Kids make you look bad.

Just watched the DVD from the 2005 World Series. (And wow, what a dominate team). But mostly, it reminded me of all the ridiculous things child 2 used to say. She still says ridiculous things, only now they're preteen things, and they don't make me laugh, anymore. I mostly squint the hell out of her. She was 2 when the Sox (the white kind) won. And she watched, and she knew who they all were. Her imaginary husband was Paul Uh-erko. Some kids have an imaginary friend, she had an imaginary family. Husband, 3 kids, a dog. Her kids were Lola, Noonee, and Sam. Fluffy was the dog. The kids were always in trouble. Most of the time, they were in trouble for doing whatever got her in trouble earlier in the day. And they got in BIG trouble. Noonee is in jail, she'd say, as she sat down at the table, rolling her eyes, looking utterly disgusted. What happened?? She took candy out of the drawer without asking. Then she'd rest her cheek in her hand, and shake her head. Her kids were always getting hit by trees or falling out of windows. A lot of things she said made me examine my parenting skills. We don't know a single person who has been hit by a tree. Or fell out of a window. Or in jail, even. Where is this child coming up with this?? She had these markers with pictures of princesses on them, and she was walking them around her desk, and they're having some kind of crisis. She makes one fall off the desk, and is hanging there. She says-mommy, help me, I'm falling! Here comes mom marker...no, you shut up! I'll spit on you!  What the fuck?! She's the meanest mom ever! 

One time, she did her sitting at the table sighing thing, and told me Pauwee was in jail. Great, now her husband is a criminal. I asked why. She said-he punched me in the face. Why??!! He doesn't like my boyfriend, she says. Probably took me 5 minutes to spit out-why do you have a boyfriend if you have a husband?? She looked at me like that was the dumbest question she'd ever heard. Are some Kids predisposed to grown up stuff?? I sheltered those two. Only little kid tv and movies, only kid music. Except for the Beatles and oldies. Maybe that's a subliminal

Lesson in strawberry fields...grown up stuff. 

I'm not nearly as surprised when kid 3 plays cars, and makes a traffic jam. On purpose. Then picks one car who sits there and yells at everyone. My 5 year old has already learned the inherent danger of Asian drivers. My feeling is a mix between pride and shame. Someone pulled out in front of us once, and I had a rare moment of watching my mouth. Dang that dude! Kid 3 could obviously sense something was missing. Whys that guy being such a fucking dick? Little kid voice, big words. What?! -I say, I don't know, but don't say that! 

If you're wondering where to send my parent of the year award, you're SOL. Youll have to keep that one in the trophy case, cuz my Anonymity cannot be compromised.  

Self portraits with cats.

Why in the hell do people take professional portraits with their pets?? I can understand if it's a family with 6 kids, and the dog is included. It's the family dog. But like, a single person, and their pet? That's a straight up advertisement about how you're perfectly content with nothing but your chihuahua. Or gerbil. Whatever. If you're single, why would you schedule a photo session for just you? So you can have yearly documentation of how you've aged? Then they just believe they're young, and in turn inspire the entire advertising of just for men. Tom Thibodeau looks like the goblin banker in Harry potter. That's the Bulls coach, just in case you suck by not being from

Chicago. Anyway. Professional portraits are glamour shots for ugly people who can't be glamorized. Not everyone can pull off a peacock boa. Glamour shots at least did your makeup. Whoever does these  portraits I speak of, is living in their great aunts basement. They have two different backgrounds to choose from. And an awesome Mac computer, with photoshop version .001.  

And really, the only acceptable pet to have your picture taken with if you're single, is a dog. If you're blind, you should have your dog in the picture. How else would you know where to look? 

You can't take a picture with a cat. Cats are assholes. They will find someway to ruin the pic. Unless you're in Cosby sweater and trying to make a disenchanted like face.  Then it's ruined before the camera even has film. People take pictures with their lizards. For fucks sake. A lizard? A snake? Well, ok, a snake could be ok. If you're making a poster for you're circus performance. And you're wearing a leopard print thong unitard. Then a snake is ok. Maybe the worst are with birds. Fuck birds. ALL birds are assholes. Either because they're stupid or they're just fucking assholes. We had birds. Two cockatiels. One was nice, and obviously mildly retarded. The other was a dick. He sucked. Of course, the dog had to kill the nice bird. Probably because it was like-hey, buddy. You wanna play fetch with me? Cool. 

Anyway birds are gross. And they have lice. Which make me remember...we had some barn swallows make a nest by the front door. It was so cute. They had babies. Awww. Then the bucket loads of bird shit came, and I thought, hmmmm. Gross. Then I noticed all these super tiny moving dots on the storm door. Weird bugs, I thought. Then I decided to clean the storm door, and I itched and felt my skin crawling for the rest of the day. If I were an albino, it would've been obvious. But I have lots of chocolate spots, so it provides good camouflage. J had the same thing happen, and then we figured it out. Mother fucking bird lice. The internet basically told us to burn our house down. But it turns out, that's only if you own a shit ton of birds. 

