Sometimes after a hard day, I like to relax and enjoy a cocktail or ten...uh i mean two. Today has been one of those hard days. Don't you dare judge me for drinking in the middle of the week! I'm sure it's Friday night somewhere. Besides, it's purely medicinal. My boobs hurt! Well actually, the area where my boobs used to be hurts. I'm 4 weeks out from having breast reduction surgery and even though my back feels GREAT, this here front part is still pretty darn sore. The plastic surgeon removed four and a half pounds FROM EACH SIDE! But I'll be OK.
Verily I say unto you: yeah tho I dwell in the valley of the small-breasted woman I shall fear no cleavage for mine is still with me... at least until all the swelling goes down.
Uh, yeah what was I saying?
Oh right, this is where I go to bitch about things. Well, first of all, when all the neighborhood kids are gathered in my living room eating MY Fritos and playing video games, the word "Dude" is grossly overused. Don't you just hate that? And how is it that  that one little word can mean so many different things? "Dude!" "Dude?"  "Duuuuude."  Did I miss something? I mean was there a class on hipster-speak or what? How am I--being the mild mannered mom that I am-- supposed to know what the hell these kids are talking about?
There's so much else I could bitch about but my favorite wiener dog needs help. ( don't ask)

Armadillos and other stuff...

Armadillos have been digging holes all over my yard for a while now. I can tell it's armadillos because of the shape of the hole. We had moles a couple of years ago, they don't dig holes, they burrow. The wiener divas flushed them out and killed them. So I was pretty darn sure it was armadillos. But since they're nocturnal I never actually saw one of the dirty little bastards in my yard.

Then the other night, the wiener divas started barking by the back door to let me know they needed to go outside for a late night pee. So I stood on the patio while the girls did their business like I always do. Then all of a sudden it was like a wiener dog melee. Barking, and growling, and jumping around, probably waking every neighbor in earshot. Definitely waking all the dogs in the neighborhood, and of course they all joined in.

Hoping to shut those dogs up before any neighbors had a chance to complain, I ran out in the yard in my bear feet and PJs to see exactly what was causing all the ruckus. And there he was. My arch nemesis, the armadillo! Just sitting there pretty as you please, scaring the hell out of my precious wiener divas, like he was King Shit of Turd Mountain. Well you know I could not stand for that.

How's a wiener dog supposed to take on an armadillo? Even 3 to one it's still not a fair fight. After all, what is an armadillo but a wiener dog...WITH ARMOR!! So I grabbed the nearest weapon at hand-- a garden rake--and proceeded to protect my precious wieners with blatant disregard for my own safety.

I won't say I saw fear in his beady little eyes. It was so dark I could hardly see anything. But I raised that rake like it was some weapon of medieval torture, summoned up all the warrior princess power inside me, and smote the beast with every ounce of strength in my very un-Xena-like body.

Instead of wails of agony I expected to hear, all I heard was THUNK. The little bastard had rolled up into his shell! My vicious death blow thwarted by this freak of nature, this possum on a half-shell.

"Dammit! You! Little! Shit! Die! Damn you! Die!" I yelled punctuating every word with a swing of the garden rake, each hit inevitably ending with "THUNK" And not even a crack to show for my hard work.

So there I am at 1:30 in the morning, in my PJs surrounded by wildly barking dogs, madder than a bulldog chewing on a bumble bee, just blindly beating the hell out of an armadillo. In hindsight its really no wonder my neighbors think I'm crazy. I surely earned the title that night.

After a moment I did manage to calm myself, and the divas, down. But that armadillo was no fool. He stayed right there safely enclosed in his shell, probably laughing his little armadillo ass off at me.

"Well, I'll show you!" I thought, " you want to live in that shell, well you can just die in that shell,too!"

So I started using the rake golf-club-style, knocking the foul beast, bit by bit, towards the pond. If I hadn't been fueled by adrenaline and armadillo-induced rage, I probably would have noticed that the ground was getting more and more squooshy the nearer I got to the pond.

I finally got close enough to the pond to know that one more good whack would mean a watery grave for my adversary. I didn't hesitate. I swung back the rake in my best imitation of Tiger Woods. And with a rebel yell, the likes of which, have probably not been heard since Custer's Last Stand, I swung that rake with all my might. SWACK! It was the sound I imagine Babe Ruth heard every time he hit one into the stands. Sadly my elation was short-lived.

Id swung the rake so hard I'd swung myself right into the pond. Lucky for me, (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it) I did not end up in a watery grave. Instead, I ended up covered head to toe, in muddy, gross, disgusting, pond sludge! Good thing I still had that rake in my hand because I had to use it to pull myself outta there.What a mess! I really do hope my neighbors slept through the whole armadillo incident. What in the world would I tell them? I was rehearsing for Swamp Thing-The Musical!?

So far none of my neighbors have mentioned anything about it. But when they see me, they do notice an extra gleam in my eye, the gleam that comes from knowing I made the world a safer place for wiener dogs.

