Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Take A Damn Shower And Stop Acting Like A Lunatic

I decided to title my blog post with the last words I said before I started writing.  I was saying this to my eight-year-old daughter, who was dancing naked through the living room singing in a made-up language.

Further proof that I'm fucking MOM OF THE YEAR.

SO, a lot of shit has happened since my last blog went down.  I hardly have time to breathe anymore, much less blog, because my children and husband and dogs are needy and I'm working my ass off for Pearson.  Factor in all the extra time I have to spend creating pornography and sobering up, and well, there you have it.  Life is busy.  So busy, in fact, that I think I shall make a list.

MIND-BOGGLING CRAZY SHIT THAT HAS HAPPENED SINCE THE LAST TIME I BLOGGED, ALTHOUGH LIKELY NOT IN ITS ENTIRETY BECAUSE I HAVE KILLED ENOUGH BRAIN CELLS PARENTING AND DRINKING THAT I NEVER REMEMBER MUCH OF ANYTHING IN ITS ENTIRETY, PARTICULARLY THINGS I WANT TO REMEMBER, WHICH IS WHY I CARRY A BLANK BOOK OF LINED PAGES IN MY HANDBAG IN CASE I SHOULD EVER REMEMBER TO WRITE DOWN SOMETHING THAT I WANT TO REMEMBER

1.  Mormon Mix-up~  A couple of weeks ago, I learned a very valuable lesson.  Specifically, DON'T ACCOST MORMONS IN THE WAL-MART PARKING LOT TO TALK TO THEM ABOUT THE BOOK OF JAMES (FROM THE BIBLE, YOU FOOLS) UNLESS YOU ARE SURE THEY ARE MORMONS, AND NOT JUST A GROUP OF BOYS FROM A HIGH SCHOOL CHOIR DRESSED IN BLACK PANTS, WHITE SHIRTS, AND BLACK TIES, GOING TO EAT LUNCH IN THE WM MCDONALDS.  This lesson is pretty self-explanatory.  However, I would like to say, in my defense, that these boys were very nice (like Mormons), wore terrible pleated pants (like Mormons) and LOOKED LIKE FUCKING MORMONS.  In THEIR defense, they were NOT on bicycles and knew NOTHING about the Book of James.  These things were very UN-Mormonlike.  It was all very confusing for a while.  However, once they showed me the school bus they had arrived on (and threatened to call the police), I let them go about their business.......after I had already yelled at them and told them that God was going to deny their entry into Heaven for denying their Mormon faith.  Yeah.....let's not talk about that anymore.  Everybody makes mistakes, even me.  Sometimes.

2.  50 Shades of Shit~  Some of you may have heard of the phenomenon of the trilogy by E.L. James entitled THE FIFTY SHADES TRILOGY.  Numerous television appearances and magazine articles have appeared discussing how these novels, dubbed "mommy porn," have taken the world by storm.  Of course, being a mommy who is easily excited by the prospect of porn, I leaped at the chance to purchase said trilogy and check it out for myself.  So I did.  The first book was great-- super sexy rich 28-year-old dominating male meets silly, naive submissive woman, coaxes her into giving it up, ties her up, beats her a little, fucks her senseless.  GREAT BOOK.  The writing is total crap, the characters are not well-developed, and the woman in the book is so annoying that I kept hoping that he would accidentally kill her during his "kinky fuckery," thus turning the trilogy into an awesome S&M psychological thriller (note:  sadly, this never happened).  But, being a girl who likes a little violence, I appreciated the theme of the book.  AND THEN CAME BOOKS NUMBER 2 AND 3 AND ALL I  COULD THINK WAS "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?"  The crazy, naughty sex became all love-making and shit, people started cuddling and making googly eyes at each other AND I CONSIDERED DRINKING A GALLON OF BLEACH TO END MY OWN SUFFERING AND YOUTUBING MY DEATH IN THE NAME OF IDIOTIC LITERARY CHOICES ACROSS TIME.  Seriously.  I mean, JESUS, PEOPLE.  You can't take an audience who is thrilled by the whips and chains and then give them mushy love shit.  YOU JUST CAN'T.  IT ISN'T FAIR.  IT MAKES ME WANT TO PUKE.  Enough said.