Here it is.

Her poor mouth hole has been clogged with dried paint for years. Poor starving baby. 

Dolls these days...

My mom cursed me when I was young, that I would have a daughter who makes me as crazy as I made her. And it worked. That child. We will fight. Many times. 

I Was just about to watch Shaun of the dead, and there was a preview for son of chuckie. Good gravy. I'm wildly amused, yet terrified at the same time. I had a doll that kinda looked like chuckie, but I called it my Tina turner doll. It was always naked, because it was too big for all my doll clothes. And it's eyes closed when you laid it down. Then one eye would get stuck half way open. And now that I think about it, that was a terrible children's toy! Right along with the anatomically correct baby dolls and the ones that shit. I also had an anatomically correct doll. Jo-Ann. Why I gave a baby a name that should belong to a 40 year old sassy southern lady, I don't know. My girl cabbage patch doll I named Julie Walter, so clearly, naming things is not my specialty. Anyway-joann was amazingly detailed in her anatomic correctness. Her butthole had wrinkles, And different color plastic. She's still at my moms, I think. Now she has sharpie on her head, and is missing two fingers from a run in with the dog. 

We bought the girl kid a crapping doll, hoping it would help with potty training. We'd feed it, and wait. 3 minutes later, green pudding oozes out of its ass. Oh, what fun! I get to wipe an ass! What a stupid fucking toy! It's like they're trying to mold little girls to find excitement in the most mundane thing in life. Vacuuming, yes please! A toy kitchen where I can slave for hours, only to be told they don't like it? My dream! A baby that really cries for hours? Heaven! There is even a Barbie that comes with a cat. Ok, Barbie and her pussy. Good toy. BUT it also includes a cat box, and the cat fills with water so you can make it pee. And then the super fun part, scooping the cat box!! Yes!  Exposing myself to trichinosis is a blast! People who make those toys are assholes. That stupid pooping doll grew mold in her GI tract, and smelled like an old moldy washcloth. So many fun bacteria were probably building skyscrapers in there. But I couldn't throw it away, because she loved that damn doll. I thought it disappeared, but then it resurfaced a couple years ago. I pulled it out from under kids bed, and it had been attacked by a vicious gang of amateur graffiti artists. It's head head been painted every color imaginable, and there was fur, dingle balls, cut Barbie hair glued all over it, and playdoh dried in her eye sockets. I'll post a pic, if I can figure out how. It looks a little different now. All the fur and dingle balls fell off. It's been in a box for awhile. 

Ball hair

I just spent five minutes groping the wall for the light switch. Then realized the switch was on the other side of the wall, in the room I was trying to go in to. Then I thought, what a dumbass. But then I realized that while I was trying to find the fucking switch, I was getting mad at J. Who designed this house? What moron wouldn't put a light switch RIGHT HERE!? A switch should be where ever my hand happens to be touching the wall. A wall of switches. 

Like I said, I'm a dumbass. 

A wall of switches. I still always turn on the garbage disposal when I'm trying to turn the light on. That's only 2 switches!! A whole wall?? Someone would lose a hand, because I was trying to  turn on the bathroom light. 

Ahhhhh. Thanksgiving tomorrow. My least favorite holiday. Mostly because of the food. Sweet potatoes, stuffing, pumpkin anything. Gag. Me. It's gotta be a texture thing. I don't trust food that I can't chew. I eat a sliver of turkey, and a shit ton of rolls. And cranberry sauce?? Blech!!! My grandma would always put out a plate of it, and it was still perfectly shaped like the can, ridges and all. And it just tasted bad. She ordered me pizza. Now I have to eat turkey, and force my kids to eat it, because it's my Devine right as a parent to force my kids to do all the horrible things I had to do. Like reverse revenge. Like how I cut kid 2's hair. Because my mom cut my hair. With at least one ending badly. That's how kid 2 ended up with the bowl cut, which she called her "ball hair". Which I just now realize is about the worst thing she could've called it. 

