I'm Just No Good At Being A Dominatrix

So I am into day 1.5 of supervising on my own. So far, knock on wood, things are going okay.

I haven't had to crawl into a machine yet.

Everything that was supposed to be packed today was packed.

There were no cat fights today.

I haven't pissed The Swinger off.

I may make the entire two weeks without the first 3 happening. Pissing The Swinger off is inevitable. It seems there is a huge difference between being a bitch and dominating, and I'm just no good at dominating a submissive.

Do you suppose there's a course you can take for that?


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Immortality And Proof I've Always Been A Ditz

When I was little, my Mom used to send me off every Sunday to Sunday School. There was a bus that came around and picked us up, just like the school bus only it was white instead of yellow. It was for a Baptist church - even though we were Anglican.

Years later I figured out that once I got too old to plop in a high chair with a coloring book and some crayons, this was my Mom's way of guaranteeing some Sunday morning sexy time with my Dad

My Dad had this really cute little blue pick-up truck at the time.

Like this - only blue

 source

Note the little hooky thingies. Those continue around the tail gate too, so you can tarp down your garbage when you're taking it to the Dump. Which was also one of my favorite places to go even if my Dad would never let me out of the vehicle so I could search for buried treasure.

I've always told myself that I picked that truck out. I have no idea why, but they had me with them while they were shopping used vehicles and that blue truck was the one I liked best. Why they had me with them, or why I liked it best. Considering it was a Ford built by Mazda and my Dad worked at Chrysler, it's a wonder they let him in the parking lot with it.

So there I am one Sunday getting dropped off by the Sunday School bus, and something exciting must have happened - maybe it was the Sunday they had me convinced that I could never really die because Jesus would bring me back to life - so I came running off of that bus to tell my parents about my morning.

All of a sudden my world went black.

When I came back to my senses, there was blood streaming down my face. I had run right into the back of that bright blue pick up. It's a wonder there wasn't a dent in the tail gate from my face. I had two black eyes from that incident. I guess I was lucky I didn't break my nose and have to wear that Phantom of the Opera face cast that a girl I went to school with wore after getting hit in the face by a baseball.

Must have been a big let-down for my mom after enjoying her child free Sunday morning. 

Also? Mom stopped sending me when I became too immersed in the whole resurrection thing - she was worried I would quit watching for cars when I crossed the street or something.

I think this counts as a for real Sunday Morning Nookie post, since there were no brakes bled in it.

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One Of Those Days

Yesterday was one of those days.

Whether it was the greasy potato wedges, or the anxiety of knowing my co-supervisor is leaving for vacation today my stomach spent the day giving me grief.

Starting this afternoon I get to deal with The Swinger and the Cat Fights all on my own for the next two weeks. Plus my usual work, plus all of the stuff he does that I'm probably not even aware of.

At the end of those two weeks I hope I feel like I've finally got the hang of this job, but somehow I think I'll still need more time.

Either way, when the Asshats kept continuously wandering in and out of my bedroom last night I finally gave into their pleas for sustenance and cooked dinner. Once again - no seconds to be had. I kind of hate cooking a meal and then having to have a PB&J sandwich to fill the gap leftover.

Still, all of that left me irritable and unfocused so I decided to read a book.

Ever fall asleep at 7:30 and wake up around midnight feeling like it's morning? That didn't happen this time. I woke up at midnight, but it didn't feel like morning. So I showered and got into my PJ's

These pajamas and slippers always make me feel like I'm at a Minnie Mouse slumber party for some reason. 

I had a glass of pop and read a few other bloggers and then I was out until morning. 

I still hit the snooze button a half dozen times. 



I know this post wasn't funny at all, please don't hold it against me. Vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm way way down on the list. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th. 

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I Join Them To Beat Them.

I won't lie - the Asshats love to torment me. They know exactly which buttons to push to get me from aggravated to apoplectic. I may not have been blessed with bodacious ta-ta's but I feel I'm well endowed with buttons. According to the Asshats, they're all begging to be pushed.

When I've finally reached the point of either going postal or making them stop, I've got a few sure fire tricks up my sleeve.

Remember the Mary Catherine Gallagher skit from SNL? The one where she sticks her hands in her armpits and sniffs them? So admittedly I don't sniff my hands, but if I stick them in my armpits and then chase the Asshats with my hands - I can make them run away.

I'm not sure what exactly about this bothers them so much. I mean my hands just smell like Secret antiperspirant and I think I remember shaving recently, so what the fuck is the big deal? Not knowing why it works does not mean I'm above using it.

On the topic of shaving? If one of the Asshats is in the bathroom, flossing or popping zits and I want them out now - I just say "Hurry up, I've got to shave my legs". Asshat #1 will actually make this completely disgusted expression that is priceless to me.

It is especially satisfying since I happen to know he trims his leg hair. I know this because I usually have to clean up the stuff that doesn't make the garbage can. Unless he's part gorilla (I think I would have realized it if this were true) it's probably all of it.

If one or the other is talking at me and I just want to make them go away? I try to work the conversation around to when they were babies. Then I drop the bomb on them.

I breastfed you for x number of months. 

It's a guaranteed knock out. Either one of them will make their horrified face and immediately retreat to their corner of the ring.

When all else fails I thank my vegetarian life-style and lift an ass cheek. Mom's aren't supposed to fart you know.

Hanging out at Yeah Write again. Click the badge thingy and check out some great bloggers who write and writers who blog. Come back on Thursday to vote for your favorite 5.

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It's All Fun And Games Until Someone Gets Shot In The Eye

When the Asshats are really acting up and beating on each other, I always tell myself the same thing.

At least nobody's been shot in the eye with a BB Gun.

Up until I was four, we lived next door to a large family. All of them thought I was adorable and treated me like a favorite toy or something equally special. Then we moved.

Somebody, call it fate, call it God, whatever your personal persuasion, knew long ago that I was going to wind up raising 2 Asshats mostly on my own. In their infinite wisdom they had a family with three boys move in to the house next door right before our arrival.

I was no longer the favored one. I was the substitute crash test dummy. The one they picked on instead of their baby sister, although I'm sure they picked on her too.

Growing up next door to three farm boys is - interesting. You learn fast that you had better not be afraid of snakes.

Summers we all ran around the farm, barefoot usually. I used to catch shit often if the Mulberries were in season. It wasn't like you could lie and say you weren't running around barefoot under the mulberry tree because the black feet kind of gave it away. You can't scrub that shit off by the way.

They boys did stuff like hunting crayfish in the ditch. Nobody ever worried about the five households with their septic tanks running right into the ditch. There they all were, barefoot in shit water hunting stuff that looked like bugs. Of course the shit water is probably why the Asparagus we all ate in the spring grew so well on the ditch bank.

