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?

Stupid.

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 compromise...you wipe, I'll check. There. We're done. And it was working. For a while.

Until...

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.

Yeah.

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.

*Sigh*

Awesomeness.

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, kiddos...you'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.

Everything.

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.

Dub-Dubs

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 "www.weightwatchers.com" 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."

SON OF A BITCH.

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.

Bitch.

Just life

*sigh*

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 just...living.

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.

*sigh*

Nothing, folks. Nothing. Just life.

Dear Internet Spam (part 2)

Dear Internet Spam,

Seriously.

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: http://bugsandwindshields.blogspot.com/2008/09/dear-internet-spam.html 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.

Fine.

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

S.E.R.I.O.U.S.L.Y.

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.

*sigh*

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.

Jerk.

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

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.

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...

IT'S A CAR.

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.

*Sigh*

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.

However...

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.

Sincerely,

Shannon
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.

Wow.

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.

Sometimes.

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).

Fuck.

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 child...as 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.

5th grade math is totally kicking my ass

I'd just like to say for the record that 5th grade is totally kicking our family's ass. Yes, all of us. All of us are getting our asses kicked by 5th grade.

Math seems to be the prime culprit here. Let me give you an example of what we dealt with last night, and why PPT's math homework took over an hour.

This was the problem:

195 x 3= ?

Simple, right? Written like this:

195
x 3
-----

the answer is 585 and it take two minutes to figure out. No problem buckos, I am bright and fairly capable, it shouldn't take me more than 15 minutes to help my offspring with his homework.

But wait.

PPT's class isn't just learning multiplication, they're learning 'grouping'. Which means that this simple problem:

195 x 3= 585

turns into this ridiculously complex and mind-bending problem:

195 x 3= 3 x (100 + 95)
195 x 3= (3 x 100) + (3 x 95)
195 x 3= 300 + 285
195 x 3= 585

So, our simple little math problem has turned into sonofabitching quantum physics, and what should have taken up two lines on his page has now taken five.

As a result, what used to be a calm, manageable mom has become a psychotic bitch throwing a math book across the room and cursing out a sweet Lutheran math teacher.

5th grade math is totally kicking my 31-year old ass.

It's 80s Day!

My blogger pal Where's My Angels has asked all us co-bloggers to participate in a universal "80s" blog today, complete with totally tubular photos of ourselves. Before I start, let me post this standard disclaimer:

"The Boss Lady will not be held responsible for any mental or physical anguish caused to you by viewing old, extremely horrific pictures of her, including but not limited to: seizures, vomiting, diarrhea or painful urination. Furthermore, let it be known that The Boss Lady was born in 1977 and can blame most of the painful fashion faux pas on her mother, who was still dressing her in many of these photos. Dated this 30th day of October, 2008."

Let's start early on in my repulsive fashion career:

I'm guessing this is 1984, which would put me at 7 years old. Although the shorts pulled up to my nipples is attractive, I think my very favorite detail of this photo is my bowl cut-turned mullet hairstyle I was sporting that year. And the glasses? That's a recurring theme. You'll see.

1986. I've moved on from the boring tortoiseshell glasses and have picked up a snazzy new pair of bright blue ones. Apparently they were fitted by the same Lenscrafters, because they still take up 60% of my face.

This one is difficult to pin down, because it looks like every other picture I took for about four years of my life. I'm guessing it's 1987-88ish. Yes, the pink pants, flamingo shirt and high top Reeboks are amazing, and the hair...hell, I don't even know what the hair was. A perm, maybe? That means my parents paid someone to make me look like that. No, the best thing about the whole picture is the gas prices...look closely and you'll see that gas was 97 cents a gallon. Kill me.

1989. No, I didn't dress like this every day...but I might as well have. This was for Nerd Day at school. Something to remember- although I dug through my closet and picked out the most mismatched clothing I could, these options were still in my closet. I owned them. And kept them. And probably cherished them.

And just so you know, if I still had that polka dot skirt, I would wear it. EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Late 1989/early 1990. If you can look beyond the face, and the bangs, and the perm, and the again HUGE glasses (Lenscrafters must perish in a fiery Hell), you'll notice I'm wearing a "Don't worry, be happy" shirt. God, I loved that shirt. I wore it all the time and was totally sporting it that same year, the day I was hit by a car. Ironic, much?