Douchey Spider-Man

J was kind enough to inform me that the editor of a movie is the person who puts all the scenes together. Not the person who watches the movie and tells the writers/directors or whoever that doesn't make any sense, or why is that guy wearing a wrist watch in the 10th century, or this is embarrassingly horrible. THAT'S the job I want. Because I could be so good at it. There are parts to even my favorite movies that I can't even watch. Tombstone. Love it. That scene where Wyatt goes into the creek to fight curly bill, but they slo-mo it, and he says NO!! Way too many times!? I hate that part!! It's embarrassing. Braveheart and Mel gibson's patented crazy face? Love  the movie. Hate when he makes that face. My point is, someone really should've informed the makers of Spider-Man 3 that douchey Spidey was going to make everyone hate Spider-Man. If they would've make him a dick, knocking old people off the sidewalk, littering, asking girls for their numbers then dropping them on the ground. A dick. But he was a douche. Z was all about Spider-Man. And he was embarrassed. And he was 3 years old. Strutting Peter Parker was just bad. Could've been a great movie, but no one told them that douchebag Spidey, even tho it was really the venom suit, was going to make everyone root for sandman. Regular dorky Spider-Man was ok. We could handle that. 

Really. The job of telling movie makers and commercial makers their product is crap , should be MINE. 

Being a woman is not awesome most of the time.

I discovered I had a UTI this morning. As did everyone else in the house when I was yelping from the bathroom. Meds on the way! Then kid 2 informs me that it burns when she pees. And I'm like-huh. So after I take her to urgent care for a UA,  and the doc leaves the room to get her prescription, I start telling kid 2 about all the various aspects of a gynecological exam, because she wanted to know what that big lamp on a telescoping pole was. I told her-that's the navigator eye. Told her first, they make you get naked, except your socks. If you're not wearing socks, I does feel like your more naked, oddly. Then they give you a bounty paper towel to cover up with. Not a problem if you're thumbalina. So you'll try to decide which part to cover, for about 20 minutes. That's standard procedure waiting time for OB/GYN doctors. When they grace you with their presence, they grope your chest, then pull out the stirrups. If you're lucky, they'll have little pads on them, advertising some wonder drug. If not, foot on metal. The doc will tell you to scoot farther down, several times, until you're about to fall off the table. They'll talk casual while they ram their fingers up your front butt and press on your stomach with all the power of Thor. Then......out comes the speculum! It's like a cold steel seagull. After squirting a tube and a half of KY on that sucker, it's time to turn your vag into a wind tunnel. Instinct tells you to push it out on the floor, but they frown upon that. You'll feel the heat from the glare of the navigator eye. Then she'll stab you with a giant pipe cleaner. All done! Now you figure out the bounty paper towel is for cleaning the 16 ounces of lube off your crotch. All for naught, too, cuz you'll still feel like the selected recipient in a circle jerk for the rest of the day. 

Scary, right?

She says-it sucks to be a girl. Why don't guys have to do that stuff?

Good question. They do, I tell her. When they're 40, doctors have to stick their fingers up guys butts. 

That's it?? 

When dad had his vasectomy, he had to use the stirrups. 

Vasectomy?

Yes, vasectomy. 

Oh! You mean when they cut Dad's ball off?

Don't say balls! And they didn't cut them off! 

She asked me why I didn't get "spayed", and first I explained to her that I wasn't a dog. Then I said, what if something happened to dad, and I met this wonderful guy who wanted to have more kids? She said she wouldn't want me to marry anyone else...........unless he was rich. 

Girls learn young, don't they?!

No better way to cover up your personality flaws than with hundred dollar bills! 

I'm kidding, of course. That would be deplorable and vile. 

A credit card can go so much farther. 

Anywhooooo she eventually asked when you have to start going to that doctor. I told her-when you have sex. You have to go every week. 

I think I made my point. Kid is scared into celibacy. 

Talking to Siri is like arguing with a teenager.

I got into a fight with Siri, tonight. She is a smart mouthed bitch. Someday soon, I'm going to figure out how to post our conversation. I'm guessing the leading cause of cracked screens is from blunt force trauma inflicted after asking Siri a question.  She only hears what she wants to hear. I said-how is a robot woman a smart ass? She said I said-how is a robot smartest. So I said it again. She said-why thank you, The Most Beautiful Girl in the Room. ( which is what I told her to call me a long time ago) Only she didn't speak that part, it was only on the screen. So I told her-I told you to call me the most beautiful girl in the room. She said-I did call you the most beautiful girl in the room, the Most Beautiful Girl in the Room. Only she spoke it that time! Our argument got worse. But I can't figure out how to save it, and I can't remember anymore. Just take my word for it. Siri is bad news. 

I went to goodwill, today. Looking for amazing prizes for our party. It did not disappoint. But I felt like an asshole. Because there were all these people really shopping in there, and I was in there looking for shit no one would want. And laughing at it. People! Some stuff is just garbage! They have A-tracks! Who the fuck buys an A-track?! I should go get some...that would be an awesome terrible gift. And if you're in the market for an ugly Christmas sweater, get to goodwill fast. I could've spent $50 on ugly sweaters, just because they were so fucking ugly. 