"What's the point of having a blog if you never write anything'', I ask myself.
"Then write something, already.'' I reply to myself.
"Fine. I will."
"Fine."
This schizophrenic interlude was brought to you the makers of psychotropic drugs. They're not just for breakfast any more.
Anyhoo....
I don't really consider myself a 'funny' person. But funny, apparently, is in the eye of the beholder. Not everyone gets my sense of humor. To the pop-culture-challanged among us, the things I say are probably more confusing than witty.
For example,the other day in the health food store the clerk was giving out samples of fruit- flavored protein shakes. When he offered me one, he asked ''Do you like pina coladas?" So of course I replied "yeah, but getting caught in the rain really sucks." *blank stare,blank stare, cricket noises* "Uh...we don't sell umbrellas."
So maybe the guy was too young to recognize the reference. But c'mon really? Who doesn't know The Pina Colada song?
Even my own children (the loves of my life) don't always get my humor.
The other day, Zakk was doing some yard work which involved using an ax ( could have been a hatchet, who knows. potato potahto) Anyway when I arrived home with Nikk and Joey and saw the ax, I immediately grabbed it up, made the crazy face and said "Heeeeere's Johnny!" Instead of an outburst of laughter at my spot-on impression of Jack Nicholson, here's what I got:
"Who's Johnny?"
"Do you mean Uncle John?"
"No, stupid. He doesn't use an ax. He fixes air conditioners.''
"He could use an ax if he wanted to. You're the one who's stupid!"
"You're so dumb. You don't know anything."
"MOOOOOOM!!!!!
Why do I even bother.
Is my humor just too vague? Every time I make what I think is a witty comment around my husband, I have to explain it to him. My least favorite phrase in the world has to be "It's funny because....''
For instance when my kids were watching Sponge Bob, I wondered aloud if Mr Crabs ever had a case of the humans. *cricket sounds, eye roll, and the ever popular she's-not-right-in the-head head shake* I tried to explain it to him but by doing so, it made even less sense. I guess if you have to explain it it wasn't that funny in the first place.
Could it be that my humor is just too high brow for some people? Nah, that couldn't be it. Just yesterday I made a comment about a race horse being named Anal Sex. I said he'd never win because he's always coming up the rear. That's pretty damn low brow humor. But in my defense, horse racing was on TV at the time and they do use the phrase "coming up the rear" a lot.

I just read a book!

I don't usually write about books I've read. I'm not a reviever by any means. But I just have to say something about the book I just finished and enjoyed so much. It was called Horror Show. Not too surprising if you know me at all. I've been reading horror fiction since elementary school and my horror fiction book collection currently has over 160 titles. If I keep buying books I'll have to have a room addition built. I guess that's another argument in favor of E-books. I'm just not ready to give up my old school paper books yet. But that's another story for another time.
As I was saying... Horror Show, by Greg Kihn. If that name sounds vaguely familiar to you , it's because it's the same guy who was a one-hit-wonder on the 80's pop/dance music scene. I know he must have been a pretty big deal back in the day, because every singer knows they've "arrived '' when Weird Al parodys them. AAAAHHH, memories!
So we've established that the author's first career was in the music industry. This didn't really score him any points with me. I'm familiar with the concept of musicians trying to break into other careers. Maybe this is a gross generalization but it just never seems to work out quite right for them. (Think Mariah Carey in Glitter, Britney Spears in Crossroads, Maddonna in anything, you get the idea) I usually prefer musicians who stick to music.
I never would have looked for this title if it weren't for me stumbling across A Guide to Horror Fiction at the library. This handy-dandy, not-so-little book listed and categorized horror fiction books and authors, cross-referenced them by style, location, subject matter etc, and gave author bios and brief summaries of the various books. Pretty darn cool in my opinion.
What it said about Horror Show was that it was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. To the uninitiated, that's a very prestigious award for horror fiction authors. To be nominated for the very first book you publish is pretty impressive. That's what prompted me to actually seek out Horror Show and read it. And I'm so glad I did.
The book is written in a style called "splatter punk" which basically means it's very graphic (which I loved). You would think that since it's a book, not a movie, you could just use your imagination and imagine as much or as little gore as you'd like. But the author painted such a vivid picture with words, that every gross, disgusting, detail came alive and slithered off the page keeping me wrapped in goosebumps, even within the confines of my beloved Snuggie.
I know a review is really just one person's opinion and one opinion may not matter all that much but nonetheless, I offer up my own review off Horror Show by Greg Kihn. I give it 5 out of 5 severed heads and definitely two disembodied thumbs up.

How to recognize a teenager

Today is my youngest son's 12th birthday. I can hardly believe it. One more year and my baby will be a TEENAGER!
Since Joey is small for his age people always assume that he's way younger than he actually is. So in honor of Joey on his special day I made up a list (Not unlike Jeff Foxworthy's You Might Be a Redneck Schtick) to help people recognize a teenager when they see one:

- If you have more earrings in your face than in your ears, you might be a teenager.

- If you always dress in black from head to toe (and you're not Johhny Cash) you might be a teenager.

- If you're now asking your self "Who is Johnny Cash?" you might be a teenager.

-If you know every Jonas Brothers song, but don't know who the vice president is, you might be a teenager.

- If instead of having your jeans hemmed, you prefer to just walk-off that extra three inches of denim, you might be a teenager.

- If you've ever watched The Osbournes and understood what Ozzy was saying, without subtitles, you might be a teenager.

- If you would rather wear your bike chain around your neck than on your bike, you might be a teenager.

-If the only way you mom can talk to you is by text message, you might be a teenager.

- If you have a Miley Cyrus song on your ipod and swear you don't know how it got there, you might be a teenager.

- If you can use the f-word as a noun, a verb and an adjective in one sentence, you might be a teenager.

