tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28612999151903844782024-03-12T17:40:41.891-07:00SOME DAYS YOU'RE THE BUG...Life can be insanely hard. But it can also be insanely grand. As far as I'm concerned, it all boils down to what kind of day you're having. And, as my amazing mom used to put it, "Some days you're the bug, some days you're the windshield". Simple, right? So...bugs or windshields?The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.comBlogger136125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-51401454900326485062011-05-04T09:07:00.001-07:002011-05-04T09:11:54.318-07:00Words of wisdom, courtesy of The DictatorI haven't posted in like, forever. Life sucks. Let's move on.<br /><br />Here are some nuggets of wisdom spewed forth from The Dictator's mouth this week:<br /><br /><br />"You should have another kid and name him Know It All Jr."<br /><br />"Meetings are boring, that's why they're called board meetings!"<br /><br />"This music is horrible. It must be from the 80s."<br /><br /><br />It is seriously a miracle he's survived this long.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-37189023658775071842010-11-03T15:16:00.001-07:002010-11-03T15:40:55.066-07:00Craigslist etiquetteHubs has been laid off for a year and a half now, which means that my Pottery Barn/Pottery Barn Kids/Target shopping has taken a serious hit. This sucks. BIG TIME.<br /><br />The upside to being poor is that I've rediscovered the beauty of Craigslist. I'm not going to lie, I love it. I scan the "for sale" ads looking for wood shit to refinish and live out my ghetto style Pottery Barn fantasy with. It's amazing.<br /><br />Some people have treasures and think it's crap. Most people have crap and think it's treasures. Either way, I have noticed a pattern emerging. I'm going to call it "Craigslist Etiquette" and I'm here to lay down a few ground rules.<br /><br />1. This is not a "desk". This is what most people would commonly refer to as a "table". Nobody over 2'8" could use this as a desk. Also, there is only one drawer and no chair. Hence, table.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535451732020617026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 225px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/TNHgBa5o30I/AAAAAAAAAWU/fLVaDprCBzE/s400/desk.jpg" border="0" /><br />2. This is not a "carpet". This is what most people would commonly refer to as a "rug". It only covers a small space and is easily portable, unlike carpet which is generally large and affixed. Rug.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535452732573621378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/TNHg7qQEHII/AAAAAAAAAWc/KR1Vw4-303k/s400/carpet.jpg" border="0" /></p><br /><p>3. It's "shabby chic", people...not "shabby sheik" or "shabby chick". Also, just because it's old and nasty doesn't mean it's shabby chic. It just means it's crap.</p><p>4. Please don't call your "dresser" a "chest of drawers". It's not 1935 and nobody knows what you're talking about.</p><p>5. It's "wrought iron"...not "rod iron". Just for fun, I Googled "rod iron" and got this as a definition: "Common misspelling of wrought iron". Ha! Even Google thinks you're an idiot.</p><p>6. When you list your item price in the title as "$8", and then I click on the link and you're asking "$800 OBO"...that's false advertising, my friend. Nice try.</p><p>7. I don't care how much you paid for your beloved treasures when you bought them. I want to know how low you're willing to sell them for NOW. Great, you paid $1600 for it two years ago. Will you take $20 for it now?</p><p>8. Seriously. Pictures. Nobody's going to buy your shit without pictures, and they're free to list, so throw some in there. Otherwise you can expect 427 emails that say, "Do you have any pictures you can send me?" </p><p>9. If your items's been listed for five months and it hasn't sold, it's probably time to lower the price. Nobody's going to pay $450 for your 1985 oak end table, even if the top lifts off for extra storage.</p><p>10. OH. MY. GOD. Post once. Just once. If I delete an item I'm selling, Craigslist makes me wait three days to put it back on the site, but somehow Joe Blow in Chino is able to list the same goddamn bookcase 14 times a day. What the hell?</p><p>Sigh. I think that about covers it. Happy shopping!</p><br /><p></p>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-60771537956522962082010-07-08T11:24:00.000-07:002010-07-08T11:45:28.265-07:00Well, shit.Hey.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Remember me?</div><br /><div></div><div>Still here. </div><br /><div></div><div>Sigh. Whatever.</div><br /><div></div><div>Guess what I got in the mail two weeks ago? A letter. From a collections agency.</div><br /><div></div><div>IN THE AMOUNT OF <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">$100,000.00.