Because it’s been far too long since you questioned my sanity.

<rambling post of awesomeness>

I have had way too much fun lately. In fact, I told John that I was pretty sure I’m going to die soon and this is The Universe’s way of saying, “Oh, hey, sorry about that…” ahead of time. A lot of times The Universe is a total dickhead, but I can imagine that maybe sometimes it gets bummed out about what a shit it is and tries to be cool to you to make up for it.

It’s kind of like how I pretend to be nice to John every once in a while when I realize I’ve been a total hole for months on end. Cause, you know, a few hours of not actually saying anything derogatory and smiling a lot can make up for endless weeks of torture and passive aggressive quips blended with just out and out aggressive combativeness and demanding, controlling, and manipulative domestic behavior.

God help him if he complains though; then I’m all, “DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE TIME THAT I HANDED YOU A NAPKIN WHEN YOUR FACE WAS DIRTY? I BLEED FOR YOU, INGRATE.”

Or something. But, basically, I know not to push The Universe and all, because it’s just doing the best it can, damnit. Ya dig?

So. Yeah. The Universe is clearly trying to be nice to me because it feels bad about my impending doom.

Either that or it is going to plan such a fiery, explosive and painful ending for me that getting me all complacent and mellow first will make things that much funnier for the bastard when it all goes down.  The Universe is probably sitting in a dark room rubbing his hands together, and he’s all, “This stupid bitch has NO IDEA what’s in store for her, man.  It.is.going.to.be.EPIC.  I am totally going to photograph the look on her face and Twitpic it when she gets hers. MUAHAHAHAH.”

Um. Wow, The Universe just went from being a maybe, kind-of dickhead to a completely sadistic psychopath in my mind. I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve been into the caffeine again. Also the wine. Maybe a little of the blow powdered sugar.

What the hell was the point of this post? Oh, yeah. I’ve been having fun lately – making new friends in our neighborhood, going out with girls I actually like, and generally, well, not being locked in my house like a socially inept, loser ho-bag.

That is, I’ve been pretending I’m not a socially inept, loser ho-bag, and nobody is on to the deception yet, so clearly I am up for the next Academy Award. (note to self: do not marry Jesse James any time soon)

Last Wednesday, in another installment of Happy Fun Times I Should Feel Guilty About (don’t worry, I got mine) I went to an Open House at Beleza Medspa with some lady friends: Blythe (Aka @Bejewell) and Leigh. We needed to learn about ways you can change what nature does to your body, and instead, make it all fake and HOT.

Apparently, Blythe and Leigh were getting drunk for free while they were waiting for me to arrive late (people start drinking to cope with the fact that they miss me, I’m that awesome) (either that or they drink to cope with the fact that I’m about to arrive) and once I got there, we went to a back room to find out about the process of having your facial skin turned from haggarific to Goddess Sheen of Awesometasticness.

This process is also known, to lesser degree, as Let’s Burn Your Ugly Face Off. You’ll only have to hide in a cave for about 4-6 days while all the skin flakes off as if you have some horrible and contagious disease. But after that? YOU WILL BE BEAUTIFUL. It’s a metamorphosis. You have to let your inner butterfly out… by KILLING THE SHIT OUT OF THAT CATERPILLAR we like to call your real face.

I kind of started getting scared as we were led down a hallway to a back room. Partly because we were walking in the opposite direction of the free wine, but also because I was worried about what was really about to happen. What if we ended up in a deep well being told “it puts the lotion on its skin?” IS THIS HOW THEY REALLY GET THE NEW SKIN THEY PROMISE TO PEOPLE?

It turns out we were just going to hang out with Nathan in a small room, drink, act like complete morons and listen to him tell us about all the products he could sell to us that are totally made of Fairy Dust and Unicorn Shit, and will therefore MAGICALLY MAKE YOU PRETTY. The before and after photos were really impressive, especially the one where the woman was definitely dead in the before photo and was just about to receive the crown for Miss America in the after photo.