- If you think Red Bull should be included in the food pyramid, you might be a teenager.

- If Jersey Shore is your idea of a "documentary", you might be a teenager.

- If your mom thinks you're "at the movies'', you might be a teenager.

Everyone complains about the weather but no one ever does anything about it. I've heard this quote about a million times and it's just not true. I don't complain about the weather. My only complaint is about the weather forecasters. And it's not what you might think.
Some people get mad if the forecast is off a bit. My problem is that I prefer the forecast the old school way. There I said it. I miss the days of Margie Ison drawing clouds on her dry-erase map of the United States. I may be dating myself by mentioning Margie Ison but as far as I'm concerned, Margie is to weather forecasting what Dolly Parton is to country music. I'm not ashamed to admit that I miss the way she used to give the weather forecast back in the days before technology reigned supreme.
Today there are "meteorologists" instead of "weather girls". And these guys (and girls) are real-deal scientists! They all have something called Super-Duper-Doppler (or something like that) that is more accurate than even the Psychic Friends Network.(there I go again dating myself.) They don't just tell us what the weather is going to be, they explain in great detail why it's going to be that way. It's almost like they're speaking in a foreign language when they start talking about arctic fronts, barometric pressure, humidity factors and so forth.
Then there are the weather maps. Oh, they are a far cry from Margie's dry-erase boards that's for sure. Today's weather maps are computerized monstrosities that use color variations to represent variations in the weather. ie "As you can see from the 72 colors on our Super-Duper-Doppler-Radar-Map, temperatures are rising in the East due to a bi-polar shift on the low pressure front of the barometric chill factor." Meanwhile I'm trying to figure out what temperature chartreuse represents and whether or not aubergine indicates rain.
Give me a break!! It's the weather report. I just want to know if I need a sweater! Why does everything have to be so complicated?
It's almost as if the meteorologist's mission is to make people feel dumb as a box of rocks. Well, I'm here to tell you mission NOT accomplished! At least not with me. You see, there is a theory called Occum's Razor, (that's a physics term, you know) that suggests that the simplest explanation is probably the correct one. Being one who enjoys simplicity, I take that a step further by theorizing that the simplest way to find something out is the best way. Therefore instead of turning on the TV weather report and struggling through a labyrinth of incomprehensible meteorological terms, I find out about the weather a much simpler way. I go outside.

But I saw it on TV...

Part of the reason I started this blog was to bitch about stuff. (the other part of the reason was that I was drunk, but that's a story for another day) Well, here I am again with something to bitch about. Everyone has their guilty pleasures. I personally have several, some more guilty than others. But my best /worst guilty pleasure is As-seen-on-TV items. I am apparently so simple minded that any infomercial for any product--no matter how asinine--can lure me in like a hemp-head to a Jimmy Buffet concert.
These obscure gadgets and gizmos just seem to call my name, and now that they are "available at fine retailers everywhere" it's even worse. When I actually see the item up close and personal, touch it with my very own hands, rationalize to myself that it's so much cheaper since I'm not paying postage, that's the moment that I know the item HAS to be mine! The problem is that these products rarely live up to the infomercial hype. I should know. I've tried plenty of them.
For example, the ShamWOW. It's a shammie cloth that is supposed to soak up water by the gallon. Pretty cool- in theory. But don't be taken in! You CAN NOT dry a dog with a ShamWOW! In fact I would venture to say that a ShamWOW can't do anything that can't be done by a Brawney paper towel. And the paper towel guy isn't nearly as creepy as the ShamWOW guy either.
Then there's my old friend The Ab-Zapper 2000. It's a big silver belt thing that looks like something you might win from the World Wrestling Federation. They say wearing it for 15 minutes a day is the equivalent to doing 200 sit-ups. Easy, cheezy, lemon squeezy! What they don't explain fully in the informercial is that this damn thing is electrocuting you for 15 minutes a day. It sends electric shocks to your stomach-- the kind a dog might get when wearing an invisible fence collar--causing you to "flex" your stomach muscles repeatedly for 15 minutes. Now, my labrador is no fool. After getting shocked a couple of times he learned to stay in the yard. Me, on the other hand...I was stupid enough to let that thing shock me for a week-- with no visible results, by the way-- before I said "To hell with this! I'd rather just keep my belly fat just like it is ... and why do I smell like bacon all of a sudden?''
I've tried so many As-seen-on-TV items I can't begin to talk about all of the disappointments. So I will just tell you the plain ole truth. Most of this crap sucks. Yep, that sums it up pretty well.
But to be sure, I said MOST, not ALL. For there is one As-seen-on-TV item that stands above all others as the apex of ridiculously clever but completely unnecessary inventions, my favorite As-seen-on-TV item ever, THE SNUGGIE!
I feel like I'm in the commercial every time I wear it. I actually do all of those things that you can do in a Snuggie. Read, watch TV, answer the door, what ever! And what with me being an ordained minister now (see previous blog) my Snuggie can do double duty as my Ministerial Robe, should the need for one ever arise. I would look quite dashing performing a marriage ceremony in my pink Snuggie. Provided the paticipants had no objections to being married by someone who looks like a short blond wizard headed for a Gay Pride Parade.