</span></strong></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong></div><div>Did you catch that? That $100,000 part? Because that's TOTALLY the best part.</div><br /><div></div><div>For those that don't know, we foreclosed on a condo we owned in 2007 (like 30% of America has done by now, but for the record...we were SO doing foreclosure before it was cool). Interest rate up, couldn't refinance because we owed more than it was worth, blah, blah, blah. I swear to God, it's the same story everyone else has.</div><br /><div></div><div>So we walked away. It went a little something like this:</div><br /><div></div><div>Talk, talk, talk</div><div>Plead, plead, plead</div><div>Sob, sob, sob</div><div>Pack, pack, pack</div><div>Move, move, move</div><div>Sob, sob, sob</div><div>Sold at auction</div><br /><div></div><div>That was three years ago, and since then, my mom has died, Hubs lost his job and had two knees surgeries and we've moved twice.*</div><br /><div></div><div>It sucked but life goes on, right? Years pass and it becomes a fading memory.</div><br /><div></div><div>Until Friday, when I got the collections letter.</div><br /><div></div><div>Seems in the good ole' state of California, your original loan is a "purchase money loan"...money used to buy the house. This means it's a "non-recourse" loan...the bank can't come after you for the difference. </div><br /><div></div><div><strong>BUT....</strong></div><br /><div></div><div>If you refinanced your loan at any time, it is no longer a "purchase money loan". This means the loan becomes a "recourse" loan, where the bank can come after you for the deficiency. </div><br /><div></div><div><strong>THE $100,000.00 DEFICIENCY.</strong></div><br /><div></div><div>Well...pardon my French, but fuck me twice.</div><br /><div></div><div>So, after crying, and pleading, and consulting with two attorneys, and crying some more, and eating a tub of raw chocolate chip cookie dough...we'll be filing bankruptcy. It's the only way to protect us from this ginormous debt we didn't even know we had until two weeks ago.</div><br /><div></div><div>Sigh. Whatever.</div><br /><div></div><div>We'll just keep on truckin'.</div><br /><div></div><div>And in the meantime, I'll remember my happy place: </div><div><br /> </div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491607804873468562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/TDYcM-c-6pI/AAAAAAAAAWE/cVjvSrAaUsU/s400/MUSTACHE.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div></div><div>*This sentence sums up why my life freaking KICKS ASS.</div>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-68142657820105484742010-05-05T15:45:00.001-07:002010-05-05T15:50:32.703-07:00A driving lessonThe conversation between me and The Dictator on the way to school the other day:<br /><br /><strong>D:</strong> Mom, are you supposed to be driving with your elbows?<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> Only when you're putting on lotion. Duh.<br /><br />Sometimes my magnificent parenting amazes even me.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-30401699298598462132010-05-03T15:10:00.000-07:002010-05-03T15:28:42.857-07:00The cashier at Albertsons is having custody issues...ask me how I know.Can someone please tell me when it because acceptable for grocery checkers to hold intenstely private conversations in front of customers? Did I miss this newly acceptable behavior?<br /><br />The other night I was at the store...and yes, it was late, but only like 9:30 or so and there were still PLENTY of people in line, a fact our friendly neighborhood grocer seemed oblivious to.<br /><br />I was loading my groceries on the conveyor belt, carefully stacking yogurts five high and cereal boxes four deep, already pissed off at my cashier because, dude. Move the freaking belt and we won't have this problem.<br /><br />So my stuff is on the belt, my wallet is out and he's running my groceries over the beeper (again: Dude. If it doesn't work the first time, it's probably not going to the 14th. Manually enter the goddamn numbers.) The lightning bolts shooting from my retinas were apparently not affecting him at all, because this is the conversation he was having with the bagger (easy on the eyeliner there, young 'un):<br /><br />"I know, right? I mean, I already got custody of my first son and my other one can't stand his mom. I don't get why I have to keep paying her child support and pay for everything else he needs when she just sits on her ass all day watching soap operas. He's already told me, when he's 18, he's out of there. They can't stand their mom."<br /><br />WTF?!?!<br /><br />Are you shitting me? You're seriously having THIS conversation in front of me (and nine other pissed off customers)? This one? About child custody and how much your kids hate their mom? And this is ACCEPTABLE to you??