When the smelt were running, they would always bring home pails of them. So much that my mom got half. It's been over 30 years but I bet I still know how to gut a smelt. 

Across the road from our houses were acres of bush. The three boys had a permanent year round campsite set up out there. Apparently at least one of them had a BB Gun as well.

The story they told all the parents was someone let go of a branch and it flung back and hit the youngest boy in the eye. He spent a week in the hospital with the doctors trying to save his eye. They saved the eye but he's blind in it.

That's right, one of his brother's shot him in the eye with a BB gun.

Please vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest, even though I'm still pending approval and petrified they'll have a bouncer come and toss me out on my ear. You can vote every day for the next 14 days.

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My Dad The Superstar, Adored By Many

Mom always says Dad looked like Elvis when they got married. He did look very handsome. Even if his pants were two inches short. I guess his pants got mixed up with his brother's. His brother tried his on before the big day and got his exchanged. My Dad? Not so lucky. I'm pretty sure it was the last time he got caught short. 

Every Sunday when we go for dinner, my Dad gets a taste of the superstar life.

That plate of scraps might not look like anything special to us, but to his loyal fan base of three dogs slobbering on his slippers that shit is solid gold. My dad likes to draw it out too, that plate of bones took a solid 30 minutes to scrape. That's a lot of drool.

It's also probably the reason my dog will sulk if he doesn't get to go to Sunday Dinner at Gramma's. 

I'm still debating if it was incredibly bold or incredibly foolish, but I've thrown my hat in the ring. Please vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest, even though I'm still pending approval and petrified they'll have a bouncer come and toss me out on my ear.

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If You Have A Vagina, You Probably Make Me Nervous

I don't get women, or at least I don't get most of them. Somehow I wound up being weird to other women. Only not in a trendy way, because if you're somehow weird in a trendy way there's likely a group of you who can hang out together. 

Of course my mother claims I was a strange child from the start. Something about being the only pre-schooler on earth who liked to play in their bedroom. Probably I was just traumatized by being plopped in my highchair with a coloring book and crayons while my parents slipped off for a quickie. True story.

Thanks mom! You warped me for life and there wasn't even a seatbelt on that high chair. What if I had fallen out and banged my head while you were getting banged?

I'm sure it all started back in Grade 1.

Grade 1 was the year that everyone was picking on Kelly. Kelly ate chalk. Which sure it's a little odd but is it odd enough to be worthy of a shunning? In the collective 6 year old mind that was my class, everyone decided we should put our lunchboxes up on their end and block her from our sight. There was also something about keeping the dreaded cooties away.

I went along with it for a while - it was the collective 6 year old brain doing the thinking at that point. Then one day I happened to actually look at her and see how sad she was. I put my lunch box down. After that I got a good taste of what it was like to have people blocking you with their lunch boxes. It did add a challenge to the collective 6 year old mind though, since one lunch box isn't really big enough to shun two children at the same time.

I think Kelly was grateful for all of a week. Then she decided I was too much of a social outcast to be friends with. I guess there's a mentality there that says if all the social outcasts hang together they make a bigger target. So instead they scatter - and let me tell you there is no mean girl meaner than one who is as much of an outcast as you are.

This doesn't happen to boys though. Even that chubby boy who sometimes smelled like manure had people to hang out with at school. Boy social outcasts are only mean to the girl social outcasts. 

Most recesses I would try to find a quiet corner somewhere that I could sit and read my book - because the damn teachers wouldn't let me hide indoors and read in comfort. One time a mean girl found me and spit chewed up banana in a circle around me.

I think she was a social outcast herself because she had the biggest ass I've ever seen. Extreme pear shape - have fun buying jeans that fit for the rest of your fucking life. She deserves it. Plus I kind of think her mom was a hoarder - way back before the show was on. So she wouldn't have had any way of knowing there were others out there just like her. The hoarder part not the huge ass part.

Out in the working world, those

These days, I've got a couple of great friends. They might not always get me - but that's okay.

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Cat Fight Continued

Cut it out!

I said that's enough!

I'm not sure how many times over the past 21 years I've said those two sentences. If one or the other of the Asshats is in a mood it could easily be ten, twenty times a day.

Yesterday though?

Well, yesterday took the cake. Because those two sentences were hollered by me at work across a huge warehouse.

That's right.

At work.

Because what the hell else can you do when you walk into work and two ladies are arguing loudly and bitterly with each other?

And there were tears, and there were ladies ready to quit. And there were ladies angry because they weren't put on their regular jobs.

Because why would you want to split them up if they can't get along right?

And there were ladies that went home early - sick with migraines.

I wasn't one of them - but oh, I wanted to be.

Let's hope it's finally done with today.

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Breastfeeding - It's The Best Revenge

I breastfed both of my babies, way back when they were babies. Please - hold the applause though. If I hadn't they likely would have both starved.

I've always been a bit of a ditz, but let me tell you pregnancy brain did me no favors. I breastfed so I couldn't leave the bottles at home or forget to buy formula. For the same reason, there was always diapers tucked away here and there like a squirrel hiding nuts for a winters day.

There are benefits to nursing that people forget to tell you.

For starters there's some irrefutable excuses that go along with nursing babies.

When you're caught napping.

Uuh no I wasn't sleeping, I was just feeding the baby. It's more comfortable when we're both laying down. 

When your husband walks in the door and there's no dinner and last nights dishes haven't been done. 

Sorry, but the baby must be having a major growth spurt - he nursed all day.

Who's going to be insensitive enough to call bullshit on you? I mean you ARE nursing a baby.

Then there's the fact that I never had to get up in the middle of the night. Not once. I took both my babies to bed with me and just as I can hit the snooze button a bajillion times without ever completely waking up, I could switch that baby from side to side.

I don't think either one of them ever cried at night - as soon as their little mouths started rooting around mommy instinct did the rest. At least I assume it was mommy instinct - it's not like I was awake to tell you about it.

The best part about nursing though comes when they are teenagers driving you bonkers, because you get to totally gross out your kids by reminding them they were breastfed.

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Cat Fights And Getting Catty

Have you ever tried to herd cats? Exhausting isn't it.

How about a few 11 year old girls all PMSing - how was that?

That's how I felt today at work. Only I don't work with 11 year old girls. I work with adult women - some of whom may or may not have been PMSing. I know I was.

Either way, they were squabbling like 11 year old's with PMS. This one said that, that one said this. This one is talking about my personal business. Then the new one gets in on it because she doesn't realize that by next week they'll all be best friends again. See? It's exactly like 11 year old girls isn't it?