Ah, goodwill. 

Fantasy football and lawn ornaments

Fantasy football makes me angry, and I don't even have the power to go and grab Pierre Thomas' face mask, and tell him he is an under achieving piece of shit. He should be paying me a salary, cuz every time I leave him on the bench, to teach them a lesson, he becomes a fright train that mows down defenseman like they were a bunch of plastic Santa Claus lawn ornaments. 

It's a stupid game. No one should ever play it. Not tackling lawn ornaments, I mean fantasy football. Tackling lawn ornaments sounds kinda fun. Up until the moment you lunge for the concrete lion that's held in place by a 5 foot deep post engulfed in cement. That would not be fun. Funny, if it was someone else; but fuck you guys for laughing, if it's me. 

Lawn ornaments. They really are ludicrous. I can kinda get the Christmas ones, but only one winter of being pelted with blowing snow and ice, and Santa looks like he could use some Botox. Buy a new one. Don't store that shit. But really, the gnomes, and the geese in raincoats, and the Disney characters??? Come on. A-it makes you look like an asshole. And B-you're practically begging me to kick it over. Who doesn't want to kick a gnome in the face?! Or a goose? Especially if it's dressed in a Santa coat and beard, because that just makes you let your guard down. Then BAM! It's still a pissy, bacteria infested goose! It'll chase you and bite your ankles, and you'll be like-Santa Goose, stop! I love you! But it doesn't care, because it's a goose. Then you want to kick it in the face, but if you kick a real goose, even if it's wearing clothes, you're an animal abuser. So it's soooo much better to kick a plastic one! Hmmm. I've changed my position on lawn ornaments. There should be at least 10 in every yard across the country! At least just in my neighborhood. I'd like to kick one, tomorrow. 

I just turned on Batman: the Movie. Adam west batman. It's so wonderfully awful. I watched Batman everyday with my dad when I was little. I LOVED it! I was so in love with Adam west. Every time me and Amy would play house, I was married to batman. She always had to be married to robin. Sometimes she would say it was her turn to be married to batman, then we'd fight. I hope she forgives me for this. I'm realizing, right at this moment, what a colossal turd Robin is. Probably a horrible husband. The Joker is creeping me the fuck out. It's the cheap poorly done makeup. You can see his mustache under the white makeup. I am personally loving how every singe gadget and machine in the bat cave is labeled. "Magnifying lense" over a giant, gasp, magnifying lense. Are they trying to teach people to read? I don't trust guys who don't know what their own equipment does. Nooooope. 

I had to turn it off. Now I'm going to watch Eddie Murphy raw. Eventually. 

First, I must tell you, my life saving friend M(that's not her name, but you know, secret identity. Even though I'm pretty sure I mentioned my kids by name...by fake name? Yep), anyway, she ran a mini marathon.  I'm immensely proud of her. I envy her perseverance. We met her at mile 11, to run the end with her. I made it a mile. Fuck the wind, fuck the cold, fuck my knees, I'm out. She had just run 12 miles, and I'm calling for the medic after 1. So, fuck running. M is the shit! That was tough stuff. 

Damn. Eddie Murphy's outfit is just silly. I thought it was animal print. But it's paisley swirlys. With a scarf. 

He just reminded me of a point. Flamboyant gay men, I mean ascot and eyebrow pencil using flamboyant, and black women talk the same way. The flamboyant gay is mimicking black women. If a white woman talked that way, someone would call an ambulance. People would think that she was having a stroke. So my conclusion is, flamboyant gay

Men want to be black women. Amazing. 

College Elementary

Learned two things in class yesterday. 1. When john Wayne died, they removed 20 pounds of fecal matter from his colon. 20 fucking pounds of shit. My first thought way-damn. That is one big shit baby. It's not even a baby, anymore. A shit toddler. He must've felt bloated as fuck. My second thought way-why?! Is that common practice when you die? They clean your colon? And weigh it?! Or did they just want to see the kind of epic shit John Wayne kept in his rectum? Maybe they were expecting to find the corpses of outlaws. I don't get it. I declare, here and now, NO ONE is to weigh the contents of my colon when I die. Or ye suffer ten thousand curses. 

Second thing learned. I have to do a research paper on a disease caused by some kind of bacterium. Ok. Normal. I ALSO have to do a poster to go along with it. A mother fucking poster. Are you wondering if I'm in 5th grade?? A fucking poster! In a college microbiology course! And the pasts years posters are actually hanging on the walls at school. And I walk past them, and laugh. Glitter letters, puff paint, hand drawn diagrams. The whole nine yards of an elementary school art show. If I have to make a poster, I'm going to pick the sickest disease ever, and the whole poster will be a print out of a giant, flesh wound oozing pus and blood. Or I'll make it the most obnoxious thing ever. Like I'm running for student body president. Maybe some LED lights....