<br /><br />The sad thing is, this isn't the first time I've heard about some grocer's boyfriend, or prom date, or custody status, or weight issues...it seriously happens every single time I'm at the store after 8:00.<br /><br />Look...I'm not exactly "appropriate". But damn, I'm smart enough to know that my stupid ass shouldn't sit and tell my co-worker about the annoying rash I've had for three days in front of a policyholder.<br /><br />All I'm saying is, your private life should be private, not broadcast to all shoppers at Albertsons on Tustin & Collins. Seriously. Censorship is our friend.<br /><br />Well, not mine...but you know what I mean.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-5712554207000889152010-04-16T09:23:00.000-07:002010-04-16T09:24:53.732-07:00The Gaga EffectThis morning, while in the car on the way to school and listening to the radio:<br /><br /><strong>D:</strong> Mom, what's a vertical stick?<br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br />Damn that Lady Gaga.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-83691140711711873172010-04-13T08:53:00.001-07:002010-04-13T09:00:09.399-07:00D-R-A-M-AYou know what I hate? Overreactors.<br /><br />Drama queens.<br /><br />Flipper outers.<br /><br />Today as I was driving to work, I maybe wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been. I maybe was talking on the phone and changing the radio station, and I maybe swerved a little bit into the next lane.<br /><br />Meh. Whatever.<br /><br />The lady next to me (who I DIDN'T hit, by the way) honked three times, pulled up next to me and stared at me for almost an entire block...which, now that I'm thinking about it, is pretty impressive. How come she didn't swerve while doing so? Hmmmmm. Must master that.<br /><br />My point is...SERIOUSLY, LADY. Relax. I didn't hit you, or cause a 4-car pile up. I just swerved a teensy, tiny bit. We're both still alive and kicking, although you might want to consult your physician for a Xanax prescription.<br /><br />Sheesh. Tough crowd.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-71672133109102849312010-04-11T12:02:00.000-07:002010-04-11T12:12:44.615-07:00You like me! You really like me!So I've been MIA for a few months now, just trying to sort out some shit in my "real" life. This means my blogging life has gone kaput.<br /><br />Unfortunately, it's hard to be funny when life keeps giving you the big middle finger, so I've taken a blog time out and haven't posted anything in a few months. I thought it wasn't an issue, but...some of yous are bitchin'.<br /><br />Turns out there are a FEW (very few) folks around these parts who actually LIKE reading my blog, dare I say even look forward to reading it. Huh. Who knew?<br /><br />So my resolution four months into 2010 is to start blogging again. It won't help me lose weight, or manage my finances better, or end world hunger...but hell, it might make a few of you giggle and as a bonus, get some of this shit running around in my brain all the time out. It's a win/win.<br /><br />I'll be funny. I promise.<br /><br />And I'll have great stories and amusing anecdotes. I promise.<br /><br />But for right now, all I have is this:<br /><br />- My 6th grader has a better social life than me.<br /><br />- My Kindergartner is quickly working his way towards juvenile delinquency.<br /><br />- My husband still has FAR too much spare time.<br /><br />- If Bad Dog eats one more goddamn thing in this house, I'm going to gas her. Not really, because I love her. But something really, really bad will happen. As soon as I think of it.<br /><br />- My freckles ARE NOT growing into one giant tan. Lame.<br /><br />- I wish I could get the garden without the gardening.<br /><br />That's it folks...for now.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-19890126077637350532009-09-24T09:59:00.000-07:002009-09-24T10:14:10.779-07:00Reading materialI love the library.<br /><br />I mean, I loooooooooove the library.<br /><br />I love the stories, and the smell, and the visions I have of curling up on the sofa and spending some quality time with myself, sipping hot chocolate and cuddling with my Snuggie.<br /><br />Except my "quality time" is spent with two kids yelling and two dogs shoving their noses up my crotch. And I don't own a Snuggie. And it's hot as shit right now.<br /><br />Meh. Whatever.<br /><br />The other day, I got a call that five of the ten books I have on hold were available. Yes, five. I'm aiming high.<br /><br />This was the conversation between me and my friendly library employee:<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> Hello?<br /><br /><strong>FLE:</strong> Mrs. Huttner?<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> Is my mother-in-law here?<br /><br /><strong>FLE:</strong> What?