There should be rules handed out with every single Employee Manual. Rules for women to just get the fuck along at work.

Rule 1

If you're looking for a promotion - earn it. No fair running around in short skirts with your crotch hanging out. If all of your ahem ego stroking is working out for you, don't brag about it. Nobody is impressed and we really all just want to throat punch ya. Right after we kick you in the vagina you keep showing off.

Rule 2

If you don't want people at work discussing your personal business then keep your personal business at home. It's a pretty simple rule, and guess what? It works.

Except if you're banging the boss. Then all bets are off. 

Rule 3

Work girlfriends are rarely your real girlfriends. They're just people you spend a lot of time with and if you're lucky you get along. Don't tell work girlfriends your secrets. See rule 2.

If you're banging the boss - see rule 1.

Rule 4

If you happen to be PMSing, just take a fucking Midol already. Please for the love of God, just take the damn Midol.

Except if you're banging the boss. Then you should just suffer. 

Today I learned supervising women is fucking exhausting and that I'm still bothered by crap that went on at my former job.

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How Many Sweaters Will Fit Under My Coat?

It's still cold. The weather network claims this cold snap is set to break for Monday, which means 2 more mornings of forcing my ass out of the house.

Two more mornings of playing lets see how many sweaters I can fit under my brown winter coat. The answer is two. I can't zip up the coat, nor can I bend my arms but two it is. Think sausage in a too tight casing with mini sizzlers for arms.

At work, the temp indoors is a balmy 55 degrees Fahrenheit. Which coincidentally is the exact right temperature to put my nose on the continuous drip cycle. So not only are my hands dry and looking like old lady hands, now my nose is getting chapped. And I'm pretty sure I may have used my sleeve at one point in desperation.

So yeah, I look super fat today and I've got snot on my sleeve. How's your day going?

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Thank you's, Sneezing Fits and Trying to Explain Blogging to Non Bloggers.

Today at work I had a sneezing fit. One of the Jamaican ladies told me that in her country, they say if a woman sneezes like that, then some other woman is doing her man. All I could think was Well I hope she can sneeze without crossing her legs, and I told the lady that for as much as I sneezed my man should be walking bow-legged.

That paragraph there, is part of the reason I blog. If you read that you may have chuckled or you may have only smiled, but somehow you reacted. Who knows, maybe you were just disgusted and you'll never read my blog again. In which case it's good we got that out of the way, because there's more where that came from.

Trying to explain blogging to somebody who doesn't blog is kind of impossible.

Non Blogger: Why is your house always such a mess.

Me: Because I work full time and then I blog full time.

My Brain: and because most of the time I really don't give a flying fuck if my house is clean.

Non Blogger: You have a blog? What's your blog about?

Me: Well you know, just the stupid crap that happens during the day and some of the shit my kids do.

Non Blogger: Why would anyone want to read about that.

My Brain: Well obviously you haven't met my kids if you think they can't be entertaining. 

And this is where if you are really lucky and you're writing posts that entertain, your blogging friends will step up and give you a pat on the back and tell you job well done.

Over the past couple of weeks, my blogging friends have done just that and bestowed 4 bloggy awards upon me.

First was Marissa Peterson over at Confessions Of A Failing Domestic Goddess with a Liebster Award. Marissa blogs about life with her 3 kids and 5 dogs and all of her proud and not so proud moments with everything in between.

Next was Jenn from Something Clever 2.0 with another Liebster Award. Jenn describes her blog as partly a mommy blog, but not exclusively. She also likes to complain. Which I do too so can you say serendipity? Jenn is also the hostess with the mostest who provides a Theme Thursday Link Up. It's pretty awesome and you should check it out.

For the Liebster Award I'm supposed to follow some rules.

I'm supposed to tell you 11 random facts about myself.
I'm supposed to answer 11 questions posted by the blogger who gifted me with the award, and create 11 new questions.
I'm supposed to select 11 new bloggers with fewer than 200 followers.

Since the Liebster has been circulating heavily the past couple of weeks I'm going to skip the passing it along part. If you want some great blogs to read, please - check out My Blog Crushes. I only have the 10 who most recently posted showing, but there's more there and there's something for everybody because I'm pretty eclectic in my reading.

Next up was the most intriguing of the awards. It came from Vinny of As Vinny C's It. Vinny has this crisp writing style that always entertains me, whether he's talking about renting ninja's or strange inventions to come out of Japan. If you head over and check it out, you'll see that the appearance of Vinny's blog perfectly matches his writing style - crisp and clean. I've been reading and enjoying Vinny's blog for a while now and it's always a treat for a new post to show up in my reader.

Vinny created a brand new blog award - one with a lot less rules. It's called the Tanned Hide award.

Pretty much, Vinny gave me permission to dole out a spanking to some worthy recipient. Of course the first one to come to mind is Swinger Dude, but I'm afraid he'll enjoy it too much. Once I've administered my spanking, I get to pick up to 3 other bloggers to dole out their own spankings. This one will be in a post soon - I just have to narrow down all the possibilities. Gleefully rubs hands together.

Then today? Another award from Synnøve @ Don't Chew On The Dinner Table. Synnøve gifted me with this award.

It is worth noting that Synnøve claims to love my kids. Which means I'm naming her their guardian should something happen to me. Don't worry Synnøve, I'm sure they'll only be home with me for another decade or so....

This award also comes with some rules but please go check it out for yourself, while you're there check out some of the bloggers she lists. I know I will be.

Thank you! You guys are all great. 

Bitter Cold and Bad Karma

Outside it's -11 Celsius, or 12 Fahrenheit.

And conditions indoors aren't much better.

I'm wearing a long sleeve T, two sweatshirts and my winter coat. Even though I'm waddling around like an Ewok and can't move my arms, I still wish I had thermal underwear, a hat and a scarf on.

The bitter (to us anyhow) cold was the topic of last nights phone conversation with the boyfriend.

Boyfriend: Did you plug your car in?

Me: No, somebody tie strapped the cord to a hose and I can't get it undone.

Boyfriend: Who did that?

Me: I don't know but it's been like that for 2 years.

My Brain: Probably you Boyfriend.

Boyfriend: You used it last year.

Me: No I didn't, I never needed it last winter.

Boyfriend: I hope your furnace doesn't quit on you.

Me: Why would you even say that?

Thanks Boyfriend for putting that out there. Now I have to worry about Karma making it happen - even though I know there is nothing wrong with my furnace.

The Glass Half Empty Finger of Doom

I'm not a glass-half full type of chick, but most of the time I'm pretty good at ignoring the glass altogether.

