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.

Huh.

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 addictinggames.com 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...

WHO ORDERED ME THE GODDAMN SUBSCRIPTION TO MAXIM MAGAZINE?

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.

*Sigh*

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

Bastards.

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 free...by 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, Blogger...work 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.

*Sigh*

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,

Shannon
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.