<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> Never mind. Who's this?<br /><br /><strong>FLE:</strong> This is the Orange Public Library. We're calling because the books you had on hold are available fo pickup.<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> Sweet! Which ones are they?<br /><br /><strong>FLE:</strong> Let's see...Duma Key, Odd Hours, The Lovely Bones...ummm...Corpse and uh, Dead Men Do Tell Tales.<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> OK, I'll be by today to get them.<br /><br />*pause*<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> Hello?<br /><br /><strong>FLE:</strong> Ummm, Mrs. Huttner? That's an interesting choice of reading material.<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> I know, right? I'm going to have so much fun tonight!<br /><br />*pause*<br /><br /><strong>FLE:</strong> Uh, ok then. Have a good night.<br /><br />*click*<br /><br />The Orange Public Library thinks I'm a serial killer.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-52560291409131181462009-08-17T23:49:00.001-07:002009-08-17T23:56:24.467-07:00A shower surpriseThis is what I found getting in the shower the other day.<br /><br /><p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SopPREgZO-I/AAAAAAAAAV8/4PiS7Qfm5Sw/s1600-h/08-14-09+065.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371192660278721506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SopPREgZO-I/AAAAAAAAAV8/4PiS7Qfm5Sw/s400/08-14-09+065.jpg" border="0" /></a> Should I be worried?</p><p>Maybe I'll start sleeping with a knife under my pillow.</p><p>You know...just in case. </p>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-64120797954168839232009-07-09T09:23:00.000-07:002009-07-09T09:24:45.112-07:00This is kind-of a big deal<div align="center">Holy shit.</div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SlYZitUNlWI/AAAAAAAAAV0/uoopJvtMmrA/s1600-h/CHAMPS.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356496890874402146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SlYZitUNlWI/AAAAAAAAAV0/uoopJvtMmrA/s400/CHAMPS.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-34268752287888414262009-07-02T10:59:00.000-07:002009-07-02T11:21:40.858-07:00Most of the timeMost of the time, I'm laughing.<br /><br />Most of the time, I'm strong.<br /><br />Most of the time, I'm capable.<br /><br />Most of the time, I'm sane.<br /><br />Most of the time, I'm shiny and clever.<br /><br />But sometimes...sometimes...I'm just me. The real me.<br /><br />Sometimes I get sick of the show.<br /><br />Sometimes the sadness takes over.<br /><br />Sometimes I wish I was as shiny inside as I am outside.<br /><br />Silly? Maybe. I'm not crying for help, or being dramatic...just honest.<br /><br />Sometimes I need help.<br /><br />I value control, probably more than I should. When I feel it slipping through my fingers, I panic.<br /><br />I'm panicking.<br /><br />But when you see me next, I won't be. I'll be clever and strong and shiny once again. Because it's just so much easier to pretend that everything's going to be okay than to face the reality that it might not be.<br /><br />The show must go on, no?The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-32011073627416209692009-06-20T20:50:00.001-07:002009-06-20T21:07:20.747-07:00A little kindness makes everything nicerThe other day, I took The Dictator and The Hormone King to Red Robin for dinner with my dear friend (Goob's mom) and her son (Goob). Goob's mom was able to hook me up with free kids' meal coupons...with Hubs planning some sort of strategic warfare on the opposing baseball team at Lamppost Pizza, I figured, what the hell? All I'd have to pay for was myself. Sweet!<br /><br />The Dictator was in fine form that night. He was singing. He was sliding. He was yelling. He was touching. He was dancing. He was leaning. He was picking his nose...and eating it.<br /><br />He was doing this all IN THE BOOTH AT RED ROBIN.<br /><br />I threatened. Icounted. I gave The Look of Death. None of it was working.<br /><br />Finally I realized I was going to have to get my stupid fat ass out of the booth, drag his little whiny ass outside and beat the hell out of him.<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />I hate it when they call my bluff.<br /><br />I rolled out of the booth, grabbed his wrist and started walking...all with him yelling, "I don't want to go outside! Are you going to smack me? Are you going to smack me?"<br /><br />So, I'm dragging him by his wrist. He's whining and I'm fuming. I'm plotting in my head the consequences I'm going to dole out on this insolent little creature. Talking? Spanking? Squeezing? Pinching? There are so many options.<br /><br />As I'm perusing my mental rolodex of punishments, a sweet Red Robin employee jogs ahead of me to open the door for me.