I am not making a fucking poster. Not gonna do it. Read my lips. 

And that, ladies and gentleman, is what I learned in college. 

Ask me a question

I don't have too much to say, this freezing fucking cold evening. But if anyone who reads this nonsense would like to ask me question, to ponder at a later salad smoking event, please do. If you ask me a serious question, like prolife pro choice shit, I will call you out as being a buzzkill. A simple question. Like-do you prefer peanut or regular m&ms? Why? I'll tell you why. Because peanut m&ms are more filling. But I'll elaborate more that that, I'm positive 

This post is really only for women.

The stories behind: Why I hate the gynecologist. When I was 16, I found that tampons were difficult to insert. I felt like I was hitting something. Little did I know, the instructions require you to bend a certain way. Irrelevant. My point is, I was scared I had some kind of growth. It should be noted that I was in reform school, at the time. So I told the reform school nurse about it, and she scheduled me an appointment with the gyno. My parents were never asked, this strikes me as odd. Anyway, the big day comes, and they call me back. Time to put on the giant 1/2 ply paper towel; you're allowed to leave your socks on, which doesn't make you feel any less naked. Prop up on the table, and look up. There is a poster, the kind from the school book fair, of a kitten in a shoe. Like I'm 5, and at the dentist. Then doc walks in, a woman, older, non threatening looking. Whew. I have my 3 interns with me today, they're going to observe, she says. Uhhhh. In walks three young men med students. Then she proceeds to hand me a mirror, so I can see what I was hitting with the tampon, was my cervix. (I was in reform school, so cut me some slack) The good news is-it wasn't a tumor. Bad news...all of it. Just bad. I vow to never go again. Years later, after my future husband and I had managed to luck the fuck out for 8 months, didn't even use the tried and true pull out method, I decided I should probably get on the pill. I waltz in to planned parenthood, and fill out their info. I get called back, cover up with the one square if toilet paper they have me, and recline. No kitten on the ceiling. Good. I'm walks xena the warrior princess after menopause. This is a behemoth woman. With hands like Andre the giant. So that was uncomfortable. When I got pregnant with the boys, I went to a real doctor. Short dude with big hands. Asked me if I had any questions while he was closing the door to leave. Ass. Went to someone else with Maddie. Nice woman. But she may, or may not, but probably may have had Alzheimer's. And she was slow. First time to see her, she talks nice, then moves I to position. I hear her open the drawer of speculums, then a lot if clanging. Things are clanging, like she's wrestling with them. She grabs the biggest speculum she has, and cranks that sucker open. Is she ready to do the pap? No. Nothing is ready. So she proceeds to prep, and talk to me, and I pushed that damn thing out. She turns around and says-a little tense? Uh, just a bit! You just turned my vagina into a wind tunnel! How can that possibly be so uncomfortable, when they use at least two economy size tubes of ky to put it in?? They use so much lube that you feel unclean for two whole days, no matter how many times you shower. 

Those are just most of the reasons. Being a girl sucks. 

Men don't have to be molested til they're 40, and they won't even admit they kinda liked having a finger up their ass. I wanted to be at j's vasectomy so bad. Just to see him in stirrups. While someone scrutinizes his junk. They gave him Valium to take before hand. Why doesn't the gyno give out Valium?? I'm sure I'd never launch another speculum again! 

The other thing I hate about the gyno is waiting. My appointment is at noon, and I'm still sitting there at 2:00, because some inconsiderate baby decided to make its appearance RIGHT THEN. Rude. 

Lava masks: not for the stoned.

Lesson learned: do NOT put on a lava mask, and then decide to have some salad and then get into a deep discussion about the ineptness of college course requirements. (Salad: n. 1. green and red fibered leaves, 2. Mental aptitude enhancer.) Because of these events: not remembering you have lava mud on your face, that will dry. And it dries hard, but you don't notice until you laugh really hard, or make a ridiculous face, during which you can feel canyons being torn in your face by the force of your skin splitting into its natural wrinkles. So you go to wash it off....the mask is now volcanic rock. You will be reminded of this the next morning, when you discover your entire face is red and angry, because you rubbed it RAW. Pleasantly smooth, but only because your skin hasn't started making chapped lip scabs all over your face.

It's probably best to just avoid any hygienic task after having salad. Leg shaving. Standing in the shower. Baths would be lethal. I take that back. Brush your teeth. It'll be so minty. And you won't feel like an opossum shit in your mouth the next morning.  Worth the hassle of having to move your hand up and down and pay attention for a minute. That sounds like a horrible sentence....

Maybe it's just me. 

I can't think of another thing that's worth that hassle. 