What I’m saying is that this stuff that comes in a 1oz bottle and costs only slightly more than a new car (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating JUST A LITTLE BIT) will totally bring you back from the dead.

I bet Jesus used it. I mean, have you seen photos of him? His skin was far too lovely for a 30 something who was out in the raging sun without SPF all the time. Also, you know damn well that he was wearing color contacts – blue eyes, MY ASS. Easter should really be celebrated by rubbing expensive liquid shit on your face. (Or hiding colored eggs, maybe, because we all understand how that has anything to do with Jesus.)

*blank stare*

After we annoyed Nathan for some time by making sex jokes, asking if he could just make us pretty and skip all the intelligent, scientific explanations and photos, and just all around being obnoxiously hilarious, Nathan rubbed random products on us. I’m not sure exactly why, maybe to prove that it wouldn’t melt our skin on contact? We giggled a lot and then smelled it. Don’t you smell everything that a strange man rubs on your skin in the back room of a place where they ply you with alcohol and ask you for your personal information the moment you arrive? No?

Well, I don’t get you at all.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure that we were the most awesome people who were there that night, as evidenced by:

• our inability to just listen to Nathan, rather, interrupting every few seconds to make drunken jokes
• Blythe making her fingers kiss and say “I do” when Nathan put eye cream on them
• Leigh commenting about the hookers we were going to pick up later (what?)
• my responding to Nathan’s question about our lifestyle habits by saying (in a very charming manner, I’ll have you know) “I don’t smoke, my diet is good, I use SPF, but I drink LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!!!, is that bad?”
• the fact that we considered just shoving the product in our purses and RUNNING LIKE HELL
• our inability to get more than 2 feet away from the place without loudly proclaiming over the Size XXL lips on Mega Procedures Woman (I may have thrown up in my mouth a little. I mean, really, your lips are NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE LARGER THAN YOUR ASS.)

Of course, then we went to a restaurant and ordered more drinks, because we were clearly far too sober to exist and more alcohol was necessary. Of course, just as we were all having the best time EVER I got this image as a text message from John:

at which time I immediately starting crying right into the nachos and possibly Blythe’s Margarita as well. There may have been snot on the fried green beans when it was all over. In case you were wondering, being notified of your child bashing his head apart all over your favorite Chik-Fil-A is just about the best way you can SOBER YOUR ASS RIGHT UP.

Leigh was all, “Uh, uh, I have to go pee!” and almost knocked the table over as she ran uncomfortably away, and Blythe was mostly like, “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH. MY. GOD.” Later, we all decided that John was a total shit for sending me that image with no text attached, and we all plotted his death.

[Watch your back, dude. These bitches don't play.]

Have I mentioned that I love Blythe and Leigh? No? Well, I do. They’re beyond awesome.

As we were leaving the restaurant, Blythe was all “I know you bitches are tipsy, neither of you has any kind of sense of direction, and you don’t really know where you are, but I hope you get home somehow, love ya, mean it” and dumped us in the parking lot and took off laughing. I was totally feeling like I might want to marry her right in that moment, and I’m sure you can understand those deep feelings.

And when Leigh was taking me home and suddenly said, “OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT, A PEACOCK?!” I knew that she is just classy enough to be my new crush. (But yes, it was a fucking peacock. Have I not told you about the peacocks that live right by us? No? Well, guess what. Peacocks. Right across the street. And they are LOUD. There. Now you know.)

I am a little pissed off, in retrospect, because the whole reason I went to Burn Your Facial Skin Off So You Can Be Prettier Palace was so I could learn about having lasers shot at my armpits and vaginal area. And NOBODY TOLD ME ABOUT LASER BOMBING MY HAYHAY.

Totally robbed.

So, in summation:

• The Universe is a dick but at least it throws you a bone every now and then.
• The Universe is a dick and it will smash your kid’s head in while you’re having fun.
• Your lips should never be larger than your ass. NO, REALLY. (If they are, I DEMAND you start sitting on your face.)
• My cooter is still in need of laser action.
• Jesus wore color contacts and used skin care products.
• My blood is probably at least 90 Proof.
• John should really be sleeping with his pistol under his pillow.
• Blythe and Leigh = awesome and I might have sex with them some day while a peacock watches.