Alright, I'm totally cheating here. This is 1990. I know that because it's my 7th grade picture. At this point, I'm fairly certain I was dressing myself...at least I hope so. Those bangs. Oh God, those bangs. I went through Aquanet like it was crack cocaine, and I remember waking up at the crack of dawn so I could take my time in perfecting my bangs.

And damn, they were good.

Here's something I found going through old photos. It's a special present from me to you.

Apparently I really, really, really, REALLY liked Keanu Reeves.

God bless the 80s.

The Dictator is channeling Russell Brand

Have I mentioned that we're growing out The Dictator's hair? We are. And it sucks ass. It sticks to his forehead when he's sweaty, his sideburns look like a really bad 70s flashback, and last week I bought my first-ever bottle of detangler.

Detangler. For a boy. I haven't used a brush on either of my kids in years, and now I have to buy strawberry scented detangler too? For the love of God, I have boys...I shouldn't have to brush or detangle. That is the innate beauty of the wiener-baring species.

But, he wanted to grow it out, so we are. And tonight, IT. WAS. FREAKING. AWESOME.

The Dictator's hair takes about 40 minutes to dry. I don't know why, I just know that about 80% of the time he falls asleep with wet hair and wakes up with a killer case of bedhead.

Tonight, he took a shower and watched TV afterwards for about 20 minutes. When I finally pried his little ass off the sofa to go get ready for bed, this is what I saw:

To give you an even better perspective, this is what his hair looked like in its full glory:

Apparently, he had been laying the whole time on his wet hair, and this awesomeness was the result. I honestly don't even know how to fix this for school tomorrow, so I'm just going to say screw it.

I'll tell everyone he's dressed up as Russell Brand for Halloween.

Sweet, I've TOTALLY been tagged!

Holy crap, somebody loves me! My super-sweetest-most-amazing-friend-in-the-whole-world Jenni tagged me, which came as a total surprise to me because I had no idea this was going around.

(See post below).

So, I'm supposed to list 7 random things about myself that you may or may not know, and since I'm the most random person on the face of the earth, this should be pretty simple.

1. I hate the word "moist". I don't mind typing it, but hearing it out loud makes me want to hurl all over my keyboard. It's a horrid, despicable word. Coming in a close second: "plump". Eeeew.

2. I don't sleep. Well, I do, but only with some medicinal intervention. Falling asleep isn't the problem, but staying asleep is, and it's only worsened since my mom died. So every night I take my generic nighty-night pills, and all is right in the world...unless I take them after 10:00, because then I'm in a sleep coma until 12:00 the next day. "Non-habit forming," my ass.

3. I'm kind-of a teenage boy. Fart and weiner jokes make me laugh to no end, and I will seriously watch any movie that Will Ferrell is in. Any movie. I don't care if it sucks, it's freaking Will Ferrell! When I die, I hope to be buried with a copy of Anchorman. Anywho, I'm kind-of a teenage boy.

4. I'm way more sensitive than I make myself out to be. I don't get offended easily and am usually pretty quick to forgive, but I have tons of issues that have never been worked out and a big, giant marshmellow heart. I'll donate to anyone, anytime and will follow a stray dog for three miles just hoping to catch them and get them home. What can I say, I'm a sucker.

5. I LOVE tattoos, especially on guys. I've been telling Babe for 7 years now that he needs to get totally sleeved, then start working on his legs. I've promised sex every day for the rest of our lives if he does it, but for some reason he's just not buying it.

6. I HATE bending over. I hate it. I will spend 25 minutes trying to pick something up with my toes so I don't have to bend over. God knew this and thought it would be funny to give me three very messy boys to live with. And two dogs, all of which require lots and lots of bending over. (Insert Babe giggling like a 13-year old boy at the mention of 'bending over').

7. I sleep like a pretzel. It's something I've done since I was a baby, and I just can't shake it. Basically, I sit Indian style and then bend over. I have to put pillows down so my head doesn't just snap off and roll away from my body, but I love sleeping like that and will often do it without even knowing it.