Except sometimes, the glass is all I can think of.

Like when I take laundry out of the dryer and find a used to be paper lint ball.

Because I'm a mom who never checks pockets, I try to unravel it to see if it's important.

I find out it's the envelope you get with a speeding ticket. Which means my newly licensed, already paying a shit ton of money for insurance, oldest Asshat got himself a fucking ticket.

How big was the fine? How fast was he going? Did he lose points?

I worry, and the glass that's half empty is waiting around the corner like the finger of doom.

Eventually, I remember he is technically an adult and this worry is his. I move on and keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

This morning I woke up thinking about the Guidance Counselor I need to call back. The one I've been sort of avoiding for a couple of weeks.

She wants to talk about my youngest dropping out of the OYAP program.

I start thinking about how glad I am that he's not going into OYAP to be a chef. Because in our small rural area there are no chefs. There are only short order cooks. Who can feed a family on that?

Then I start thinking about how near he is to graduating from his vocational school. The one that hasn't prepared him for college or any career other than working in fast food. The one I fought to keep him out of, but finally had to submit to in defeat.

What is he going to do instead?

I give up on sleep and get up to take my place in the line for the bathroom. 

Tomorrow I'll remember that all I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other, but today? The glass half-empty finger of doom is pointing at me again.

OYAP is the Ontario Youth Apprenticeship Program. It was designed to help steer young people who aren't college bound into the Trades. It is a program I fully support, just not so much for fields that won't ever yield a decent living.

On A Tropical Getaway

I went on a tropical getaway today. No for real. The air was soft and warm. The sky was sunny and blue. I was surrounded by greenery.

Okay, I lied. It felt kind of like a tropical getaway. I was actually out in the greenhouse last week.

I reached my maximum tolerance for dirty hands about 1/2 hour in. Tomato juice stains by the way. I have the greenish brown shit on my shirt to prove it. It also stings. You learn to not rub your eyes. Or your nose.

Some people wear gloves. I say fuck you to the gloves. No matter how much my rational brain says glove, the part of my brain that controls the gag reflex says used condom. They also make your hands stink.

On the topic of stink. Those feet are mine. The pipes on either side are part of the heating system. The shoes are toxic.

This week I haven't been as lucky. It's way cold outside, -13 in Celsius, 9 in Fahrenheit. Inside wasn't much better.

Also, some poor tomato suffered an amputation today.

And I could really use some lotion.

Pedi-Expert - The Cheese Grater For Feet.

This weekend I decided that since I had managed to get myself in for a haircut and get my teeth cleaned (sort of) maybe a little more pampering was in order.

Wonder of wonders I could find a pair of tweezers, so I looked after those pesky whiskers coarse chin hairs that started cropping up after the birth of Asshat #2. Who is also responsible for 99% of my stretch marks.

Then I decided my heels were looking kind of rough. Working on your feet for 70 plus hours will do that to you I guess. So hey, for some Sunday night fun let's break out the callus grater, or pedi-egg or in my case the Revlon Pedi-Expert with it's handy catch all.

It's a cheese grater for your feet ladies. Well gents too, because there's nothing like a well groomed foot on a man.

We may not notice you tried but we sure as hell will notice if you didn't. 

I'm not much on instructions since they require me to find my glasses first, so I figured what the hell I've been grating cheese for years and that's been going okay. How hard can it be?

For removing hard thick skin from your heels that little sucker rocks. Do not expect your heels to feel baby smooth though. Instead they will feel like a block of cheese looks after it's been grated. Pretty much.

Since I didn't read them I don't know if the instructions give you this hint, but whatever you do don't tip the thing upside down or you will leave a noticeable pile of heel gratings wherever you happen to be sitting.

This of course will require you to haul out your vacuum because well - Eeuw! Heel gratings!

Another little tip? When it's time to empty that handy collector bin - don't look. I did. I will never as long as I live be able to eat Parmesan cheese again.

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Crazy Making Advice For The Older Teens

When it comes to driving parents crazy, some teens are underachievers. If they don't step up their game soon, when it comes time to move out mom may still be capable of coherent conversation. So really guys, you've got to go all out for ape shit crazy.

There are a few main areas where you can really get maximum effect from your efforts.

Dishes

Stockpile dirty dishes in your bedroom all week. Bring them out and pile them all on the counter around 9pm on a Sunday. Guaranteed your mom will try to load the dishwasher and find out that you ran it with one lonely casserole dish and your lunchbag that smelled like gasoline.

When you run the dishwasher that casserole dish is important - make sure it's the one with the burned on scalloped potatoes. Set the dishwasher to heated dry and transform that burnt on scalloped potato into a new indestructible material previously unknown to man.

Immediately use any new scrubbies on your shoes but leave the old worn out ones alone. Hide her Skrapr in the watering can, she'll never find it there because have you seen those houseplants?

Laundry

Hoard as much dirty laundry in your room as you can while bitching that you don't have any clean clothes. Bonus points if you bury all the wet towels at the bottom of the pile maximizing the musty smell. Double bonus points if you can score a mysterious spill that dries sticky and stiff. Make her say "Oh. My. God. I think I'm going to vomit" and you get a special star on the Make Your Mom Insane Walk of Fame.

Every article of clothing to leave your body must be inside out. Except the pants, maximize tangling in the washer and dryer with one leg right side out and one inside out. Double bonus if you roll your socks into a ball so they are nice and crunchy come laundry day.

Only half of your laundry hoard comes out Sunday morning. As soon as she's down to only two loads left, insist you have to wash your bedding right now. Empty the dryer into the basket but really jam the laundry down so it will have to be fluffed before folding. Use the longest cycle the wash machine has for your bedding.

Around 8pm on Sunday is when you bring out the other half of your laundry hoard. Moms who start the week well rested and on top of their chores are not nearly as susceptible to going ape shit crazy. That is your goal, so man up and work it like a pro!

Your biggest ally in your efforts is the Front Load Wash Machine. The towels will require special attention to get the musty smell out. Don't even worry about if she's going to turn those socks right side out. She has to or they will come out of the washer as crunchy as when they went in.

The Bathroom

The bathroom is a prime zone for crazy making. Shower three times daily - every day. You have to feed that laundry monster you've got growing in your bedroom. 

For your morning shower you want to make sure you shit first and then leave it in the toilet. Also you want to time it so that you leave exactly 2 minutes of hot water for the next person. Just long enough for them to shampoo but not long enough to rinse before the cold water hits.

When you shave, put the water on full blast. When you brush your teeth make sure the gob of toothpaste hits the part of the sink the water doesn't reach. Bonus points if you can hack up a loogie too.