3.  Touring TN~  For the first time since 2006, I loaded up the family and headed to Tennessee for Easter.  Even B made the trip, which never happens.  Okay, maybe once every five years or so, but ALMOST never.  (We usually make him stay in Virginia because he's a damn Yankee whom may be accidentally slaughtered by some of my relatives for his non-southern dialect.)  From Thursday to Monday, me, one husband,  two kids, and two dogs frolicked with the  family.  I saw my Michael, got drunk with my brother, and ate some cupcakes.  That would pretty much sum up the whole trip EXCEPT for the Panty Story.  Let's fast forward a day or two AFTER the return home from Tennessee.  As I am an OCD neat freak, I had (of course) unpacked our suitcases the millisecond we arrived back at our house.  Despite this, the amount of laundry took me a day or two to get washed, dried, and separated, seeing as how I was scoring essays full-time while I performed my housewifery. (I like that word-- "houseWIFery."  I hope you are pronouncing it correctly in your head, as I do not care for the pronunciation "houseWIFEry.")  When I got around to folding Belly's laundry, I realized that there was a pair of unidentified underwear in her pile-- cute little navy and white checked cotton panties from Victoria's Secret.  VICTORIA'S SECRET?!  MY THIRD-GRADER HAS UNDERWEAR FROM VICTORIA'S SECRET?  Perplexed as to HOW THIS COULD FUCKING BE, I put said panties aside and made a mental note to ask Belly about them later.  (This is one of those instances where I COULD have written "Ask Belly about panties" in my blank-but-lined notebook.  However, I did not remember to do this.  Additionally, I did not remember to ask Belly about the panties.)  That night, as I was tucking Bells in, I noticed that with the oversized Dr. Seuss t-shirt she was wearing as a nightgown, she also had on the Questionable Underpants.  Finally remembering TO ASK WHERE THE FUCK THEY CAME FROM, I cross-examined my kid.  Her response?  "Mommy, they are Aunt Shawna's panties.  I borrowed them from her so that whenever I miss her a lot I can wear them."  WHAT THE WHAT?  (Note:  "WHAT THE WHAT" is the phrase that Aunt Shawna uses for "WHAT THE FUCK" seeing as how she's a preschool teacher at a church and can't go around saying "fuck" all the time.  I found the phrase completely appropriate to use in this situation.)  WHO SWIPES THEIR AUNT'S PANTIES TO WEAR WHEN THEY ARE FEELING HOMESICK FOR HER?  (My kid, apparently.)  Normal people borrow books or t-shirts or sawhorses (I don't know-- B just seems to always need the neighbor's sawhorses) NOT THEIR AUNT'S PANTIES.  But my little sociopath?  Well, I guess nobody has ever accused her of being normal.

4.  And While We're On The Subject of Belly, Underpants, And Unusual Choices~  On Sunday, B and I were rushing to get the family situated so that he and I could dump the minions off with the in-laws and go have GROWN UP DAY at Busch Gardens.  Per the usual, I was ready to go and my crazy-ass family was running late.  (Okay, WE were ready to go and my crazy-ass HUSBAND was running late, if I'm going to be completely honest.  And you know, I feel that my readers and I have reached that point now where we can truly bear our souls to one another, and BE honest about things like my distaste for Asians and how my husband does everything at a snail's pace.)  Anyway, I was cleaning up the kitchen and Sutt was sitting on the sofa reading when Belly came bopping into the living room, wearing jeans, a purple sequined shirt (if it isn't sparkly, it isn't worth wearing) and her iPod.  She walked over to Sutt, plopped down into his lap and starting wiggling her butt around and waving her hands in the air and shouted, "Look, Mommy!  I'm giving Sutt a lap dance!"  Yes.  That's right.  A LAP DANCE.  (Those of you who I have not kicked off my FB have already heard this story.  Lucky, lucky you.)  The bright side?  Sutt seemed unenthusiastic about said lap dance.  THANK YOU, GOD.

5.  I am not writing a #5 right now because I am grading essays between writing, and I just realized that a) I'm getting ready to time out of my secure essay webpage if I don't get my ass back to it; and b) I have written enough to keep most of you entertained for at least a little longer, hopefully at least until cocktail hour when I can down a few Oxycontin and Jack and Cokes and write about MORE OF MY ADVENTURES.

YES.  THERE'S MORE.  LIKE THE STORY OF HOW WE BUILT A METH LAB IN MY NEIGHBOR'S GARAGE LAST WEEKEND.

Wait for it.

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