So, how have you all been lately?

</rambling post of awesomeness>

photo credit: Dan Kamminga / CC2.0

tragic discovery at local park: peep down.

While enjoying a sunshiny day at a local Texas park last week, I made a tragic discovery. Like a train wreck, it both repulsed and attracted me.

We have a Peep down, people.

I repeat, PEEP DOWN.

Oh, the humanity.

The mushy, sticky, crunchy sweet goodness of this Peep will never be enjoyed by one of its many adoring fans. A moment of silence, please.

This post is dedicated, with love and gentle solace, to Megan, who may be the world’s greatest champion of Peeps and the first person I thought of when I made this tragic discovery. I know she will weep at this injustice.

Fingers in the nose – no, no! Using a tissue for boogers – yes, yes!

a page from “No No Yes Yes” by Lisa Patricelli

For a very long time, this is a rule that Braden has respected. Hey, if Mommy says fingers in the nose is a “no-no” and there’s even a book backing her up, it must be true.

But now we have reached the Age of Contrary. We see evidence of this with classic conversations like, “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” “NO. Dat’s not peanut butter jelly sandwich, DAT’S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY.”

And who could not see the genius in “Sit down at the table now.” “NO, I HAVE TO SIT IN DIS CHAIR NOW.” (The chair at the table.)

And if it’s fun to say “NO” to things just so you can restate them in a different way, well, then it must also be delightful to do things that have been forbidden. It’s all just part of the same circle of fun, right? Of course it is!

Life without testing the boundaries is boring, my friends. And the boundary between fingers and boogers is just SCREAMING TO BE BROKEN.

I mean, just look at how much fun this little dingaling is clearly having!

did he really have to be wearing the shit eating grin?

And so it goes, the boy realized that perhaps even if the book and The Mommy say fingers in the nose is not so groovy a thing to do, it can, in theory, still be done. And so he tested this idea, and found that yes, it can be done, and in fact, he quite enjoys sticking his fingers in his nose.

Over and over again.

it kills me that he can make even booger picking cute

Though it is clearly quite a bother to request a tissue before nostril exploration has begun, apparently it is no problem at all to do the same thing once one’s finger has been befouled. He walks over to me with his finger stuck out in front of him, a fine specimen riding the peak of his pointer, and says, “Put my booger in a tissue.”

Such gifts he presents to me, and lo, they take my breath away. It is an honor, such an honor.

And hey, I guess I have some idea of where he gets the appreciation for sticking things in his nostrils.

i.am.dead.sexy.

At least he’s not sticking other things in his nose.

Yet.

It says COCK.

Thanks to Books from Birth and Dolly Parton, Braden gets a free book every month, which is all kinds of awesome. Recently, his new book was The House That Jack Built. I was pleased – that’s a cute story!

Then I read it to him at bedtime.

It screamed “COCK!” at us.

No, seriously. Look:

And really, I can’t read this to him a single freaking time without picturing a giant wang all up in Jack’s house.

And yes, I know that a “cock” is a rooster. I also know that “gay” means happy and a “fag” is a cigarette. And yet, I wouldn’t say that a happy farmer smoking a cigarette next to his rooster is a gay dude tokin’ a fag by his cock.

And you probably have a lovely mental image that illustrates exactly why.

So. Thanks for this book selection, Dolly.

(Who, incidentally, I can never think of without picturing… you know damn well what.)

i am all things to all people. on Google. especially the perverts.

I’ve had some good fun with this here website, my friends, you better believe it.  Oh yes, I’ve celebrated my son’s life, I’ve talked about both fabulous and hard moments of parenting, I’ve embarrassed my husband. (Yes, embarrassing your husband is good, fun times. And hell, he makes it SO EASY.  What with saying things like this.  But I digress.)

And of course, I’ve talked to and met so many of you, learned about you, and built wonderful friendships.

