Let's talk Twilight

So 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.

But, under much diress and with much prodding, I read it.

Fine. I'm lying. I asked Salley if I could borrow the stupid first book. Actually, I begged.

And OH MY GOD, I loved it. LOOOOOOOVED it.

I don't know why, but it hit some long-dead romantic, vulnerable nerve in my body. All of a sudden, I actually wanted to spend time with my husband. Like, alone. Sans kids. Weird, right?

Unfortunately, there have also been some negative side effects of stepping into the (sigh) Cullen world. For example:

- I'm madly in love with a fictional teenage vampire who was really born in 1901.

- 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.

- I've watched the DVD about 23 times and have a tendency to pause every single frame said actor is in.

- I hate the whiny human teenage girl he's in love with. Bitch.

- I find myself suddenly doodling crap like this all over the place.

- 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.

- 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?

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.

Damn.

Twilight has seriously jacked me up.

What am I going to do now? Go back to reality, you say? Nay, good sirs, nay.

Somebody find me a new series to obsess over, pronto. This "real life" shit sucks ass.

Freaking Edward.

Happy Easter, mom

Happy Easter, mom. I miss you.

This child is not mine

Sometimes, I truly wonder if The Dictator is genetically mine.

I mean, sure, he looks exactly like me...well, a smaller, blonder, penis-carrying version of me, but still...we're pretty damn close.

I see him every day and I feel 100% sure that he's my child.

Most of the time.

Then, there's other times...like tonight, when I walked in the living room and saw this:

Can't tell what he's eating? Here's a bigger picture for you:

DO YOU SEE THOSE? Those horrid, green, foul-smelling farm belongings on my coffee table? Those are snap peas.

Snap peas.

BLEEEEEEEEEEEECH.

And my offspring is eating them. Not sweetened, not cooked, not rolled in powdered sugar and deep fried...raw. He's eating them raw.

Obviously, there was a mix-up in the uterus.

Dear IRS

Dear IRS,

Blow me.

Wishing you a lengthy and painful death,
Shannon H.

I should start saving

The Hormone King is a tattletale. A massive, hyper-sensitive, over-reacting, sissyboy tattletale.

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:

If I don't see blood or bones, deal with it.

Magnificent parenting, I know.

So tonight, this was overheard in my house as I was ignoring my offspring and tending to Facebook:

HK: Moooooom, Owen just said boobies are awesome!

D: *giggle*

*sigh*

You know what's more expensive than counseling? Bail.

I'm so not cut out for this parenting thing.

The Hormone King's on a mission

The 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) my 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.

This means that I get 46 texts a day that look a little something like this:

"do u know who likes u lol? dont tell ne1 i told you, k? g2g lol"

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.

So anyway...

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.

When I got home from a baseball meeting tonight, everyone was in bed and this was the note I found on his dresser:

Can't read it? Here's what it says, verbatim:

"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.')

To clarify, the poop he's speaking of is canine, not human. Although human would make for a much more interesting evening.

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.

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,

The Dictator obviously knows much more about how amazing tractor clocks can be than I do.

I stand corrected.

Sincerely,

The proud owner of 2 boys, 4,328,032 outdated toys and one truly magnificent John Deer tractor clock

Naked football

So I'm sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with my family and bonding right now.

Not really.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table stalking people on Facebook.

Same thing, right?

Anyway, this is what I just heard from the playroom:

HK: Let's play naked football.

D: How do you play?

HK: You have to touch me in my end zone.

*cut to me laughing hysterically*

I really should not be allowed to raise children.

Larry

Last night, I was watching The Hormone King as he was getting dressed for bed. I don't do this because I'm a pedo, but rather because if I don't sit on the bed and stare at him threateningly, he'll spend approximately 12 minutes singing, 10 minutes dancing with the towel, 23 minutes watching TV out of the crack in his bedroom and 8 minutes checking himself out in the mirror, all before he even picks up his clothing.

Approximately.

So I was on his bed giving him the "Boy-you'd-better-get-dressed-right-now-or-I-will-beat-you-to-death-and-text-all-those-little-floozies-you-like-and-tell-them-you-still-watch-The Wiggles-on-a-regular-basis" look, when he turned to me and said:

HK: Stop looking at Larry.

M: Larry? Who's Larry?

HK: *giggle, giggle*

HK: *giggle some more*

It took me a minute and then I realized what he was talking about.

Oh, for the love of God.

My son has named his wiener Larry.

Thank you

Despite what you all may think, I haven't offed myself, or my husband, or anyone else close to me. And my children are still alive and kicking, and even Bad Dog and Good Dog are fed and healthy, and continue on their happy little path of sleeping, shitting and barfing on my rug.

You can take me off friendship suicide watch, because I was just really, really bummed.

But thank you.

Thank you for caring. And questioning. And calling. And understanding. Or not understanding, but at least not calling 911 and having me admitted to a mental institution.

I appreciate it, and I love you all.

And I have more to blog about, I do...but right now, I need to eat my body weight in Smores and pass out in a pool of my own vomit.

You're the best.