As a side note, I'm a big girl...so methinks that last one is especially impressive.

So there you have it. I realized as I was typing this that I could literally type for hours on all the random things I am/do. What the hell, I'm amusing if nothing else.

This is the part where I'm supposed to tag some of my fellow blogger friends, but most of them have already been tagged, so I'm a little screwed. I do have a few more tricks up my sleeve though, so Nikki Crumpet, Where's My Angels, Deb, Angela, Jade...you're all tagged. Ha! So there!

Ah, this was fun.

My beef

I have a beef to pick, so pick it I will.

Instead of working today, I was blog stalking. Shocking, I know.

As I read my pals' blogs...you know, the ones I have blogrolled on my site...I noticed a trend. Everyone, it seems, has been 'tagged'. Everyone I've ever spoken to that has a cute little blog of their own.

Oh, wait. Everyone but me.

What the Hell, girlies? Am I not worthy of your tagging? What, you think I don't run out of things to blog about too? Have you read me recently? I've blogged about crickets, genital warts and Walmart for God's sake, obviously material's running short over here.

So, what's the haps? I'm talking to you, Jenni, Michelle, Daiana and Erin. Jerks.

However, because I'm a giver, I'm totally willing to forgive your lack of courtesy if one of you will just tag me. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST TAG ME!

*Edited 3 minutes after I wrote this: Oh hey, Jenni already tagged me. Lookee there! Sorry about that whole "jerk" thing...who knew?

Dear God

Sometimes, in my worldly travels to Ralph's Grocery Store, I come upon something that elicits a giggle and completely makes my day. Yesterday it was this little treasure laying delicately in the parking lot, waiting to be discovered by yours truly.

Dear God,

Thank you for not making me Dr. Jeffrey Lauber.

Amen.

Bad Parenting 103

This morning, PPT was taking his sweet time doing EVERYTHING I asked him to do. What followed is another shining example of why my uterus should have been removed before I procreated:

M: PPT, finish your cereal, we have to get going.

*Eight minutes later*

M: Seriously? You're not done yet? Hurry up, we have to leave!

PPT: (Showing me his empty cereal bowl) OOOOHH! (Said in a very snotty, "You're so stupid and I told you so" pre-teenage voice. At least, that's what I heard.)

M: BAM! KAPOW! (The sound of me hitting him upside the head.)

PPT: What?! What did I do?

M: Didn't you just say "OOOOHH" to me, all snotty and bastard-like?

PPT: No.

The Dictator, piping in:

D: He didn't, mommy.

M: Oh. Well, sorry. And just so you know, if you ever do make that sound, I'm going to smack you in the head.

PPT: Yeah, I got that.

D: (Giggle)

I present to you: Bad Parenting 103.

Hell, at least I apologized.

My thoughts on Walmart

I just went to Walmart, and I am seriously in sensory overload. I could do a three hour post on all the people and things I experienced there.

But I won't.

Instead, I'll just made this general statement:

Walmart is where intelligence and class go to die.

The end.

Who wants to learn about ME?

My pal Erin lives in Denmark and always sends these cool survey things, which I absolutely hate but for some reason can't stop my fingers from answering. Instead of emailing this time, I'm going to blog my answers, so all four of my faithful readers can figure out what makes me tick.

Revised- I just read my answers, and turns out, I'm extraordinarily boring. But, by all means, read on.

What time did you get up this morning? Very unhappily at 6:33.

Diamonds or pearls? Diamonds. So shiny and mesmorizing...

What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Tropic Thunder. But now that Stepbrothers is playing at the $1.75 theater, it's on like Donkey Kong.

What is your favorite TV show? Dexter, Heroes, Nip/Tuck, Intervention. Oh wait, were we supposed to pick one? Oopsie.

What do you usually have for breakfast? Oatmeal if I'm being good. Reese's peanut butter cups the other 355 days a year.

What is your middle name? Liane (pronounced LeeAnn).

What food do you dislike? Pretty much anything colorful. I'm a "white food" kind-of gal.