memories of 2010

I can hardly believe it's 2011 already. Didn't 2010 just fly by?
I've gotta say 2010 wasn't a bad year. I've also gotta say it wasn't a memorable year either. Looking back over the past 12 months (or at least as far back as my occasionally failing memory will allow) I don't recall any major milestones in my life.
So I'll sit here and try to jog my memory.
Let's see... Oh yeah, I attended my 25th high school reunion this past August.That's sort of a milestone. It was a three-day event and seriously, I was bored by day one. There wasn't a very big turnout. So I didn't get to see everyone I'd hoped to see. That kinda sucked. However I did get to reconnect with two people that I love and have missed terribly over the years--Michelle Elkins and Lance Askins. Two members of the elite group of people who made my high school experience a lot more fun than it would have been otherwise.
After much taunting from both of them about my technological deficiencies, I decided to join facebook. As it turns out, social networking is kinda fun! I've reconnected with tons of people I haven't seen in years. And it's not just people who graduated with me, like at the reunion. I can "friend" anyone! (well, anyone who has a facebook account, that is) It seems strange, me communicating on the internet. I'm the absolute opposite of techno-savvy. It also seems strange to use the word "friend" as a verb, but what the hell all the hipsters are doing it. ; ) <-- in case you didn't know, that odd looking bit of punctuation is me winking. That's something else I've learned on my journey along the information super highway. Look at me, zooming into the 1990's FINALLY!
And speaking of journeys, I've kind of been on a spiritual journey of sorts. I thought of getting a degree in Holistic Theology. I figure that a theology school would accept me, regardless of my inability to pass remedial math. Unlike some (read ALL) mainstream colleges. Now there's a rant I could really go on. Seriously, why is math so damn important! Unless it's something you'll use daily in your line of work, taking math in college is pointless. Hellooo! I can use a calculator! Pushing buttons isn't that hard. Hell, I'm doing it right now. But I digress...
So I did some research--yet another thing I learned how to do using the internet--and found out a few things about obtaining an online degree in Holistic Theology (Lord knows there isn't a school with flesh and blood humans, around here in the Bible Belt, that would dare teach such heresy as Holistic Theology)
First, it's expensive and financial aid isn't offered. I suppose I could get a student loan but paying it back could get tricky. See, the second thing I learned about Holistic Theology is that getting a degree in it -- even a PhD-- doesn't guarantee you a job. This type of education, though very interesting, doesn't really translate into employment qualifications. To the best of my knowledge, it just qualifies you to legally marry people.
Well, I took care of that. I just went online--once again using that wonderful internet--and became an ordained minister. Now I can legally marry people. No fuss. No muss. I could also perform funerals, pastor a church, or whatever any other minister could do. Not that I'm going to, mind you. But it's nice to know I have that to fall back on just in case this stay-at-home-mom gig falls through.

Party Like a Pine Tree

Well, I've already mentioned what I think about the use of the word SPAM as a negative thing. In case you didn't know, I don't like it one darn bit! But the use of the word COOKIES , oh good Lord! Now that really riles me! Cookies are good, sugary, sweet, tasty bits of happiness, not something to be "blocked" on your computer!
Whose idea was it to name those whatever-the-hell-they-are-things COOKIES?! Who makes these decisions? Does somebody just start calling something by some random name until it sticks? Because if that's the case, I think I'll start calling pelicans eggrolls.
"I was down by the docks yesterday and I saw this flock of eggrolls attack a guy.''
Or maybe I could call Rock stars pine trees.
"An assortment of pine trees have announced plans to perform at a concert to benefit homeless squirrels."
Did I forget to tell you that "squirrels" is what we now call middle-aged sea captains?
This is INSANITY !
I am so sick of all these new internet phrases I could just...well, I'd tell you what I could just do but by the time I finish typing it it would probably mean something else.
Let me tell ya, when it comes to the language of the internet, nothing makes me feel older and more out of the loop.
In my day a"down-load" was a bowel movement and "going viral" meant a trip to the free clinic! And most importantly, SPAM was --and is, and always will be-- a tasty pork product!

It is not yet 7:30 AM and already I'm having a bad day. I made my coffee and my son's oatmeal just like every other day. First I dropped the oatmeal, broke the bowl and splattered oat meal and broken glass everywhere. Then my son and his trusty dog Lily came running to see what had happened. Bad timing. They ran right into me causing me to spill hot coffee all over myself. OUCH! Good news is I only spilled half the coffee. Sweet! I can still get at least a partial caffeine fix. So I set the coffee on the table while I start cleaning up my mess.
I mopped up most of the spilled coffee with a dish towel, got most of the oatmeal and broken glass swept up, and took the dust pan outside to dump in the trash. Being less than a week before the "fall back " time change, it's still dark outside at this time of the morning. Even with the garage light on I failed to see that the outside trash can is covered with fire ants! And in about two seconds I was too. AAAAAHHHHGGGGGG!!!!!
I throw down the dust pan and start slapping at the ants crawling all over me. I'm slapping my arms, my legs, my feet! To no avail whatsoever! Those little beasts were as tenacious as they are EVIL!!! I was left with no alternative. I grabbed the garden hose and, standing right there in the driveway, I hosed those little demons off me. Again, I try to see the bright side. At least it's not cold yet here in South East GA.
So I drag my soggy ass back into the house, get a quick shower, apply some itch-stopping ointment to...well, pretty much my whole body, and prepared to grab what's left of my coffee, reheat it, and relax for just a few minutes before I have to take the boys to school. The Universe had other plans! My coffee was GONE!
OH CRAP! I forgot Daisy ( the weiner dog) loves coffee. And what's more she's still spry enough to jump right up into a chair and drink from a cup right off the table. I know Daisy loves coffee because every time my hubby leaves his cup sitting around, my darling Daisy wastes no time sticking her furry nose right in it and lapping it up like it's the Nectar of the Dogs. OK, I admit it's kinda funny when its his coffee. And I probably would have been able to laugh it off this time had it not been for one thing:chocolate. My coffee this morning was a delicious chocolate-mocha- latte-type drink. Yes, I said CHOCOLATE ! The stuff that makes dogs SICK !! There was a trail of chocolate-covered-kibble-vomit going all through the house.
All my charming sons could do was comfort poor sick, Daisy. Forget poor ME !! Don't bother offering to help clean up this millionth mess of the day! I'm the MOM! I can handle it!!! I can handle it MYSELF !!!
That was about the time my positive outlook just flew out the window. I believe that if I keep a positive outlook, positive things will happen. But c'mon, seriously !?! How much can one mom take? Is the Universe testing me? Is this Divine Retribution for not taking my shopping cart back into the grocery store? Will I survive this day?
Only time will tell.