Sometimes kids are jerks. Just jerks. And they know it. And they do it on purpose. And then you have to lose your temper, and throw their Optimus prime mask out the front door into the bushes. If they would just listen, I'd be so much calmer. But I think they only hear me when I yell. Adolescent auditory disease. Or disorder, because it must go away at some point. If I tell you to get your shoes on, and you go and actually put your shoes on, the next thing I'll say is-alright, let's go! But if I tell you to get your shoes on, and 5 minutes later you come waltzing into the living room eating fruit snacks, with NO DAMN SHOES ON YOUR FEET, now I'm forced to get a little louder. Put! Your shoes! On! Your feet! Oh yeah, they say. 5 minutes later, when I have to go FIND them, and there they are. Sitting on the edge of the bed watching a mighty putty commercial. With no fucking shoes on. So. Now it's yelling time. Irrational caveman yelling. SHOES! NOW! MOVE IT! DAH! OOOOH!

Then they look at you, like it's the first time they're hearing about this whole shoes thing. Whoa, mom is nuts. You can see that thought in a little bubble above their heads, it's that clear. 

Then the awkward drive in the car. Once you all finally make it to the car. Loud music. Until there's a noise coming from the backseat. So you turn down the radio, and find it was just the little one asking "why is a pine tree?" For which there is NO answer. And "I don't know" doesn't cut it. So, while you're trying to enjoy your fuming, you now have to make something up. On the spot. Inevitably, you will say something that will provoke yet another unanswerable question. 

Not a very good Kady Perry rant

I have a Kady perry so f stuck in my head. I dont want it there. Being a firework means make it really high, then explode. I

Don't want to be a firework. If I make it to the top of my world, I don't want to explode! I want to live it. If I have to come down, I'd want it to be because of a sex scandal involving Ryan gosling and wolverine. I'd lose big, but I'd win the mother of all prizes. 

Uggs are the ugliest thing you could ever put on your feet. MRSA balm would be more attractive than ugg boots. They look like they were squirted out of a deformed play dough mold. They make you look like you have cankles. Why did that become a popular style? Yes, boys, I'm all curved in the bootie and hip, but then the curve stops at the knee. True, most men don't look below the knee. Ankles just don't compete with crotch holes that they can stick their dicks in. My point is, tree truck legs are Unattractive. Knee to ankle transition is important. There need to be a slight out swing, then a dramatic in swing. Nobody wants ankles as big as their knees. Ankles that big are probably just swollen from the compound fracture underneath. 

I really hate English class. Why are there different kinda of arguments? An argument is a disagreement. Can't I disagree with someone without having to evaluate which form of argument style will

Best make my point? No! I disagree! This is why-blah blah blah. An argument. I think you're wrong, I think m right. Real arguments don't follow any real chain of command. 

College is horrible.

I hate school. I hate it so much. The girl the migrated to the seat next to me is, I just hate her. She's a quiet talker, but she's always making this "child please" face, and I just nod. Because I can't fucking hear her. She's loud when she decides to ask a stupid question in class, tho. She's not the person who asks the overly smart questions, to impress the teach. Her questions are just dumb. If he says-a proton revolves around a nucleus, she say-so, orbiting the nucleus, is a proton? Which prompts him to start from the beginning. And I want to kick her chair out from under her. 

I cannot for the life of me figure out why I need to learn about RNA transcription. Especially RNA transcription of a bacteria. Why? Am I ever going to have to explain to a patient that he has strep

Because the bacteria replicated it's DNA? No! You're sick, man! End of story! Here's some antibiotics. And if I actually ever had to explain it, I'd just make something up. And it would work, because obviously I'm working in the psych ward. 

My head is cold. It's cold out. I hate cold weather. I just heard the furnace kick on, and it's depressing. It'll snow soon. And snow is ugly. It's white. It makes everything white. White is boring. But then it changes road funk gray. And it's uglier. Everything looks dirty. I feel like I live in Detroit when it's winter. If I wanted to live in Detroit, I'd kill myself. 

What if I actually put in my high notes, something truly genius. Like the cure for cancer. And someone read it, and stole all my ideas. Then I would have to give up my identity to sue them. But then again, it might make a strong case for why pot should be legal. I should come up with the cure for cancer....

Urethral highness.

Well, she had a full time job? So I have to have a full time job for that to happen?? I'm so perplexed by that statement. So if I had a full time job, I would get more help around the house? As if having kids home ALL the time isn't a full time job?

Had a thought. I'm the bathroom. But it vanished on my walk to the garage. I think it had something to do with your urethra being stoned. 