What is your favorite CD at moment? Hmmm...I'm currently alternating between Guns N' Roses, Jack Johnson & Dropkick Murphys, depending on how I'm feeling on any given day. I also have Eminem, Don McLean and The Steve Miller Band in my car as backups. Wow, I'm random.

What kind of car do you drive? A Mazda minivan. Mega fun.

Favorite sandwich? Quizno's turkey & swiss. Or just good old PB & J.

What characteristic do you despise? Judgementalism. Is that a word? Hell. I don't like people who judge others. There.

Favorite item of clothing? Flip-flops.

If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? I honestly have no idea. I'd love to do a Disney cruise for the kids...but only for the kids, since I hate Mickey Mouse. Freaking 6-foot rat.

Favorite brand of clothing? Most things from Torrid (fat girl Hot Topic).

Where would you retire to? Colorado or Oregon. But I'll follow my kids wherever they go. Dammit, I'm not missing out on grandkids!

What was your most recent memorable birthday? My 31st this year, but not for good reasons. It was my first birthday without my mom.

Favorite sport to watch? Football! Not baseball, for the love of God, not baseball!

When is your birthday? June 14. Flag Day, can I get a whoop-whoop?

Are you a morning person or a night person? N.I.G.H.T. Morning is the Devil's downtime.

What is your shoe size? Nine.

Pets? Good Dog and Bad Dog. 8356 fleas currently co-habitating with us. They have their own room now.

Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I'm pregnant!

Joking.

What did you want to be when you grew up? A Lawyer or writer. Somebody should have told me I don't have the brain capacity for either of those.

How are you today? Peachy freaking keen. Bronchitis is kicking my ass and four hours of sleep just ain't cutting it. But thanks for asking.

What is your favorite candy? Reese's peanut butter cups.

What is your favorite flower? Yellow roses. (Wink, wink, Babe, wink freaking wink).

What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? October 31st. I love Halloween.

What is your full name? Shannon Liane Huttner.

What are you listening to right now? Boston on Jack FM. No, really. The co-worker gets to pick the station the first half of the day, I get the second. Counting down the minutes until KROQ.

What was the last thing you ate? A brownie ice cream sundae at Katella Grill. Instant diarhhea. But so yummy.

Do you wish on stars? Sure, when I see them. Orange County has an awesome smog index rating.

If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Red. Because I'm a horny beast. Ha.

How is the weather right now? Hot as shit and windy. God bless the Santa Anas.

The first person you spoke to on the phone today? Hubs.

Favorite soft drink? Sprite. Although any sort of fruit-flavored soda comes in a close second...oh, how I love Orange Crush.

Favorite restaurant? Roma's, BJ's or Claim Jumper. All three have amazing artery-clogging pasta.

Real hair color? Damn. Now you'll all know the truth. Poopy brown.

What was your favorite toy as a child? GI Joes, baby. I always used to hope Flint and Lady J would get together. She obviously never realized what she missed. Whore.

Summer or winter? Winter, winter, winter! Sweaty fat rash is not our friend.

Hugs or kisses? Hugs. Especially just-bathed little boy hugs.

Chocolate or Vanilla? It depends...In-N-Out shakes, chocolate. Everything else, vanilla.

Coffee or tea? Vomit. Neither, please.

When was the last time you cried? Two days ago.

What is under your bed? Babe's shorts and a wooden baseball bat that we use to beat the bad guys' heads in with.

What did you do last night? Went to a baseball board meeting, ate a brownie sundae that gave me diarrhea and watched The Dog Whisperer for two hours. Wow, my life is awesome.

What are you afraid of ? That something will happen to my boys, or that they'll grow up to be creeps and it will be all my fault. Moths, crickets and clowns.

Salty or sweet? Sweet. Like me.

How many keys on your key ring? Five.

How many years at your current job? Eight.

How many towns have you lived in? Too many to count...we were nomads when I was a kid.

Do you make friends easily? Well, I never SHUT THE HELL UP, so I'd like to think so.

How many people will you send this to? Apparently anyone who reads my blog. So, four.

Well, that was fun.

An angel sleeping

I've never actually seen an angel sleeping, but I imagine they look a bit like this:

I'll bet they even have stuffed Pugs to cuddle with at night.