Go for maximum splash on the vanity top while scattering all of your toiletries along the entire vanity. Your goal is to make sure each one has to be moved to wipe up your water. You're going for the "Fuck! I don't have time to deal with this" here.

During your afternoon shower blow your nose repeatedly in the shower. Leave at least one booger on the shower wall. Bonus points if it's a dirty one. When you're done there had better not be any hot water for the pre-dinner dishes that you've already lined up.

Work the laundry crazy making in tandem with your bathroom crazy making. Take your bedtime shower as your mom is thinking about doing some more laundry. If you've been following the plan you'll know when, you can hear her muttering to herself.

So for you teens going for the gold standard of crazy parents, follow my plan and you should have your mom drinking booze right out of the bottle in no time.

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Alien Abduction Or Switched At Birth?

Neither of the Asshats seem to carry any of my genetic wonderfulness. Clearly both of them are the result of alien abductions. I have proof.

Asshat #1 left an empty measuring cup in the fridge. Why you ask? Well because #1 finds my 4 cup measuring cup to be the perfect sized drinking glass.

I will admit I have some pretty sloppy standards on the domestic front - but measuring cups are not for drinking from, just as coffee cups are for only coffee or other hot beverages. That's why they have the special handle on the side - so you don't burn your fucking fingers.

I will also admit I like a really big glass for my beverages. The bigger the better so I don't have to refill as often. It's just a hair classier than sitting with the whiskey and pop bottles right at hand. That doesn't stop me from thinking that if you are standing in front of the fridge to drink your beverage in a four cup measuring cup why the hell didn't you just drink out of the pitcher?

Asshat #2 makes his bed and sweeps his bedroom every day. He never just puts groceries away, he organizes the cupboard. Same with the dishes and the damn plastic ware that's always trying to vomit out of the cupboard.

Now I totally get the sweeping every day part because I can't stand when stuff is sticking to my feet. I don't like feeling as if I were walking on a beach in my socks at the end of day either.

That making the bed part though? That is just strange. I make mine once a week when I put the fresh sheets on. The rest of the time why would anyone bother? You're just going to get back in as soon as you can right?

Asshat #1 lives his life completely without fear and has no problem planning and executing pranks. Once I drove into my driveway to see my neighbor standing in his driveway talking to another neighbor. The remarkable part was they were standing next to his completely shrinkwrapped truck. Just because there were no foot prints in the snow doesn't mean I didn't know who the culprit was right away.

I can agree that there was no neighbor more deserving of having to unwrap a shit ton of saran wrap from his vehicle, but my fear of getting caught would have stopped me before I even went outside. Well that and my intense hatred of saran wrap.

Asshat #2 also lives his life without fear. The fear of being laughed at never stops him. In fact he goes out of his way to clown it up. Picture a long gangly 17 year old walking around shirtless.

He sees you looking his way, so he drops his chin and lashes coquettishly then licks his finger and starts playing with his nipple. Try not to piss your pants laughing while ignoring that. It's a comedy routine he has perfected and he gets me with it every time. 

Clearly, I'm going to have to revise my alien abduction conclusion, solely on the basis that aliens are higher beings - something my little household of freaks is not. Switched at birth is still a contender though.

PS. This list has given me a strong opinion of which Asshat I'm going to move in with when I'm old and incontinent.

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Hairdressers and Dental Hygenists

I spent some time today with both my hairdresser and my dental hygenist. I notice a very glaring difference between the service I get from my hairdresser and the service I got from my hygenist.

The hairdresser really cares if I am happy. She even goes the extra mile and dries my hair. Something I don't even do. Partly because the hairdryer has disappeared into Asshat #1's bedroom and I'm convinced he uses it to dry his balls.

Then, even though she knows I am going to go home and immediately shower (can't stand the hair clippings in the bra folks) she either curls it or straightens it. Before I leave she brings out her little hand mirror and lets me admire her fine creation. I've never looked better immediately before stepping into the shower. For that I pay $35.00 including her tip.

The hygenist on the other hand starts by giving me shit for not flossing. Then she proceeds to abuse my gums. When the torture is all said and done? No hand mirror in sight. WTF? Why can't I see your creation? For that I pay $110.00 without a tip.

When I get out to my car I take a gander at my teeth expecting to see pearly whites. WTF? Have you ever wiped one spot on a dirty wall? Looks like shit doesn't it? Yeah, so do teeth if you only clean 1/4 inch from the gumline. There's still a lot of fucking tooth that never got cleaned.

Now I understand that I smoke, and drink coffee and copious amounts of cola. But the last hygenist had no problem getting my teeth beautiful.

This is the hygenist's work.

Do you see how white each tooth is by the gumline? Doesn't the rest of the tooth look fucking lovely?

Now I'm not one of these women that will sit and bawl over a bad haircut. My attitude is hey that shit grows everyday and in six weeks I'll be able to get it fixed right back up. 

A bad dental cleaning? Now that had me ready to spend the rest of the weekend bawling. You don't get to have that done every six weeks. That's a 9 month wait until you can get that shit fixed up. At least before I went to the dentist my teeth were uniformly stained. 

Did I sit down an bawl though? Fuck no, I got out the baking soda and a washcloth.

This is what I did with a paste of baking soda and water on a cloth and a little bit of fucking effort.

I am quite the fucking handy woman aren't I? Now I don't have to spend the next 9 months smiling with my lips closed.

I will be calling the dentist office on Monday and rescheduling my next appointment. With the previous hygenist please and thank you. I'll bring my own hand mirror.

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I'm Not MacGuyver

Remember the brakes last weekend? Well when it came time to bleed them we had a little issue. The bleeder screw broke. Now I guess I could have spent some money and got a new caliper, but being cheap bastards thrifty, inventive people we made do with what we had and bled the brakes.

Tuesday morning I noticed my brake lights were on. Which freaked me the fuck out. I knew I wasn't in the car and nobody else was either. So I had Asshat #1 make sure my purse was still in the trunk and went about my business.

Thursday night, the brake lights were back on. I went out and lifted the brake pedal. I swear it did not even move, but the lights went off. For about a half hour. Then they were back on. Fine. There must still be a bit of air in the brake line. I'll prop the brake pedal up with an empty pop can for now. So I jammed a can under there. It worked for about 15 minutes.

It's not as if it's the headlights right? How much can those little brake lights use anyhow?

Friday morning when I went to unlock my car, I discovered that those little effers use enough to drain the battery.

Had I been MacGuyver, I probably could have used that BBQ igniter to start my car. But I'm not. MacGuyver that is.