<br /><br />Now, this is normal procedure. But in this particular instance, all I could think was, "Huh. He just opened the door for me to go beat my son. That was awfully considerate of him."<br /><br />Kindness, kids. I'm all about kindness.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-6993217111243976882009-06-17T22:33:00.000-07:002009-06-17T22:53:54.910-07:00Smell my faceI was on the computer tonight when The Hormone King came up to me and boldly stated:<br /><br />"Hey mom, smell my face."<br /><br />I did, believe it or not. It reeked of Right Guard Extreme.<br /><br />The village idiot put deodorant on his face. Why, I asked him?<br /><br />"Why not?"<br /><br />He amuses me like no other.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-11008553280616269502009-06-11T14:50:00.000-07:002009-06-11T14:56:41.894-07:00Football is BIGThe Hormone King is playing football, all four feet and 62 pounds of him.<br /><br />Huh.<br /><br />It should be interesting, if nothing else.<br /><br />So, we went to his first team meeting on Tuesday and it went a little something like this:<br /><br />Big hair. Big boobies. Big jewelry. Big makeup. Big wallets.<br /><br />And me. The boobies, I got covered. Everything else...not so much.<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />This season is going to KICK ASS.<br /><br />Do you think they'll have an open bar at the games? Cause I'm gonna need it.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-59628583189741211372009-06-08T22:49:00.000-07:002009-06-08T23:08:42.662-07:00The battle for pusTonight, The Hormone King and I had a knock down, drag out. About what, you ask?<br /><br />A zit. A freaking zit.<br /><br />The little shithead wouldn't let me pick it.<br /><br />I LOVE to pick. Nothing makes me happier than to spend a good 40 minutes of my life picking somebody. Anybody. On those uber rare occasions when my face is blackhead-free, I chase my husband around the house looking for an imperfection to squeeze. If he's not around, I scrutinize my kids...usually unsuccessfully. When they're hiding in the closet, I gravitate towards the dogs.<br /><br />Seriously. It's <em>that</em> bad.<br /><br />The Hormone King is just that...a hormone king. Hormones = oil. Oil = grease. Grease = zits.<br /><br />SWEEEEET!<br /><br />*Sidenote: THK has armpit hair. It's very fine and babyish, but it's there and it makes me want to vomit. This puberty thing is kicking my ass.<br /><br /><em>Anyway</em>, he was getting ready for bed tonight when I noticed he had a great, pointy, juicy blackhead on the side of his face. I immediately sprang into action.<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> You have a zit on the side of your head. Lemme get it.<br /><br /><strong>HK:</strong> No. You don't stop when I ask you to.<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> I will, I promise. Come here.<br /><br /><strong>HK:</strong> No! I'll do it myself.<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> (getting desperate) If you let me pick it, I'll give you $2.00.<br /><br />(I swear, you guys, this is what I'm resorting to).<br /><br /><strong>HK:</strong> No! Go away!<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> (more desperate) See your nails? They're long. I was going to cut them tonight, but if you let me pick that zit, I'll put it off for three days.<br /><br /><strong>HK</strong>: Seriously, mom. You're scary.<br /><br /><strong>M:</strong> Dammit! Did you hear me? I said I'll let you grow freaking talons, dude! That's insane! I'm desperate!<br /><br /><strong>HK:</strong> (running away) I'll do it! I'll do it! Dad! She's out of her mind!<br /><br />I chased him, but he got away. I even held his hands behind his head, but turns out you can't pop a freaking zit when you're holding someone else's hands. And it's absolutely gross when your kid licks your arm to force you to let go.<br /><br />He won this battle, but the war is just beginning. He's 11, for God's sake. The hormones are just starting to do their work on him.<br /><br />I will be victorious.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-18100809503445608942009-05-10T08:40:00.001-07:002009-05-11T11:09:45.487-07:0031 ReasonsIt's Mother's Day. It's time to celebrate your mom, to pamper her and indulge her and let her know how much she means to you, and how blessed you are to have been raised by her.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Except I don't have a mom anymore. At least, not in physical form. </div><br /><div></div><div>I hate this freaking holiday. It takes on a totally different meaning when your mom is gone. Instead of shopping for that perfect gift, I watch commercials telling me what to get the woman who raised me, the woman who was my best friend in the world...and I cry. Instead of planning brunch or dinner or figuring out who's going to be where, I stare at her picture and wish she was still here. </div><br /><div></div><div>Yep, Mother's Day without a mother simply blows.