Dear Crazy Bitch

Dear Crazy Bitch driving the Nissan truck in my son's preschool parking lot,

Really?!?! Really?!?! You were really in such a hurry this morning that you couldn't wait for me to close my driver side door and/or make sure my offspring was not in the path of your wheels before backing out? Really?

I pulled in to my son's preschool this morning and parked my car next to yours, in between the white lines like a good little driver does (which is more than I can say for you). Since you apparently did not have the ability to fit your vehicle in the oh, I don't know...six feet of width alloted to you, you were over the lines, but I hugged the car next to me and made it work. Because I'm awesome, and you suck ass.

I opened my driver side door and squeezed my fat ass out a 4-inch crack because I didn't want to hit your car. Courtesy, you stupid whore, I'm all about courtesy. I completely crushed two boobies but made it out and opened The Dictator's sliding door in the back. He got out, got his lunchbox and we were good to go.

Until you came roaring out of the school gates, dragging your older, obviously miserable child with you. You were back in your car faster than I could say "Holy shit, that crazy bitch is running in the parking lot!", and although I'm pretty sure your child wasn't even sitting down, much less buckled in, you started backing up.

Three inches away from me and The Dictator.

In fact, you were so close to us, that you hit me with your side mirror as you were screeching out. YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR SIDE MIRROR. With my 5-year old standing right next to me, hugging me (and the car) as tightly as he could.

You're lucky I didn't sic his angry ass on you.

So, all I have to say is, REALLY?!?! You really couldn't wait 15 more seconds for us to get out of the way before attempting to run over a whole gaggle of preschoolers?

Unfortunately, I was so stunned I was only able to get out, "Hey, hey, hey!" like Fat Albert. But next time I see you, Crazy Bitch driving the Nissan truck in my son's preschool parking lot, it's on.

The Dictator's already sharpening his Captain Jack swashbuckling sword.


Not-at-all Sincerely,
Shannon
The Dictator's mentally unstable and highly aggressive Mom

I am a criminal

I am a criminal.

Well, technically I'm not...but I could have been. You know, if I hadn't taken that EIGHT HOUR CHECK RESTITUTION CLASS in Diamond Bar this weekend.

*Middle finger*

So I wrote a bad check. I didn't mean to, and it was written when Babe had knee surgery and was off work for six months, so it's not like I planned for it to bounce. Honestly, Your Honor, I wasn't trying to get my $23.00 worth of sports pictures for free. Luckily, you kind folks in the courts system have allowed me to fix my mistake- by threatening to press fraud charges, imposing a $250 class fee and forcing me to drive 25 miles (each way) to Diamond Bar on a Saturday, where I got to spend eight hours with some of the most entertaining (and well rounded) people on the planet.

My personal favorite part of the class? You know, besides the part where I got to miss The Dictator's soccer game? My favorite part was when we got in groups to discuss our specific situation with the whole class. Because really, there's nothing like fessing up to bouncing a $23.00 check at the age of 30 because you're a moron. It's good for the soul.

Our teacher was a nice-enough woman named Bonnie, who kept saying, I suppose to reduce the embarrassment of why we were there, "We're all adults, we're all smart, and we're all responsible."

I disagree, Bonnie.

Erika sitting next to me looks like she's 12, so I'm pretty sure she's nowhere near being an adult. And Lisa across the way...not only is she obviously blitzed off her ass, but she blows your smart theory out of the water. And responsibility? Ha! Sweetie, I bounced a $23.00 check, or did you forget that when I had to say it out loud four times?

I must say though, Tony almost made my class worth while. He is your typical government-conspiracy-know-it-all-middle-aged-loser who has an opinion about everything, and has no qualms with dragging your time out two hours longer than should be just to get his point across. Every single time Bonnie would ask him a question, he over-answered, complete with reasoning and in-depth explanations of his feelings and situation in life. At the end of the class, when we were getting our "Bad Check Certificates" (anybody know where I can find a gorgeous frame to commemorate such an achievement?), Bonnie asked all of us to tell one thing we learned in the horrid class. About the third person in, we learned that if we just said, "budgeting", we would all move along quickly, thus returning home to our beloved families. But oh no, not Tony. When Bonnie asked him, he started his answer with, "Well, my specific situation was a little different because I don't really think I should have been here to begin with..." The entire room breathed a collective heavy sigh and walked out, hitting Tony on the back of the head as we exited.