And since all of my neighbors either work for a living or sleep all damn day I had to have my Dad drive over and give me a boost. As a public service - boost is the proper term to use. Asking strange men if they can give you a jump isn't quite the thing. Who knew?

I also discovered that the reason why propping the pop can under the pedal wouldn't keep the brake lights off was because I jammed it under the clutch pedal. Which has nothing at all to do with the brake lights.

I'm using a water bottle under the pedal for now. It works when you jam it under the right one.

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I work with Hugh Jackman

I hate to brag, but really I have the world's most awesomest co-workers. How many people get to talk about The Swinger they work with while sitting around getting shit faced with friends on a Friday night? What makes it even more interesting is the swinger may or may not be a submissive too. I mean how cool is that!

Even cooler? I work with Hugh Jackman or the worlds biggest wolverine fan, take your pick. 

When I first started my job, I saw this little guy riding around on a trike. A trike for grownups, but still it's a trike. Some of the supervisors get to ride them around since they literally have miles to cover in their jobs.

Once I convinced my inner 5 year old to stop laughing at the guy for riding a trike (my inner 5 year old is pretty damn immature) I noticed his wolverinish hair style a la Hugh Jackman wolverine. Not cartoon wolverine in his awesome blue spandex. Then I noticed the wolverinish side-burns.

For real - hair and sideburns. Only much smaller, and a lot less muscular. Like a Hugh Jackman mini-me. Cute, but not drool inspiring.

Then one morning I hear this story of how Wolverine Mini-me was out camping and somehow cut himself. Supposedly passed out and everything.

Did I mention I tend to think in bitch? Okay then. First thought that pops into my head? This video Asshat #1 showed me years ago with this guy dressed up like Wolverine. Fake claws and everything, jumping off his mom's porch railing. I looked and I can't find the video* or I would share it. Asshat #1 finds all the weird stuff on the internet.**

So now I have a mental image of Wolverine Mini-me, out camping in the woods somewhere dressed up as... well duh! Wolverine. Again, did I mention I think in bitch? The first thought in my head?

I bet he cut himself with his fake claws.

At least Wolverine Mini-me is nice - strange - but nice. I can't say the same for The Swinger, he's just strange. The Swinger needs a spanking. Only not the real-deal ass-paddling because I'm convinced that would be a turn-on for him.

*If anyone knows what I'm talking about here - please send me the link so I can add it to this post.

** I learned years ago, when Asshat #1 says Hey Mom, come look at this! just don't. Two words - Goatse Ball.

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The Phone Number That Gets Around

My job requires me to carry a company cell phone. In September they gave me a flip phone. For real. I didn't think they even made those anymore. They do though, and the replacement value is $300. Three hundred bucks for an outdated phone - go figure. When the company phone plan was explained to me they said oh yeah, and you can text.

Don't worry about those missed calls. You'll understand in a minute.

Really? Does that thing actually support text messaging?

My Brain: You might be able to text on that thing, but I am most certainly not going to be.

Then the fun started. Apparently the number I got has been around the block a few times. 

First there was Craig. I've never met Craig, but he gets a lot of booty calls. He also gets a lot of booty calls via text. And he gets wake-up calls from obnoxious friends on Sunday mornings. Craig also owes money on his furniture and as of early October was late with his payments. 

I mentioned that I was getting a lot of booty calls on my work phone to some of my co-workers before I knew Craig's name.. They each had me call them so they could search their directory and see who had the phone previous to me. 

Turns out it was a brand new (to the company) number. If you ask me, that number was a bit shop-worn. 

Most of my co-workers could not understand why I wouldn't play around and have some fun with the booty call texts. Again - you might be able to text on that, but I most certainly won't.

Around the end of October it was Jenna. I know even less about Jenna, but she seems to have abused my cell phone number the longest. First there were the calls from a cable company looking to confirm an installation time. 

Most recently there was a call from the police. I didn't answer, because the number was unknown. People who know me know that I hate phone calls and will never answer unknown numbers. If I were being truthful I really only reliably answer calls from my Mom and the Boyfriend. 

I did call the cops back and let them know they had the wrong number. They didn't dish any details though. Hello people I have a blog - I need details so I can spew them over the internet!

The latest abuser of my cell phone number is Elizabeth. I know nothing at all about Elizabeth except that her gramma is trying to call her. Shame on you for giving your grandmother a fake phone number!

Craig - I hope you practice safe sex, I would hate for your pecker to fall off. You might want to start paying for your furniture too.

Jenna - I'm really sorry the cable company never hooked up your internet. They didn't leave a call back number. If you happen to want your business with the cops all over the internet, email me the details. I'd be happy to oblige.

Elizabeth - for Christ's sakes, call your gramma!

   

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The Asshats And A Barbecue Igniter

I've been parenting boys for 21 effing years. So I get the wrestling thing, really I do. It was a problem when they were younger - Asshat #1 being big for his age and Asshat #2 being small for his age. The size difference meant I really did have to break it up or Asshat #2 was taking a beating.

Now they're full grown and pretty close in size. What Asshat #1 has in muscle, Asshat #2 compensates for by having crazy octopus arms. No for real, I would swear that boy has eight arms when he wants to be an asshole and poke me in the muffin top - just for shits and giggles.

So I do try really hard to ignore them when they horse around. Kind of hard though when you can hear all kinds of crashing and banging and you don't know if the house is coming down. Monday night they started. I turned my stereo on and tried to ignore them. Of course, they just upped the ante.

Asshat #2: No! That's going to hurt!

My Brain: Ignore them. They'll stop sooner or later. Come on, you can do this! Just ignore them for five more minutes - you can win this battle!

Asshat #1: Quit being such a pussy!

Asshat #2: No! laugh No! laugh No! That's going to hurt! scream.

My Brain: Well I guess you'd better go see what the fuck is going on.

So I went out to the kitchen. There they are, Asshat #2 in full out squirm (think wrestling silly string and you've got the idea) with Asshat #1 sitting on top of him holding a Barbecue Igniter.

You know that red button you push to light your barbecue?

The one that shoots a spark out of it's ass?

Yeah, that.

I, being a semi-responsible adult try to get them to quit. 

Me: Get off your brother and don't zap him with that. 

Asshat #1 makes like he's going to zap me as I'm trying to grab the effing thing. 

Asshat #2: If I get it, I'm going to zap your tongue. No, I'm gonna zap your balls.  No, I'm gonna zap your rectum.

Somehow in the midst of muscles wrestling silly string , Asshat #2 gets the igniter. (Remember the crazy octopus arms?)

Wanna know what he did once he had it? He zapped his tongue. His own tongue.

Asshat #2: Aah, my tooth!

Apparently if you try to zap your tongue with a barbecue igniter, the zap will jump to your tooth. 