Ever wonder why it seems to take ladies so much longer than their hubbies to get ready to go some where? I can't speak for anyone else but for me there is a very legitimate reason why I am always the last one out the door at my house.
Here is what my husband does before going out: take a shower and get dressed.
Here is what I do before going out: Make sure the kids are up and dressed appropriately. This usually means making sure that they actually have clothes on, as opposed to pajamas which they would be happy to wear 24 hours a day, and are wearing shoes, which they'd be happy to go without 24 hours a day. Then I have to take the dogs outside (don't want any "accidents" to occur while we're gone)This reminds me to check the food and water bowls. Surprise - both empty! So I go to give the dogs food and water.Wait, can't fill up the water bowl because the sink is full of dirty dishes. So I have to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then give the dogs their water.Now that that's done I jump into the shower. Nope can't do it. First I have to pick up all the towels that the previous shower-ers have left on the floor. Oh crap! All the towels are on the floor. Are any of them clean? Then one or more dogs starts to "waller" on said towels answering that question for me. OK fine, no problem, ever resourceful I find a beach towel to dry off on. I then jump in the shower ready to enjoy a relaxing hot shower. But NOOOOO! Always the last one in the shower, I get to bask in the luxury of tepid water while using a bar of soap that's roughly the size of an acorn.
Sorta clean and kinda dry, I pull on whatever outfit is the least wrinkled and breathe a sigh of relief, thinking I'm in the home stretch, now. Throw on a little make up, pin up my hair and go, right? Too bad my kids have liberated every one of my hair pins to practice picking locks. So
I just go with the traditional ponytail-- the official hairdo of stressed out mothers everywhere. And forget about make up, there's no time for that. I just grab a pair of big sunglasses and hope they're big enough to hide what the make otherwise would have. Then I'm out the door only to find my dear hubby and my cherubic children waiting for me.
And they ask, "What took you so long??"

I have made a decision. No more PopTarts for my kids. From now on it's gonna be bran muffins every day.Those boys need their fiber in the worst way. And when I say ''worst" I really mean it.
I have gotten sick and tired of seeing those giant redwood trees in the toilet every time one of them poops and "forgets"to flush.
"Always flush after you use the bathroom!''I constantly remind them. Who knew those words would come back to bite me in the ass.
Last night, I went into my bedroom to get something and noticed wet dog footprints everywhere.You can imagine my surprise when I looked to find the source of the water and found an overflowing toilet.
Just to be clear on this, it wasn't one of those darn-it-I'd-better-grab-a-mop situations. It was at least two inches of water on my bathroom floor, complete with dog tracks and floating turds! And it was still pouring! Luckily I had the choice of going in to shut the water off barefoot, or in the flip flops I was wearing. Talk about your no-win situation.
I rolled up my jeans and got the water turned off, then went and got the shop-vac. In case you don't know, that's a wet and dry vacuum and literally picks up anything and everything.
But here's the thing... the last time I used this particular shop-vac, I noticed how dirty the filter was. So I took some initiative and washed it. Then I sat it out in the sun to dry. I didn't really notice that besides being a very sunny day it was also a very windy day. The filter blew away and I never found it. I had every intention of buying a new one but somehow it got shifted to the bottom of my priority list.
Being the non-mechanical type that I am, I really had no idea what the filter was even for.So I decided to just use it without one. It was for the greater good, after all. Now I am acutely aware of at least one of the functions that filter performed. This lesson was learned when I began to use the shop-vac and it began to shoot shit-water out at me.
To say I was disgusted would be the understatement of the century. But I stood my ground against my new arch enemies Shit-water and Floating-turds, and finally got the mess cleaned up.
In true pissed off mama form, I went to my sons ready to bring down the wrath of God on whoever did this.
"The toilet just overflowed,does anybody have any idea why that might have have happened!?" I said
''I don't know anything about that, mama.''said Nikk as he looked up at me with his innocent brown eyes, "All I did was take a dump and flush it. You always say to flush when we take a dump."