</div><br /><div></div><div>*Sidenote: FTD, I hope you die. I'm pretty sure my mother doesn't want flowers today, and I'm VERY sure that she's not sending me emails letting me know that...so enough with the emails from "mom" detailing "Here's what I want for Mother's Day!" Seriously. I hate you.</div><br /><div></div><div>I'm in a funk and I'm not so good at hiding it. My friend Erin realized this (because I posted it on facebook) and suggested I write 31 reasons why I love(d) my mom. 31, because that's how old I am, and reasons because it might heal my heart a bit. It's been a year and it still hurts every bit as much as it did the day I found out, so hey, it can't hurt, right?</div><br /><div></div><div>31 REASONS I LOVE(D) MY MOM:</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>1. She was the funniest person I've ever met in my life.</div><div>2. She would spend hours preparing a meal because she loved to cook. <em>Totally</em> didn't rub off on me. </div><div>3. She had little chicken legs, just like me. </div><div>4. When I was older and married and would get migraines, she would drive from Long Beach to Orange to bring me medicine, at the drop of a hat. </div><div>5. She was there when both my boys were born. </div><div>6. She loved my kids more than she loved me, and appreciated each of them for their (very different) spirits.</div><div>7. She sacrificed so her children would be taken care of.</div><div>8. She worked her whole life, from 15 years old to when she died at 54, even when she was so sick she couldn't keep her eyes open.</div><div>9. She managed to take care of me and my brother even after she was gone.</div><div>10. She survived things most people can't and shouldn't. </div><div>11. She left my dad when she realized he was bad for us. I was only 2 years old.</div><div>12. She was the Medicine Queen. Seriously. Need some Vicodin, Xanax or Midrin? Give her a ring. </div><div>13. She was strict. And I was scared of her, until the day she died. </div><div>14. She was an old school parent. She wasn't my friend, she was my mother. I didn't argue, I didn't say no, and when I was grounded, my ass was in my room for two weeks. </div><div>15. I look very much like her. And so does The Dictator.</div><div>16. She made me be a parent when I had The Hormone King at 20 years old, instead of raising him while I went off and partied. I hated her for it then, but loved her for it later.</div><div>17. She was the most sarcastic person I've ever known.</div><div>18. She wanted to be a better parent than her mother had been. And she was.</div><div>19. She loved to watch TLC.</div><div>20. She talked to me recently in a dream. She still cares. :)</div><div>21. She was one of the most intelligent people I've ever met. </div><div>22. She told me she was proud of me before she died. </div><div>23. She was very generous, and would give anything she had to someone she loved. </div><div>24. She used to say "Happy Natal Day" instead of "Happy Birthday".</div><div>25. She taught me to smile instead of cry.</div><div>26. I could forge her signature perfectly. She found out and didn't care. </div><div>27. She kept every single lame, ugly "thing" her grandchildren gave her. And trust me, some of them were <em>very</em> lame and <em>very </em>ugly. </div><div>28. She used to play music throughout the house on the weekends. I grew up listening to The Steve Miller Band, The Beatles and Fleetwood Mac blaring at full volume. </div><div>29. She never let me off the hook. She made me own my shit. </div><div>30. She was the mentally strongest woman I've ever known.</div><div>31. She was my best friend. </div><br /><div></div><div>Happy Mother's Day, mom. I miss you.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334229447840137938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/Sgb9a7zwgtI/AAAAAAAAAVs/Db-pq5rhIhk/s400/MOM.jpg" border="0" /></div>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-76462622747833095682009-05-05T15:37:00.000-07:002009-05-05T15:43:17.975-07:00Today sucks big donkey ballsToday sucks big donkey balls.<br /><br />Hubs called me this morning to tell me that he got laid off. No notice, no warning...just take your check and hit the road. Oh, and we'll be by on Saturday to get the piece of shit work truck that's been monopolizing your driveway for three years.<br /><br />We're broke with him working. Can you imagine what it's going to be like with no work? Uggs. And to make this super sunshiney day even grander, there are 270 people on the books before him at the union hall. The economy kicks ass.<br /><br />Pray for me, folks. Or cross your fingers for me. Hell, I don't care what you do. Light some incense, rub a Buddha belly, chant in tongues...just do it. Quickly.