Even if it wasn't, that's a good point. Peeing when you're high takes forever. You feel like you're going to piss yourself, so you jet to the bathroom, and you expect to have a hard stream, but it's more like someone left the faucet slightly on. It's a dribble. So you prob your head up on your hand, with your elbow resting on your thigh, and stare into space. Someday, I'll be done peeing. You have to wait until the second or third time of pee stopping, before you can trust that you're done. Someone just keeps fucking with that faucet. Then, finally, you're done. So you're free to go drink two bottles of water in a half hour. 

I don't have to get a kid his "drank" at 6:30 am tomorrow! I can sleep!! So I'm going to bed RIGHT NOW. 

Autocorrect sucks

Check to see if the pole barn is on it's own lot.

Zach Maddie fear..Ben no fear 

Maddie just asked me why we don't have a cage for the dog. 

Create a blog. This

Is What happens when a 33 year old stay at home mom smokes pot. Perfect name for the blog. 

But then I'll have to cruelly type. Actually. I hager backspace. Awesome.  That Mande my oink. 

What the fuck does that even mean?? THAT MADE MY POINT!

Mande my oink. Why the fuck does autocorrect think those are words that should be put together in a sentence?? Who the fuck is Mande?? What the ducks is Mande? 

You suck , autocorrect. 

Nobody likes you, and you have a sick and cruel vocabulary.

Fuck garage sales. Just fuck em. 

Damn Jew Mexicans. Mexijews? Jewicans? Mexijewcans??

The last one sounds more authentic. 

Meh-he-djyou-cahhns. Emphasis on the meh and djyou. I think. It's sounds

Very Mexico-y. 

One guy bought a hammock and he had a sea water aquarium and a senior whose friends really like him and sleep in the backyard all

The time. He was a tard. Talked forever. And the mexijewcans make you feel like they're broke, so you agree to $.25, then they pay you with a fucking twenty! Sure. Here's

Your change. $19.75. In nickels, mother fucker. Keep the tube sock as a customer appreciation gift, Holmes. 

A. Blog could be bad. I might start to talk shit, and end up pissing off everyone I know! I could say that so and so looks like he was attacked by a great white shark, then contracted leprosy in the hospital. Only I'd say their name. Then the whole family would come marching up my driveway with pitchforks and torches(but really serving sporks and insulated casserole servers), and kill me with snide kindness. Then I'll

Come outside, and smoke a bowl....

I love my family! So much love!

When I hug uncle bob, because I'm high as a kite and think he's uncle fritz, people would think it was a lie that I said he's a crotchety piece of shit. I don't wAnt them to. Uncle bob is a doctoral degree cocksucker. So I guess I don't care...this year will be the best family Christmas party ever!!

I keep threatening Ben with Santa Claus. I quit for awhile, because he seemed unmoved. I made a phone call to Santa one night while he was being a particularly big whiny butthole. I asked how mrs Claus was, how was his colonoscopy, I'm glad there were no polyps, oh thank you...then I inform him how Ben has been a real jerk, and everyone wants to punch him in the neck. I tell him that I think it's real sad Santa is going to take a dump in Ben's stocking, but I understand he has no choice. I also tell him I'll call him back if Ben decides that being spanked isn't fun. Ok, yeah, I like you as a friend, too. Bye bye. 

Ben is looking at me with a face that is mixed between awe of stupidity and confusion. He says(like a gangster from the 50s)-hey ma, can I pretend to talk to Santa, too? I left the bathroom. 

That kid. 

I told him I was going to spank him every morning when he got up, after lunch, after dinner, and at bedtime. Even if he was being good, so he fears the spanking and listens! 

That kid. 

He looked at me, dead expression, and said-what about breakfast? Then he chuckled. 

I laughed in my shirt. Then, Bam, mom face back on.  Which he defeated two seconds later. 

I have for to quit smoking before winter. It's fucking cold out here. I just want a comfy bar in my basement?

Wild gesturing!

There needs to be a font or emoticons that point at you, or gesticulate in anyway, while you're reading the word, so you can pick up on emphasis or sarcasm or whatever. I can talk at my phone while waving my hand while I'm texting you, but you don't see the splendor of it. It's just words. You have to hear my voice come out of my head, to know what I'm saying. Like voice texts. Like the lady who calls from the library to tell you that you suck at returning books on time. That's not what my voice would sound like, but you can tell by her tone, she's pissed! Bring those fuckin book back! Everyone hates that robot lady. She made me glare at all the librarians when I repaid my 90 day overdue fee, which was a staggering 35 cents, like they're the ones who called me, and be like-yeah, thought I'd never bring them back, huh? Now what? I brought them back AND you made money on the deal. I'll never borrow another book or 30 year old VHS tape from here again! 

Which is fine, since we have no VCR, and one can only watch Anne of green gables so many times. 

I should let Ben sleep on the couch. 