Surprisingly, Tony is still not ready to "own" his situation.

But I am. I'm a moron, I wrote a bad check, I suck and I'm lucky I wasn't thrown in a river with some rocks. I learned my lesson, believe me. As of this point in my life, I am willing to do WHATEVER I have to do to never return to that horrid class again.

And as for my $273 baseball pictures, they own a very special place on my Wall of Fame. I'll be clearing out a spot tomorrow right next to them for my hard-earned Bad Check certificate.

Perfection, thy name is Gerard

For the record...

It's 11:56 p.m. and I'm watching "300" for the well-over 300th time. And can I just say-

GERARD BUTLER.

*Dreamy sigh*

So beautiful I can even look past the Scottish accent coming from a Greek warrior's mouth.

Perfection, thy name is Gerard.

Me and four fleas

Tonight was a relaxing evening in our humble abode. Hubs and I were deeply engrossed in a phenomenal episode of "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" and couldn't wait to find out who the third burnt body was, and how the hell did he end up with the Mexican Mafia guy?

PPT was watching The Military Channel in the playroom and asking rousing questions like, "Did Adolf Hitler kill himself before he was caught?" and "Did you know that China has been at war for over 200 years?" Damn that Current Events class he's been taking in school. The other day he actually asked me what I thought of the $750 billion dollar bailout plan. I just blinked and walked away.

The Dictator was on the computer under the pretense of playing games on Cartoon Network, but I'm fairly positive he was perusing midget porn or looking up ingredients for a McGyver house bomb. That's just how he rolls.

All in all, a soothing, electricity-hogging night.

Then, as I was rubbing Good Dog's large belly, this happened:

M: You're so cute, Good Dog, yes you are, you're such a good...WHAT. THE. HELL. IS. THAT? Oh my God, it's a flea. It's a freaking flea. Good Dog has a flea. I'm going to barf. Seriously. Get me a...OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD, there's another one. What are we going to do? If there's two fleas, that means there's 300 fleas, and-

H: Calm down. It's just a flea.

M: No, it's TWO fleas. Which means 8004 fleas. Which means they're going to crawl up my nose and eat out my eyeballs when I sleep and-

At this point, I've started scratching my arms like some sort of heroin addict on a bad fix. And I'm on a mission. A mission, dammit. I'm going to find every damn flea I can and make it suffer. Because that, you dirty little vampires, is how I roll.

I call Bad Dog over, and she immediately flops on her back for a tummy rub...and WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS? Two more fleas. Sons of bitches.

Now I'm in a full fledged panic.

M: Oh my God, what are we going to do? Do we have to bomb the house? What if they eat The Dictator whole? What if we wake up and he's missing because the Flea Tribe has carried him off in the middle of the night to meet their leader and he's going to be their human sacrifice, because you know there are 4 billion of them in the house now and-

H: Seriously.

M: I'm going to Petco, and I'm going to buy every single flea product I can find to wipe this whole God-forsaken flea species off the planet. I'll teach these little jerks who's boss around here.

And so, at 8:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, I went 185 miles per hour down Tustin Avenue to Petco. And I got flea shampoo and flea medication, and held a lengthy conversation with a Labrador owner about the benefits of neutering.

But that was just the beginning of my evening.

This was the rest of it:

1. Drag both dogs outside for a flea bath at 9:30 at night with freezing hose water. Relax, they were fine.

2. Strip their dog beds of all washable materials and put them in the washer, on high, high holy-crap-my-eyebrows-are-burning heat and the 'Sanitize' cycle. Put both dog collars in there too. EVEN THE LEATHER ONE.