But today I’m going to let you in on another part of having this website that enriches my life.

Keyword searches.

I am endlessly entertained by checking my web stats to see what web searches lead to this site.  Now, some of them, I will admit, make me want to vomit.  I’m going to spare you specifics on these, but if I could find the people who were entering them into a computure somewhere, sterilization would be in order.

With a rusty fork.

When I can get beyond the TRULY DISGUSTING AND DEPRAVED searches, there are the mild perverts.  I imagine these are the kind of winners who “bump” against you “by accident” on the subway.

They land on my page by searching:

• nipple pleasure
• moms with nice racks
• naked wrestling
• mom crotchless
• nut in my mouth
• mom peeing
• slap me around
• bunchy vagina (W. T. F.)

To whomever searched “i put my mascara in my vagina” – STOP IT. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.  There are things that just shouldn’t be inserted in certain areas.  I THINK YOU’VE DISCOVERED ONE OF THOSE COMBINATIONS.

And whoever searched “big fat and ugly” I hate you.

But then there are the searches that just make me laugh.  A few recent examples:

• i want to shave my face off
• jello farts
• bitch perfume
• im going to eat your uterus
• can you put chocolate on the head of a penis

This is really just a small sampling, and only from the past four days or so.  I’m sure you can now see why this is so amusing to me.

Incidentally, my top three search terms for the past year?

1. sarcastic mom
2. best push up bra
3. bewbs

Numbers 1 and 3 are completely understandable, right? Right.

And number 2?  Oh, you have no idea how glorious it is for me to claim that lovely search term.  You may or may not remember this post about that earlier this year.  Go ahead, read it.  It’s funny, and it will give you insight into this push up bra business.

Guess what, PR Asshat?  You can #suckit.  I might still be on the second page of hits for “best push up bra” but I think you and I both know that I still win this round.  So eat me.

Of course, that post bought me top 3 ranking for both searches: “asshats who should die” and “Ultimate Assholes of The Universe.” *cough*

*awkward silence*

(please feel free to stop and confirm that I actually *am* the number one search return on Google for “Ultimate Assholes of The Universe,” it’s okay, I understand the urge to do this. go ahead. laugh. Now laugh even harder when you see I’m hits number 1 AND 2. get it out of your system)

(PS: no really, DOESN’T THAT RULE!?)

Continuing!  To the person who recently searched “getting him off with your bare feet,” here’s my advice:  since making him a sandwich and getting him a beer with your feet is going to be pretty hard, just go ahead and cheat and use your hands on those ones. But using your big toe to turn on the TV on Superbowl Sunday should be pretty easy.  Unless you’re a fucking moron.  Or, you know, you don’t have feet.  In which case the search would be pointless and you’re wasting my time and yours.

Only other thing I can think of is you wanting to get him off the couch, in which case, two feet planted squarely on his back in a sudden power thrust should do the job nicely.  I mean really, sometimes you just want to watch Keifer Sutherland, er, I mean 24, alone.

What?  Wait, we’re not talking about putting our feet on naked wiener are we?  Oh, good grief.  Really?  This searcher must be the alter ego of the weirdo who Googled “gross wieners on your body” the other day.  Right.

Of course, the best thing for me was noticing just yesterday that a search for “wife is a bitch” landed someone on my site.  Now, if that was John, we can congratulate Google for 100% Success in returning accurate hits to sites from searches.

All in all, the whacked out nutjobs out there with access to a computer are giving me a bit of free entertainment.  And I like it.  Thanks, ya fuckin’ head-cases.  I owe ya one.  Maybe I’ll even write a post one day for the person who wanted to know, “can I use the diva cup for military training” because that is IMPORTANT INFORMATION.

Clearly.

Don’t let the man get you down.

And if you must submit, make sure you let them (the powers that be) know you’re going to do it your way.
Especially if your way is like a cocky little bastard.

Gah, I love that little troublemaker.

I clearly have superior parenting skills.

Braden is fully toilet trained.