My stomach is yelling so loud for wheat thins and easy cheese. I won't give in! Plus, we don't have any easy cheese. This sucks. Being a grown up and smoking isn't as great, because there's a lack of junk food in the house. Like I really want to go chow down on some yogurt or salad right now. I need Cheetos, and Doritos! As long as they're not the one that are mixed with the diarrhea bell ones, because those piss me off. Those taint the flavor(tee hee. Taint) of the entire rest of the Doritos. All the good ones have flecks of taco shit on them. And if you mistake the two, and fully engulf one, instant vomit. I think those chips are what they give to people who ate 75 Xanax in an hour to make them throw up. Or maybe it's a pump. I don't know. It's not important, what's important is the people who make Doritos are assholes with bad ideas. 

Ahhh! That fucking font button! I need it! (Finger pointing and contorted face)

I should do something....

Oh! Fuck. 

Oh, for real! I should make this a habit. Not the smoking habit, but the habit of typing shit down? I'm not writing, but shouldn't it be typing shit in? That sounds stupid. Typin  up shit! If you say it like Dave  Chappelle, it totally works. I don't know what it works for, but it's gotta be something. Probably black chicks. Ha, my phone typed an "n" after that, which I thought was funny for reasons I don't remember. Maddie keeps talking to me about I don't know what, and I don't know what she talking about! And I don't even remember what she said that made me think what??? But I wish I did, so I can write it down and remember tomorrow. Another point. Gone. 

Why the fuck do we have to use those defective bunson burner lighters in class? Wouldn't a match be less stressful, and give the added bonus of not looking like jag strengthening your grip on an ancient roman apparatus that only sparks when you look at it to see if it works, but hold it over flammable gas, and nada. Look at it, try it, spark! To gas, zippo. I hate chemistry. What fucking idiot actually gave a rats ass about protons? That they studied it and did research about it! It's one of the most boring places on earth. Walt Chemisty Class. 

I should probably pick up bens hot wheels, but that's how I know when anyone is awake. When they kick a hot wheel stumbling in the dark. But it's late, they'll be fine. Ironhide's exhaust pipes right in your instep, And you just happened to be hulk stomping? Flesh wound. Get over it. That Russian guy at the beach was creepy. The beach would've have been perfect if I had some gardettos with me. 

One more cigarette and I'm going to bed. You heard it here first!

I'm a little apprehensive about my ecigarette. I don't want anyone to ever see me with it, because it looks like that stupid thing hipsters and weird 60 year old men with pinkie rings smoke. And if they can come with vapor cigarettes, why haven't they come up with vapor weed, yet? No smoke, no coughing, no closets that smell like terrariums. It would be a hit! I guess it would have to be legal, first. And why shouldn't it be. It makes you too lazy to get into trouble. The only person I would fight right now is Rachel Maddow, and even then. I'd just kick her in the dick and run. Or walk slowly. Either way, that bitch is crazy. 

Stupid crickets. They should look less like spiders. And not skulk about. What is even the point of a cricket. What do they do? Just hop? Do they contribute to society in any meaningful way? They must. The ant and the grasshopper. But it's a cricket. 

Seriously, to bed right after this smoke. It's late. But I don't have to wake up at 6. This is good. 

Support ribbons...

I am going to start a business making support ribbons, but only mean ribbons. There are too many awareness ribbons. IBS survivor. Bad parenting survivor.  Asshole children survivor. Road rage survivor. Halitosis awareness. Soft enamel awareness. Micropenis awareness. Triple nipple awareness. Nagging wife survivor. Too tight socks awareness. Empty toilet paper roll awareness. Substitute teaching survivor. Obesity veteran. Abortion survivor. Douchebag veteran. Eye booger awareness. Hanging chad awareness. Sun Chip survivor. Spider awAreness. I support our crackheads. Bring our rapists home! Munchies survivor. Cottonmouth awareness. Shitty neighbor survivor. I support the  Lottery winning handicapped. Brain cell deficiency awareness. Nigger awareness. Waterskiing/stuck tampon awareness. Foreign exchange student survivor. Asian driver awareness, rook out!  Chabby awareness. I support juvenile delinquents. Marriage survivor. Brat kid awareness. Walmart survivor. Bad beer survivor.  

Why this blog exists.

I am not a young experimental teen, nor am I an 80 year old woman with glaucoma.  I am a 30-something stay at home mom, who likes to break out the green after the kids are asleep. My husband is a mellow lets fall asleep stoner, so I'm usually left alone with my thoughts. And I amuse the hell out of myself. I decided to start writing down my musings. I read them the next day and think-the fuck?! But I also understand what I was attempting to say. My friends ask me to text them my notes. They laugh...at least they tell me they laugh. So, I decided to share my ramblings with my fellow stoner community located in the internet. The end.