3. Vacuum the ENTIRE house. At 10:00. Move everything. Fleas are tricky little bastards.

4. Scrub walls behind dog bed area with baby wipes, because...well shit, I have no idea why.

5. Stay up waiting for dryer cycle to be done with dog beds so I can put the white load I need by tomorrow in the dryer.

6. Blog about it at 11:40 p.m. and watch Snakes on a Plane to stay awake.

And so, my peaceful little evening turned into a flea hunt of epic porportions. I'm scouring every square inch of this house looking for the fallen fleas' angry brethren, and when I find them, they'll wish they'd never stepped foot on Good Dog or Bad Dog.

But here's a neat little fun fact: fleas can't swim. They paddle their loathsome little legs and try, but they can't. So hypothetically, if you were to get a plastic Islands cup full of water and shove them in there, they would drown. And you could watch and laugh maniacally at their suffering.

You know, hypothetically.

I'm never going in the kitchen again

If you happen to live in the city of Orange and see a fat, freckled redhead galloping down the street barefoot, boobies flopping in the wind, and she's screaming like she hasn't been on her meds for a few months, that's probably me.

Because as I was minding my business, tooling away on the computer, I glanced over and saw this on my kitchen wall.

Freaking sonofabitching ninja cricket.

Bastard can have the kitchen. I'll blog from the front porch.

You just wait another six hours until Babe wakes up...then your nasty cricket ass is grass, shithead.

GNO & the BEST. GAME. EVER.

Sunday night was our monthly Girls' Night Out (GNO), and this month, my pal Anita was nice enough to host us for an evening of eating, playing 8th grade paper games and screaming loud enough to wake not only her little girl, but the whole damn neighborhood. Thanks Neeters!

The Guy That's Snoring on the Couch has these fantasies about what we gals do at GNO. His fantasies involve Catholic school uniforms, pillow fights and high pitched giggling. He's a little off base.

Want to know what us party animals really do at GNO? We eat. A LOT.

And we laugh. And we tell stories about vaginas, and childbirth, and all kinds of nasty stuff you don't even want to know about. And we take 4002 pictures of ourselves on Vern's camera and put stickers on the ends of our already huge and massively accentuated noses.

Oh wait, that's just me. Holy shit, I only have one (very pointy) chin! It's a Christmas Day miracle! The cute one with scary earrings is Gina, by the way.

But we've never had a naked pillow fight. And I don't think any of us even owns a Catholic School uniform. Sorry, Hubs.

We did play the best game EVER, which I simply can't recommend highly enough. Appropriately titled "The Paper Game" (an ode to our 8th grade creativity), here's the gist of it: each person goes around and says something they've never done. For example, "I've never had sex with an animal." Then, everyone who has done that thing (in this case, someone who's had sex with a goat, cow, sheep...you get the picture) puts a piece of paper in the middle of the table and everyone in the room now knows that person has screwed a hairy creature of some sort.

Really, it's a compassionate game, because said person never even has to tell anyone they like to get it on with dogs...we all just know because of their pristine white scrap of paper.

Don't judge.

I'd fill you all in on some of the topics we discussed, but I'm afraid a gang of middle class, almost-middle-aged, church-going women would bum rush me and burn me at the stake this evening.

Good times.

I love you all, and for the record, there's nobody I'd rather be talking about threesomes and vericose veins with.

Big green wiener

This weekend was one big, long sports fest for our family. PPT had a football game Friday, two football games Saturday and a baseball game on both Saturday and Sunday, and The Dictator had a soccer game Saturday. Babe and I were juggling kids, which sucks but is a necessity.

Anyway, I was going to do this post about how amazing PPT is at both football and baseball. And I was going to post this picture and talk about how much I love him, and how proud I am of the person he's become.

But then I downloaded this picture, and realized he's holding his bat like it's a big, green wiener. And I can't stop giggling about it, so the mother in me is gone and the 13-year old boy has taken over. Sorry.

But really...BIG. GREEN. WIENER.

*Giggle*

Communication is key

The Dictator and I were reading a book about whales last night:

M: When whales want to communicate, they make...?

D: Babies!

*Note to self: Hubs is no longer allowed to speak to The Dictator. Somehow, this is his doing.

Dear Time Warner Cable

Dear Time Warner Cable,

Pardon my language, but just shitgoddamnasssonofabitch you.