<br /><br />We're dog paddling now...drowning soon.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-55259627905293098372009-04-15T09:33:00.000-07:002009-04-15T21:45:19.941-07:00Let's talk TwilightSo I read the Twilight series. I didn't want to, because, hello, I am WAY too cool and mature to read vampire books and buy into the whole "you complete me" bullshit romance genre. I'm married, remember? I know that real life consists of cleaning up piss on the bathroom floor, asking for a courtesy flush and fighting the urge to stab your husband as he snores on the sofa while you're trying to get two crabby kids ready for bed.<br /><br />But, under much diress and with much prodding, I read it.<br /><br />Fine. I'm lying. I asked Salley if I could borrow the stupid first book. Actually, I begged.<br /><br />And OH MY GOD, I loved it. LOOOOOOOVED it.<br /><br />I don't know why, but it hit some long-dead romantic, vulnerable nerve in my body. All of a sudden, I actually <em>wanted</em> to spend time with my husband. Like, alone. Sans kids. Weird, right?<br /><br />Unfortunately, there have also been some negative side effects of stepping into the (sigh) Cullen world. For example:<br /><br />- I'm madly in love with a fictional teenage vampire who was really born in 1901.<br /><br />- I'm madly in love with the actor who plays said fictional teenage vampire in a movie, but only if he's wearing full vampire attire & makeup.<br /><br />- I've watched the DVD about 23 times and have a tendency to pause every single frame said actor is in.<br /><br />- I hate the whiny human teenage girl he's in love with. Bitch.<br /><br />- I find myself suddenly doodling crap like this all over the place. <div><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324967804202055010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 100px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SeYWAUna9WI/AAAAAAAAAVc/yJU4D7hC9Ho/s400/RP7.jpg" border="0" />- I'm pretty sure my kids didn't bathe or brush their teeth for three days. Mom was in a Cullen coma on the sofa.<br /><br />- I have totally unrealistic expectations of men now. Instead of hearing things like, "You are my life now", I hear things like "You didn't wash my underwear?" and it PISSES. ME. OFF. Seriously...Edward would die for Bella and I have to promise sexual favors to get the living room vacuumed. How is this fair?<br /><br />And, on top of all this, I've finished the damn series. What the hell am I going to do now? I have no reason to function. The sun is no longer shining when I get out of bed every day. I've resorted to Googling random shit in my spare time, in hopes of forgetting the Cullens and the love affair we once had.<br /><br />Damn.<br /><br />Twilight has seriously jacked me up.<br /><br />What am I going to do now? Go back to reality, you say? Nay, good sirs, nay.<br /><br />Somebody find me a new series to obsess over, pronto. This "real life" shit sucks ass.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324968127524307538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SeYWTJFdAlI/AAAAAAAAAVk/s__qiYQm8Us/s400/RP6.jpg" border="0" />Freaking Edward. </div>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-659307768168257612009-04-14T00:02:00.000-07:002009-04-14T00:05:51.508-07:00Happy Easter, momHappy Easter, mom. I miss you.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324439380584140978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SeQ1aBPRkLI/AAAAAAAAAVU/JirWCT2MaEs/s400/041309+033.jpg" border="0" />The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-45850506325715984622009-03-26T22:05:00.000-07:002009-03-26T22:23:05.457-07:00This child is not mineSometimes, I truly wonder if The Dictator is genetically mine.<br /><br /><div>I mean, sure, he looks exactly like me...well, a smaller, blonder, penis-carrying version of me, but still...we're pretty damn close. </div><br /><div>I see him every day and I feel 100% sure that he's my child. </div><br /><div>Most of the time. </div><br /><div>Then, there's other times...like tonight, when I walked in the living room and saw this:</div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317731313898659474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/ScxgdJfmnpI/AAAAAAAAAVA/B2CuccGQCeY/s320/032609+017.jpg" border="0" />Can't tell what he's eating? Here's a bigger picture for you:<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317732112752086242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/ScxhLpdGjOI/AAAAAAAAAVM/zlz0XZyjQBs/s320/032609+019.jpg" border="0" />DO YOU SEE THOSE? Those horrid, green, foul-smelling farm belongings on my coffee table? Those are snap peas. </p><p>Snap peas. </p><p>BLEEEEEEEEEEEECH.