It's a dog eat shoe world

W e've had our dog, Rocky since last May and it's not getting any better. He's ALWAYS chewing up something. He got a couple of pairs of my flip-flops. He's just lucky I have over forty pairs or I would have went off on him. Then one day, he took a pair of jeans that I had laid out to wear the next day and got them off the dresser and chewed a hole in the knee. This could have been considered fashionable had it not bee the back of the knee.
It seems he also targets Joey's shoes. Joey has gone through five pairs of sandals since June. now he's reduced to wearing two sandals of different colors because Mom (that's me) is tired of buying replacement sandals just because he's too lazy/forgetful/whatever to put his shoes in the closet and shut the door.
Rocky also seems to have an appetite for literature. In other words he likes to eat books. What fascinates me is his choice of books. When I'm reading a book I make sure that when I lay it down it's out of Rocky's line of sight-usually on the back of the couch. I know that if I leave it on the coffee table or some easy-to-reach place I'm risking having my book turned into kibble. But seriously, he can't even see what's on the back of the couch, and he's trained not to get on the furniture. (fine with him he has not one, but two comfy doggy beds)

Rocky hasn't chewed any books in a very long time. The kids even leave books on the coffee table now and he shows no interest in them whatsoever. But last week I was reading Cujo and when I started getting tired I put it on the back of the couch and went to bed. The next morning when I woke up I found the book ripped shreds lying in Rocky's doggy bed. I thought it was odd that out of the blue he'd start a)climbing on furniture and b)chewing books again. So I punished him and went to the library to get another copy so I could finish the story. That night I put the book up on a four and a half foot ledge that seperates the dining room from the foyer. I'm not even sure how he knew it was there. But sure enough the next morning I caught him with that book, chewing the corner like there's no tomorrow. I got the book away from him before any major damage was done.

I wondered aloud why he chose that book in particular. Joey came up with the best answer. He said that Rocky knew the book was about a bad dog and since Rocky is a good dog he thought he had to destroy the bad dog to protect us. Sounds logical to me.
Then there's the issue of eating out of the garbage. If there is any leftover food on our plates we either scrape it off into his dish or down the disposal, so there is no actual food in the trash can. He just likes to get whatever is in there (like maybe, the box a hot wheel came in, for example) and chew the hell out of it, usually scattering bits and pieces of it all over the house.
I started punishing him. Every time I caught him eating garbage I would smack his nose and put him in "time out" on his bed. Not one of my better ideas. He just started getting garbage and taking it directly to his bed. My final solution was trash cans with lids.
And then there's the shedding. You wouldn't think a short haired dog could shed so much. But it's unreal how much hair comes off this damn dog every day. I try to keep the house (the house with all tile floors, by the way) swept regularly. But if I miss a day or -God forbid- two, the house ends up looking like the set of the porn classic "Shaving Arizona". It's pretty gross.
Why do I even keep this dog? Well, I guess I must just love his furry, black ass. Having a dog seems to make the house a home. If you're a dog-person you'll understand. If you're a cat-person, you can take comfort in knowing that Stephen King never wrote a book about a rabid Tabby.

Quick Freddie, stage an intervention!!!

Well, I just finished reading Nikki Sixx's The Heroin Diaries, (Good book by the way) and I feel that qualifies me to diagnose addiction.

So all I have to say is Freddie, grab Daphne and Velma and stage an intervention quick! Shaggy is a junkie!

My first clue was his unkempt appearence. He never shaves or changes his clothes. And who knows how long it's been since he's had a bath. Apathy about personal hygiene is a sure sign of a serious drug problem.

Not only that, there are other serious indicators.

For example:
-Paranoia (always thinks monsters are chasing him)
-Hallucinations (thinks his dog can talk)
-Eats copious amounts of food (marijuana munchies?) but fails to gain any weight (amphetamines anyone?)

Shaggy, if you're reading this, just know you are not alone, there is help.
The first step is admitting you have a problem.

Holy Crap! It's been awhile.

I can't believe it's been so long since I've blogged!
Yeah, I was sick and everything... but seriously!
It's totally NOT because I've had nothing to bitch about. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not the least of which is having yet another birthday. Damn, I hate getting old. But I guess it beats the alternative-getting dead.
Another big part of the reason I haven't been on the computer much lately is because hubby-poo has been buying and selling online to make a few extra bucks. I totally DO NOT mind the money. but he's always monopolizing the computer. If not him, then it's one of the kids. But fair is fair and everybody should get a turn. So now that I've finnally got a turn, I gotta go referee a squabble between kids. Nice. More later.

Oh, Poor Me!