Who knew? 

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Toilet Travesty

For the past 22 years I have lived in a house with - get this - one single bathroom. There isn't even a half bath to supplement our toilet shortage.

When the Asshats were little, it was no big deal. I mean every mother of toddlers knows there is no way on earth you will get to take a crap without a toddler leaning on your leg bitching that you stink.

Then all of a sudden they got older and it was icky to have mom going to the bathroom while they were taking a shower or bath. The asshats started locking the bathroom door. Then they started taking showers thrice daily. Long extended showers.

Now that one is 21 and the other 17 the morning bathroom schedule has become the most intricate part of our day. The two asshats have the bonus of needing to leave the house always at the same time. I'm not quite so lucky. Eight is my "normal" start, but more often it bounces between seven or six.

What all this means is I haven't been able to get my digestive system scheduled. So even though I set my alarm to wake me up first, things don't always happen when I want them too. If Asshat #2 is in the shower, I can knock on the door and he'll at least try to speed things up.

Asshat #1 on the other hand can be a real asshole in the morning. As in he gets up at 6am exactly and if you're in the bathroom on his time you will hear a shit load of bitching. Once he gets up he goes directly to the bathroom and locks the door. He then spends a few minutes taking his own crap - the beauty of a schedule - and then his shower. Which will last exactly 20 minutes.

Exactly 20 minutes. No matter what. I can stand at the door pleading. I can hammer on the door. He pretends he can't hear me. I don't yell though, I never yell, because by the time I'm mad enough to yell, the force of yelling would cause me to shit myself. And I refuse to start the day shitting myself.

So instead I sit in front of my computer clenching my butt cheeks together as hard as I can and I sweat and I pray please, please be done soon. The sound of the towel snapping (he does this every damn time) is always the sweetest sound of my morning. It's the signal to start heading for the bathroom. Stopping every other step to do another butt clench.

Once I enter the bathroom, my rectal muscles get another challenge. Trying to maintain a hold on my digestive contents whilst playing slip and slide on the puddles and lakes of water covering the ceramic tile. 

 Finally the holy grail, the porcelain throne, whatever you want to call it is mine and it's right in front of me, but there is one last challenge my quivering anus must overcome.

 Asshat #1 never flushes the fucking toilet.

No this isn't my toilet. 

Do you seriously think I would have carpet in the bathroom with two boys?

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Getting The Stink Eye Over Scalloped Potatoes

When Asshat #2 was little he was allergic to milk and anything containing any milk ingredients. Which really is almost everything in the grocery store. Hot Dogs, Bologna, our beloved noodles in creamy sauces, scalloped potatoes and Kraft Dinner. I am convinced that reading all of those ingredient lists in their microsopic font is why I had to start wearing glasses so young.

For years as soon as my kids were at their dad's for the weekend, I would run to the grocery store for a box of Kraft Dinner. Just so I could have those fake cheese, white-bread carbs smothered in ketchup. The exciting wonderful life of a single mom. It brings a tear to my eye. No, really I'm crying.

Then Asshat #2 started high school and all of a sudden there were all these chocolate bar wrappers, and Ranch potato chip bags hidden in his room. WTF? We're all doing without and you're stuffing your face with crap that's chock full of modified milk ingredients?

So we started eating scalloped potatoes again. In a house with two young men it takes two or three packages of scalloped potatoes for a meal.  I would cook more, but that's my biggest casserole dish already. Still there will never be a chance for me - the vegetarian - to have seconds. There is always meat leftover though - go figure.

Sunday at the grocery store I was confronted with a deal so fantastic that I felt like I'd won a lottery or something. Knorr Sidekicks on sale for a buck. One single dollar! And they make scalloped potatoes. So I bought six packages, which is only two meals. I would have took more but my cart was heaping and I was already trying to figure out if I could get another mortgage to pay for it all.

Even though I was generous enough to leave at least four packages on the shelf, this older man sees me throwing all those scalloped potatoes in my cart and gave me the worst stink eye ever. Now I've been practicing my stink eye for 21 years and it is nothing compared to the evil death glare I got. Over scalloped potatoes. Then he storms over to the shelf and took - wait for it - one package of scalloped potatoes.

I'm still ticked off with myself for not just clearing the shelf like they do on Extreme Couponing, because then I would have at least felt like I earned that damn death glare. Plus? One Single Dollar. I'm sure I had at least another four bucks on me.

I'll be hangin' at Yeah Write again this week. You should check it out. No really - Check it out! It's the best writing and blogging community on the innerwebz.

 

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Sunday Morning Nookie

***Disclaimer***

This post isn't really about Sunday morning nookie, it's about what I had to do instead of Sunday morning nookie. Even though anybody in their right mind knows Sunday morning nookie is the best way to start a Sunday. 

We had an early night last night. First time in forever I've been to bed before the witching hour. So of course I was bright eyed and bushy tailed at 7 am. WTF? Sunday is my only day to sleep in and I'm wide awake at 7.

So we drank some coffee. I checked in on Facebook and Twitter because who knows what happened while I was sleeping. The world could have imploded and how would I know if I didn't check my Twitter feed?

Then we decided that it was time to bleed the brakes.

I've got a great idea of how I want to spend my Sunday! Let's bleed the brakes! Said No Woman Ever.

Out to the garage and I climb into the car. Which is sitting on jack stands. Where I discover I am no more comfortable with my dog wandering around a car on jack stands than I would have been with one of my children wandering around a car on jack stands. Way back when they were little. So I chased the dog out of the garage and got back in.

And I start pumping the mother effing brake pedal. Immediately my achilles tendon let's me know this is going to suck. The conversation goes something like this.

Boyfriend: Pump.
Boyfriend: Again.
Boyfriend: Now hold it.

Me: Groan.

It was like some weird Sunday morning nookie episode, only none of the fun.

Boyfriend: Pump.
Boyfriend: Again.
Boyfriend: Now hold it.

Now the calf muscles start in, letting me know they are seriously not down with this shit.

Boyfriend: Pump.
Boyfriend: Again.
Boyfriend: Now hold it.

Me: Groan

The quadriceps are now adding their two cents. And we repeat a gazillion times.

Boyfriend: Pump.
Boyfriend: Again.
Boyfriend: Now hold it.

Me: Groan

Boyfriend: You can use the other leg you know. 

Hours later (ten minutes - max, but it felt like hours) the boyfriend tells me we have to do the front now.

Once that was done I decided I may as well clean out my car since it was in a nice toasty garage and it looked like homeless people had taken up residence.