It's 12:20 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I'm finally sitting down anxiously to watch my DVR-ed episode of Dexter I've been looking forward to all night. Yes, it means I'll be up until 1:15 on a work night, but for my adorable little serial killer, I'm willing to make the sacrifice. This simply can't wait until tomorrow.

So I cozy down in my loveseat and start my beloved Dexter, and all is right in the world. Until I realize that holy shitbricks and coffee cakes, I'm going to have a seizure any minute. Why, Time Warner Cable, you want to know why?

Because you suck ass. And my digital cable looks like it's being run by a crack whore all juiced up on speed. My eyeballs are shaking from trying to focus, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a migraine in 14 minutes. Maybe I'll try crossing my eyes and jumping up and down, because judging by the quality of the "picture" on my TV, that might actually work.

I hate you. And Dexter hates you. Ack. That's all I have to say to you.

Bite my ass,

Shannon
A horribly pissed-off Orange customer, currently making plans to call The Dish Network asap.

P.S. If you'd like to keep me as a bill payer, fix my Dexter. And find out what's up with Jimmy Smit's accent. Why is every other word he says in Spanish? I can barely keep up with this intelligent series banter in English, now I have to figure out Spanish too? Great.

Reason #12,643 that I'm the best parent on Earth

Last night, I actually said these words to PPT:

"Opinions are like assholes, sweetie...everyone's got one and most of them stink."

Maybe I should call Kaiser and see if they have a child psychologist.

You know, just in case.

Note to self

*Note to self: Don't ever Google Image 'warts'. EVER.

Dear Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome

Dear Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome,

Why do you feel it necessary to ruin my dining experience?

For years, I've been going to Taco Bell and ordering the same thing...a taco with no lettuce and a soft taco with no lettuce. For a long time, my tacos were correct and lettuce-free, and all was right in the world. But the last few years, I started noticing that my tacos are not correct, nor are they lettuce-free, and I could never figure out why. I've pondered and struggled to understand, and I think I finally get it.

It's you, isn't it, Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome? It's you.

You lurk behind the steel bins full of processed meat and cardboard lettuce, waiting for a chance to get your revenge on all of mankind for whatever harm was done to you as an innocent toddler Gnome. You wait, giggling and rubbing your hands together maniacally while you devise your master plan, until you hear the magic words: NO LETTUCE. Then...you spring into action.

You watch the Taco Bell workers carelessly gather up the rubber meat and plastic cheese and toss it on the tortilla. Then, as they turn their hair-netted heads to double check the paper order, you pounce, gently placing one little piece of disgusting, wretched lettuce in the taco. The workers, too busy and full of hatred for that little mircophone in the drive-thru, don't even notice you. But your evil plan has worked. You've now officially ruined my tacos. Both of them. And all it took was 10 centimeters of that horrid green shit.

Why, Taco Bell Lettuce Gnome, why? Why do you desire to destroy my nourishment? What have I done to upset you so? Please let me know, and I will fix it immediately. I'd like my tacos lettuce-free again.

And in the meantime, I'm ordering the nachos and a cheese roll.


Sincerely,
Shannon
A Huntington Beach/Orange Taco Bell patron

P.S. I drive a silver 2005 Mazda MPV, and am always very nice to the cashier. Even when he calls me "Honey", which makes me want to bash his friendly little face in.

PPT & The Crocodile Hunter

PPT, God bless him, is on a Crocodile Hunter kick. He's holding full-on debates with himself to try and perfect his Australian accent, and it's driving me bonkers. This was our conversation this morning as he was getting ready for school (this whole discussion was in a horrible, 10-year old version of an Australian accent, so use your imagination):

M: PPT, are you finished eating?

PPT: Crikey! Ay mate, I'm finished.

M: Then go brush your teeth, we have to go.

PPT: Crikey! I'll go brush me blooming teeth. Did you see the kangaroo in the hallway? I almost got the little bugger...

M: GO!

PPT: Crikey! Don't yell! You'll scare the koala bears.

M: I'm going to kill you.

PPT: Crikey! She's a wild one, I don't want to scare her. I'll just creep up quietly...

M: Your life is over.

PPT: (running down the hall) Crikey! Crikey! Crikey!

Remind me to cancel Animal Planet, stat.