Well, it's been ten days since my surgeries and I'm still not back to normal.
I was told by the docs that the surgeries themselves went well. The only exception being that my gall bladder was swollen, causing them to have to make a bigger set of incisions to get it out. No big deal. And the nose surgery went perfectly. No bruising or anything.
I felt like I was batting a thousand. I was told to expect quite a bit of pain, but for the first three days I didn't even have to get the pain pill Rx filled. Of course, I wasn't doing cartwheels but my recovery seemed to be going really great. Then out of the blue I started hurting really bad in my stomach. I just assumed the stomach ache was the pain I was supposed to be expecting. Then I noticed I was getting a little swollen. Well, actually very swollen. especially my feet. At one point they were looking a bit like water melons with pudgie pork sausages for toes.
Then as the pain got worse, I started losing control of my bladder. Talk about adding insult to injury.
I spent all day July 2nd in the emergency room, only to find out that I was retaining water, but they couldn't figure out why. They stuck a catheter in me to keep my bladder drained and sent me home.
Well, the cath did its job. The swelling went down and I actually lost 18lbs of water weight overnight. I felt a lot better except for the fact that I was forced to carry a sack of piss around.
But I fear things still aren't right. The urine is always heavily tainted with blood. I'm no doctor. Hell, I don't even play one on TV, but even I know that can't be good. I went back to the ER on July4 and they told me it was probably just some irritation and they sent me home with an appointment to see a urologist.
Whatever the problem was, it didn't seem to pass. Three days later my pee still looks like cherry Kool Aid.
I'm seeing the doc later today and I hope to get some answers.
I'm not in a lot of pain (except, I think I pulled a muscle in my upper stomach- nothing to do with the bladder thing) but I'm just so aggravated.
I hate having to carry this pee-sack everywhere I go. Not that I go any where outside of the house, who would want to go anywhere carrying around something that disgusting, like it's some kind of traveling museum exhibit.
I have a new respect for people who have to deal with things like this all their lives. I guess I should be grateful that it's not something much worse. But I'm only human , and therefore I'm allowed a few minutes of self pity.
Now that I've gotten all that off my chest, I'm actually starting to feel better. I guess bitching really is good for the soul.

Just being thankful.

Lately, I've seen quite a few news articles about a group of teens who supposedly made a "pregnancy pact". The girl that seems to be doing all the interviews says there wasn't any pact to all get pregnant at the same time. The only thing resembling a pact was after the fact when the pregnant girls sort of got together and promised themselves and each other that they would make the most of the situation and try to make good decisions in the future.
I can't imagine any group of high school girls getting pregnant on purpose, not in this day and age when birth control is so readily available. But I do know from personal experience that unplanned pregnancies do occur and my hat is off to those girls for taking responsibility for their actions.
Although I wasn't a teen when I had my first child (I was just two weeks shy of turning 22 when Zakk was born) I had the maturity level and the life-experience of a much younger girl.
It could have been a life shattering experience had I not had the support and encouragement of so many wonderful people.
My mom could have turned her back on me so easily. I'd certainly not been the perfect child. It would have been so easy for her to just say "I've got enough to deal with, kid. You're on your own." Lord knows she did have a lot on her plate. But she somehow managed to help me in every way imaginable. All the while not showing the disappointment she must have felt.
Then there were my girlfriends. I couldn't have asked for a better group of girls to be surrounded by. Laura, Kathy, Ann, Susan, even Millie-- these girls got me through this emotionally draining time. I was such a basketcase, it's a wonder that any of them can still stand me.
I consider all of them my closest friends although I don't keep in touch with all of them like I should.
Looking back at that time in my life makes me realize just how lucky I was to have them in my life. I was the first one in our little circle of friends to have a baby. I was a clueless unwed mother but each of these girls enthusiastically jumped into the roll of "aunt" making this experience one of the happiest times in my life.
They all understood and accepted my crazy hormonal pregnancy mood swings.None of them ever rolled their eyes at me when I had to get up in the middle of movies,meals, and conversations to pee twenty times, and after the baby came, everyone acted like it was the most natural thing in the world that I of all people should have a baby.
It would have been so easy for them to blow me off in favor of friends who aren't restricted by parenthood. Friends who can come and go at all hours without giving it a second thought or take spontaneous trips without having to get a baby sitter.
People say that when a girl has a baby at a young age she gives up some of her youth. I believe this is true to some extent. But my friends sacrificed a part of their youth as well, just to support me. That is what I call going above and beyond friendship.
I always talk about how I love the written word as a form of self expression, but right now I don't have any words that can fully express how I feel. Thinking back on all the support I got during that scary and uncertain time of my life, all I can say is I was blessed and come to think of it I still am.

the bra rant

Today's the big day. I'm having surgery. Septoplasti and gall bladder removal. I don't have to be at the hospital for another couple of hours so I thought I'd take this time to vent some frustrations.
Yesterday started off badly. I woke up to find my dog had gone nuts in the middle of the night. He'd knocked over the trash can and scattered garbage all over the place. When he got bored with the garbage he moved on to the clothes hamper. That crazy dog got one of my bras out of the hamper and chewed it in two! He ripped it right down the middle between the cups. Now it's like a pair of beanies with chin straps.
At first I was mad--livid actually. Then I decided I would use my misfortune as an excuse. An excuse to GO SHOPPING!
As a mom, I go shopping all the time. But this time it was diferent. I was shopping for ME! (quite a rarity)
So I went bra shopping.
Did you know that 80% of all women are wearing the wrong size bra? It's a fact! There have been numerous studies on the subject. (probably funded by the US government , because they don't have anything better to spend money on)
As such, when bra shopping, you can't just grab " your size" of the rack like you would anything else. You have to collect about a half dozen different sizes and try them all on to get one that fits just right.
Apparently, there's a science to it. First you have to choose the right cup size. They don't make it easy, like Starbucks. There are a lot more cup sizes than just Grande , Tall, and Venti. And to make matters more confusing, they now have ''half sizes''. The theory being that more sizes will make it easier for all women to find a perfect fit. Not true! It took me the better part of an hour to determine that none of the sizes is going to fit exactly right.
Either I get that muffintop bulging out of the top of the cup or I get somthing that is so loose that it's just a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.
Then you've got to worry about support. I don't want to go around looking like a National Geographic centerfold with my boobs blowing in the wind. But the alternative is the dreaded WIRE.
To mis-quote Metallica: Gimme fuel, Gimme fire, Gimme bras WITHOUT A WIRE!
Modern science had created a phone that does everything but tie your shoes, yet no one can invent a wireless bra that still holds everything where it's supposed to be. Or for that matter, a bra that's at least comfortable would be nice.
Men wonder why we're bitches. It's because our bras don't fit right!
So the next time my husband accuses me of being in a bad mood, I'll just point to my bra and ask "Wouldn't you be bitchy if you had a wire poking you in the side-boob all day?"

