal on soup or the fluffy soft Charmin that caresses my ass, so I'm screwed.

I've bought Christmas gifts. Who hasn't?

My brother turned 21 yesterday. Alas, no alcohol and hooker-filled party, so I have no material.

The Dictator learned how to ride a bike. It was cute and precious, and meaningful enough to bring tears to our parental eyes...but nobody else has DNA invested in him, so what's the point?

Although, I did manage to snap this shot of him after taking off his helmet, and it's so awesome I almost tried to drag it out into a 6-paragraph blog entry.

I weighed in at WW and I'm still fat. SURPRISE!

The Hormone King got his braces off and we found out he has teeth the size of Montana. I'm praying his cranium keeps growing, because his adult-sized teeth in his kid-sized head is a little awkward.

We went to dinner with some friends and my pal Erin took this family photo of us.

I spent a good 35 minutes trying to figure out why my boobies are trying to run away from my chest and are sliding down my stomach instead. Apparently my bra was on break that night.

I'm growing out my nails. Somebody give me a medal.

See what I mean? I'm

In a totally non-amusing way.

So, once my dogs barf up something cool, or The Dictator uses inappropriate words at appropriate times, or The Hormone King becomes even more hormonal (like that's possible), or I go ballistic on a fellow preschool mom, or I finally reach the breaking point with my Bluetooth and shove it some unfortunate fellow's ass...I'll be back.

But for now, I just really want to sleep. And take a bath. And read. And not function in any capacity.


Nothing, folks. Nothing. Just life.

Dear Internet Spam (part 2)

Dear Internet Spam,


We've already had this conversation. I made it very clear that I'm willing to accept your presence in my technologically-challenged life, but some concessions need to be made on your end. I don't think that's asking too much.

I was very specific. Look, I'll even refer back to my original letter for you. If you're willing to take 2 minutes away from your 'sending-penis-emails-to-Shannon' time, kindly click this link: and review my requirements for maintaining a happy Internet working environment.

*crickets chirping*

I'm still waiting.

*more crickets*

Fine. It's fairly obvious to me that you're not going to honor my requests. You're apparently a huge asshole with a wicked mean streak.


But one last thing...pretty, pretty please...cut back on the erection ads.


I came back to work from a 4-day weekend and had 561 emails. I honestly thought I was the super-coolest, most popular girl in all of Internetville.

Until I realized that 432 of them were dong emails.

432 of them. Dong emails.

Let's get something straight...I'm not a boy. I don't have a wiener. I don't need need Viagra. I don't need Cialis. I don't need hours of my pleasure maximized.

Why don't you speak English? And why can't you spell? And who ever taught you it was okay to just throw random words together to make a sentence? NEWSFLASH: 'Unruffled cleavage but cargo bay', 'Load bearing curse and demon' and 'Bonbons and pills' are NOT good intros to a successful penis pill sale.

Actually, the last one sounds fun.


Sir Internet Spam, I tried being kind. I was very clear and concise with my requests, but you are choosing to blatantly ignore my needs. You're a selfish bastard. I hate you. Die.

Or at least send pictures too.

Reason #157 that dogs kick ass

Hey, wanna see what happens when an obese Boxer finds a trashcan whose lid is slightly ajar?

The wiley hunter takes a much-needed rest after the kill.


But still...reason #157 that dogs kick ass.