</p><p>And my offspring is eating them. Not sweetened, not cooked, not rolled in powdered sugar and deep fried...raw. He's eating them raw.</p><p>Obviously, there was a mix-up in the uterus.<br /></p>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-36898934734393275632009-03-16T23:37:00.000-07:002009-03-16T23:41:10.022-07:00Dear IRSDear IRS,<br /><br />Blow me.<br /><br />Wishing you a lengthy and painful death,<br />Shannon H.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-9277583193883577312009-03-04T21:40:00.000-08:002009-03-04T21:49:00.248-08:00I should start savingThe Hormone King is a tattletale. A massive, hyper-sensitive, over-reacting, sissyboy tattletale.<br /><br />In his defense, The Dictator is the master of all instigators, so it's usually justified. But since I can only hear so much whining and complaining before I pack up my shit and get the hell out of Dodge, the new rule is this:<br /><br />If I don't see blood or bones, deal with it.<br /><br />Magnificent parenting, I know.<br /><br />So tonight, this was overheard in my house as I was ignoring my offspring and tending to Facebook:<br /><br /><strong>HK</strong>: Moooooom, Owen just said boobies are awesome!<br /><br /><strong>D</strong>: *giggle*<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />You know what's more expensive than counseling? Bail.<br /><br />I'm <em>so</em> not cut out for this parenting thing.The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-24791668044528809852009-02-20T01:01:00.000-08:002009-02-20T01:18:50.694-08:00The Hormone King's on a missionThe Hormone King wants a cell phone. In fact, he wants a cell phone so bad that he gave all his friends (and a few little 5th grade floozies) <em>my</em> cell phone number so that none of them would know he's the poor trashy boy at the expensive private school with (gasp!) no cell phone.<br /><br />This means that I get 46 texts a day that look a little something like this:<br /><br />"do u know who likes u lol? dont tell ne1 i told you, k? g2g lol"<br /><br />What the hell kind of freaking language is that, anyway? Sorry kiddos, I don't speak textese, and shouldn't you be out playing Barbies or braiding each others' hair? For the love of God, you're in 5th grade, stop trying to whore yourself out to my son.<br /><br />So anyway...<br /><br />Despite the fact that he's 10 1/2 years old, and that we've never dropped him off and not come back for him, and that he has never in his life walked anywhere by himself, much less the 3 miles to school...The Hormone King is on a mission to earn his much-needed cell phone by proving himself responsible.<br /><br />When I got home from a baseball meeting tonight, everyone was in bed and this was the note I found on his dresser:<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304803824059668994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SZ5y-NA12gI/AAAAAAAAAUo/dSjMRs3b7Ys/s320/021909+039.jpg" border="0" /> Can't read it? Here's what it says, verbatim: <p><em>"Mom I packed my homework so don't get scared if you can't find my homework. I'm taking responsibility so I can get that phone I really want. P.S. It's only $10!!! Got my assingment book signed, and put my close away and got new close out, and after practice I will pick up poop even if it goes to dark. If I don't pick it up, then ground me. And I picked up my room. Sorry for argueing with you about the phone. P.S.J.R. You are the best mom. Thanks for looking after me!!!" (and a picture of a stick figure with snot coming out of his nose, and a note that says 'snot.')</em></p><p>To clarify, the poop he's speaking of is canine, not human. Although human would make for a much more interesting evening.</p><p>Sometimes, all it takes is a misspelled word on wide-ruled paper from The Hormone King to make my day. And if said note just happens to also contain an illustration of snot...well, shit, that just about makes my whole week.<br /></p>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861299915190384478.post-55898641643274328002009-02-20T00:49:00.001-08:002009-02-20T00:53:41.041-08:00Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good IntentionsDear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,<br /><div></div><br /><div>The Dictator obviously knows much more about how amazing tractor clocks can be than I do. </div><br /><div></div><div>I stand corrected. </div><br /><div></div><div>Sincerely, </div><div>The proud owner of 2 boys, 4,328,032 outdated toys and one truly magnificent John Deer tractor clock</div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304799877732603250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DoylRIJbHmw/SZ5vYfzJlXI/AAAAAAAAAUg/p2HD_Mf8-gI/s320/020509+026.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>The Boss Ladyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02102998456597731697noreply@blogger.com0