sick of those butts

I haven' written on this blog in a long time because I've been spending all my spare time reading. I set a goal for myself that I could complete reading all of Steven King's published works this summer. I counted them up and there's 57 (not counting books that have been re-released in different form). So far I have read 39 of them. I may have actually read more than that, but I don't count the ones I don't remember. I read my first SK book (Carrie) in the fifth grade. and to be honest I've lost quite a few brain cells since then.
But I had to take time to vent a little frustration. I am soooooo sick of seeing cigarette butts on the ground out side the front door of Coastal Ga. Community College! As you drive into the parking lot, there are FOUR signs letting people know that this is a smoke-free campus. Which to me means, put out your cigarette in the car ashtray and don't light up again until you get back in the car to leave.
Maybe they think they are being ironic. I think not! I can understand that people have nicotine addictions and have to smoke. But there is no addiction, or compulsion or whatever, that makes people think the ground is their own personal ashtray. That is just plain old nastiness!
But by and large nobody cares. Throwing ciggy-butts on the ground has become acceptable. As if it's just a fact of life. As sure as day follows night, there will be ciggy-butts on the ground.
I take offense, not to the smoking itself--although I don't like it much--but to the idea of people just throwing stuff on the ground, as though it didn't really matter.
Many of the offenders (at least at CGCC) are the same people who spend their days spouting about "going green' and saving the planet. Well, excuse the hell outta me, but aren't ciggy-butts NON-biodegradable? Do they think the Cigarette Fairy comes and picks them up?
Throwing ciggy-butts on the ground is not just trashy, it's disgusting and gross.
So I propose that the next time we see a pile of butts on the ground outside the door of CGCC or any public establishment, we all just drop our drawers and take a big dump right along side of it. If smokers are going to leave their shit on the ground why shouldn't everybody?

Yearly physicals, what fun!

Well, it finally happened! My husband's first prostate exam!

After 20+ years of my own personal degradation and humiliation at the gynocologist's office, I finally get to see him endure the mortifying embarassment that accompanies the necessary, but all too unpleasant, intimate physical exam.

(If it's any consolation to you , honey, the doctor seemed to enjoy it even less than you did.)
The look on that woman's face was priceless. I think that must have been the "sometimes-I wish-I'd become-an-accountant-look". Oh well, that's why they pay her the big bucks, I guess.

So he finally had a small glimpse into what we women have to endure. A VERY SMALL glimse.
I mean, really, what is the "butt-finger" compared to what women have to go through anually at the Gyno's office.

Every year we muster up our courage and traipse down to the office for our annual exam.
We tell ourselves that it won't be that bad, but after sitting in the( appropriately named) "waiting room" for about an hour waiting to be called back, what started out as an uneasy feeling has mutated into full-blown anxiety.

Then your name is called and you get to go back to the exam room where you have to wait another hour, but this time with no magazines, and in a paper dress!

When the doc finally does arrive that's when the real "fun" begins. First comes the breast exam. I'm an old fashioned girl. I usually don't let someone feel me up until they've at least bought me dinner, but I make an exception in this case.
So there I am on the table, arms over my head, getting my boobs pinched and poked. Can you imagine a more vulnerable position? If not, just let me tell you about what comes next.

Next is the pelvic exam. First you have to lay on the exam table, spread eagle with your feet up in stirrups. Then you're told to "slide your butt down." As if you're not uncomfortable enough, now your butt is hanging off the end of the table and a spot light is being shined on your vagina.
Then the doc slathers his latex-gloved hands with KY jelly that seems to have been stored in the freezer. "This may feel a little cold." seems to be the standard line at that point. But the use of the word "little", in this case is like saying that politicians are a "little" dishonest.

Then comes the speculums. If you aren't familiar with this device, it is a metal tool used by the gynocologist to hold open the vagina during the exam, which apparently is stored in the freezer next to the KY jelly. It is unceremoniously inserted and cranked open like the sun roof of a 1979 Volkswagen, so that the doc can proceed to scrape cells from the cervix. Yes, I said scrape cells! I know this is necessary to diagnose cervical abnormalities that might be pre-cancerous in nature, but you sure never hear about a doctor scraping anything off of any MAN!

And heaven help you if you have such an exam in a "learning hospital". It's bad enough with the doctor and nurse in the room. A couple of interns asking questions about you like you're some science project, instead of a human being, really does very little to instill confidence and promote relaxation. And GOD-forbid the exam should show anything unusual in such a place. The next thing you know interns from all over the building will be lining up to look at the woman who's episiotomy scar is shaped like the Eiffel Tower. ( or whatever the case may be)

So, in my must humble opinion, men have it easy. What's a moment of anal angst compared to all THAT!