I say this and feel odd, as if I’m talking about having gotten the puppy completely house trained. But yeah, it’s a lot like that, considering he used to piss on the floor pretty regularly.

And before you (I’m talking to “you,” the person who has spare time in his/her life to make asshat comments on posts because you hate yourself and you’re taking it out on others) go making some bitchass comment about how that wouldn’t have happened if I’d not let him run around naked all the time, please to be looking at this: click here for a special, pre-valentine’s day gift of love from me to you.

In all seriousness, though, leave any comment your heart desires.  I like it rough.

Also, I fully expect gratuitous thank you’s from ALL of you because for a split second, I considered posting Avitaballs as the link up there.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

Now we can move on.

So, Braden has been reliably doing all business on the toilet for quite some time now, but you’ll have to forgive me for not talking about that as the progress/training was ongoing. If you have children you know the rule: IF YOU CELEBRATE IT TOO SOON, THE UNIVERSE WILL PUNISH YOU WITH A SWIFT REGRESSION.

It is only now, after such a long time, that I feel safe telling you…

MY KID GOES ON THE TOILET! MY KID GOES ON THE TOILET! I DON’T HAVE TO WASH DIAPERS ANYMORE! I DON’T HAVE TO WASH SHITTY AND PISSY UNDERPANTS ANYMORE! THERE AREN’T PUDDLES OF URINE ON THE FLOOR IN THE BATHROOM ANYMORE! I DON’T HAVE TO PULL DOWN TINY UNERPANTS FULL OF BROWNIE BATTER ANYMORE!

When he can actually wipe his own ass, I think I’ll bake him a fuckin’ cake.

Now, having said all this, we *do* have occasional pee accidents because he has taken to doing the very same thing his Mommy does. He gets all wrapped up in something and he can’t.stop.and.go.pee.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my son is a Pee Holder.

He pretty much refuses to stop what he’s doing until he reaches CODE RED. At that point, he’s running to the bathroom like his testicles are on fire and sometimes he ends up wetting his pants while he’s right in front of the toilet trying to pull them down.

Which, yes, is maddening, and I’m all, “DUDE. You finally learned how to do this really well, don’t go screwing it up by waiting too long. Don’t wait, come right to the toilet!”

To which he replies, “What? All I know is that I’m totally going to forget everything you just said except that part where you said ‘don’t go screwing it up’ and I’m gonna yell that at top volume in public, repeatedly, the first time it seems like it might be really embarrassing for you. I might add in that word you said in the car the other day, too. ‘Asshole,’ right? Right. Now go wash my underpants, beesh.”

So, okay, yeah. I admit there are still a few accidents here and there. And the occasional shart. Which is really just funny, quite frankly, because he says, “Oooh, Braden pooped in pants,” and then quickly follows that with “It’s okay, it’s JustUhShart!”

It’s all par for the course.  Most of the time, things are now clean and dry around here, and I couldn’t be happier about that.

I have to admit that the Sentimental Mommy side of me does miss seeing that chubby hiney he used to flash as he ran around the house threatening carpets from wall to wall. Just a little.

But sometimes, we have special moments like the one that happened the other day:

Braden: *fidgeting in living room*

Me: “Do you have to pee?”

Braden: “Yes.”

Me: “Go to the bathroom.”

Braden: *doing the hammer dance in the living room*

Me: “What are you doing!? Go to the bathroom and PEE!”

Braden: “No, I DANCING FIRST.”

Me: *trying not to laugh. failing miserably*

Hey, at least he has his priorities. Sometimes, before you go to the bathroom, you just have to say, “STOP. HAMMERTIME.”

I stand by my celebration.  Because that? Is clearly a sign of superior parenting.

Step two is crucial, really.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without this wonderful How-To from everyone’s favorite gifters.

There really is no occasion you can’t brighten with a dick in a box. And really, it would be nicer than getting a pap smear for Christmas or Hanukkah, right?

Also available on YouTube.

Merry Christmas to you all. May you find love and joy (and maybe even some genitals wrapped in pretty bows) today and for the rest of this season.