This is the before picture

Did I mention I take break in my car and have a Diet Pepsi addiction? That's not a take out container either. It was cupcakes made by my gramma from a 50 year old cake mix. You can't hurt that shit and I sure as fuck wasn't planning on eating them.

Between my car and the whole peeing on the Boyfriends foot, I don't know how some man hasn't snapped me up already.

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And Then I Peed On His Foot.

One thing the boyfriend and I are in total agreement on is the need to shower before sexy time. Since this means I've never had to suffer through having a stinky pit crammed in my face I'm truly grateful.

Occasionally we like to conserve water and shower together. Since we`re no longer 20 year olds, this also ensures that whoever had their shower first can`t fall asleep while the second one showers. Last night was one of those times.

Now boyfriend only has a shower stall. You know - one of those 3 foot by 3 foot don't even think about ladyscaping shaving your legs in there - upright coffins? Yeah, that.

As I stepped into the coffin shower, the running water reminded me I had forgotten to go pee first. But since he had already washed his hair and balls whatnot I figured oh well, he's not going to be in here much longer.  Except he was and we ended up in some sort of weird standoff.

Boyfriend: I thought you showered before you came over.

Me: Well yeah, but I wanted to freshen up. It's not every weekend that Aunt Flo is out of town and we've got no kids.

Boyfriend: Okay, are you almost done?

My Brain: I've really got to pee. I could get out and go - but then I won't have that fresh clean feeling. I hope he's going to be done soon, I've really got to go.

Me: Almost, I'm just enjoying the nice warm water. (Usually his idea of warm is my idea of cold.)

Boyfriend: You aren't even standing under the spray.

My Brain: That's because I don't want to stand over your foot, and are you just about done? I'm getting a cramp in my bladder.

Me: I was being polite and letting you have your turn.

Then nature, running water and and too many drinks - whiskey and about 2 litres of Diet Pepsi - took over. That's right - I peed on his foot.

So then I finished freshening up and got out. Turns out the boyfriend needed the extra space to do some manscaping.

I'm not sure if he knows I peed on his foot and I'm not asking.

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Bleeding Brakes And A Box Of Twine

Asshat #1 has a new girlfriend. So far all I know about her is she has tiny feet and the mouth of a Lamprey Eel. The first week he was seeing her he had a severe case of ring around the neck. Then he proceeded to walk through the house one night without a shirt on. How low do those hickeys go? TMI!

Someday I might meet her. For now he's avoiding it. Something about my bestie knowing everyone in town and liking to gossip a tiny bit.

The Boyfriend is working on my brakes. It is within his abilities - a broken brake line. So we'll have a good ole time in the mancave tonight. If you call a good time bleeding brakes. If you've never had the pleasure it's comparable to doing calf raises - for three straight hours. Which kind of makes us even in the sexual favors owed department - yes? Not that I'm trying to back out - just make things more equitable.

Oh and remember that box of twine? I pulled it out of the car last night and the boyfriend is totally coveting my twine. See - I told you twine was some useful shit.

It's a lot of twine.

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Also in the interests of full disclosure - I am dating the most awesome man on earth. This is an actual text convo we had today about my brakes. 

Me: How are you making out?

Him: Ok.

Me: I was going to stop on my way home to help but I had a coughing fit. I have to go home and change my pants first.

Him: Ok. You need brake fluid.

Unexpected Gifts

I've been a reader ever since Grade one. The teacher taught me See Spot Run, and I hit the ground running. As an adult I consume the written word with just as much gluttony as I bring to my other habits. It seemed a natural leap to start blogging.

And I found a whole new world of reading material.

Have you ever read a book and been sad when you finished it? Because it was that good and you were that involved? Blogs never end. I can follow your blog for years, celebrating your triumphs and mourning your losses and always tomorrow or next week or next month there will be another post.

And then you started reading my words. 

There is something inherently vain about writing about the minutes of your day and waiting for someone you don't even know to read about it. Hoping they will comment and begin an interaction. I get a thrill every single time my email tells me I have a new comment. Every new follower sends me over the moon.

And then came the best gift. 

The gift of confidence. No longer am I that girl. The one we all went to school with. That girl that never fit in. The one who couldn't do sports to save her life and instead spent recess with her nose buried in a book. No longer am I that girl who tries to hide in plain sight, the one who never participates in the conversations around her. 

Now I walk taller because I want you to see me. I have more strut in my stride because people like what I have to say. I join conversations because if I can make you laugh here, surely I can make you laugh in person.

That is the greatest gift. Thank you.

Captcha and 1013 Tit Uses

So remember yesterday when I said Captcha was run by some little tit dweeb IT guy? Well I'm not sure if the little tit dweeb has a sense of humor and is striking back, or if life is just one big irony.

Look at this Captcha!

I know it's blurry but for real it says 1013 ntituses. I know that n is just a clever ploy to keep us from seeing the real message - 1013 tit uses.

I'm betting it was the little tit IT dweeb, because only a dweeb would think it was clever to come up with 1013 tit uses.

I can only come up with 13

1. As toys
2. To nourish babies (what happens when you spend too much time playing with your toys)
3. To prevent unwanted spills from hitting your lap
4. As toys
5. To provide a handy valley for sweat to run down. 
6. To keep the front of your clothes from sagging
7. As toys
8. To draw attention away from your gut that's nice and fluffy because somebody played with the toys too much. 
9. To counterbalance your ass
10. A place for a child to snuggle
11. A place for a partner to snuggle
12. As a ledge for late night snacks in bed.
13. As toys

I wonder what the other 1,000 are.

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Could Have Been FML Friday, But It Isn't

Today could have been one of those FML days. Easily.

I left my car window down and it rained buckets last night. Of course it did, and of course my window was down. It's a regular thing with me.

Sometimes I get lucky and the towel from the last time is still on the seat keeping the seat dry for me. The best was the time I grabbed a towel fresh from the dryer. I am now convinced that heated seats are worth paying for.

Oh and just for fun? I've got no brakes. But it isn't the end of the world because I can borrow a vehicle from my parents and I've got savings to cover the repairs. A year ago, any expense in January would have devastated my finances.

And it isn't a FML day because unexpectedly I've got the afternoon off. And since it's only brake lines, I'm going to see if the boyfriend will take a look see. It might cost me a sexual favor or two but that's a payment I can enjoy making.

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Erotic Veggies, Captcha, And Why I Am Socially Inept

Remember how I said the ladies at work were gifting me with any erotic veggies they came across? Well they're still at it.

 I mean look at this lovely trio of peckerheads they gifted me with today. 

I've learned a couple of things this week. How to make a badge was probably the hardest. You can find all kinds of places with pretty good instructions - the hard part was getting the picture to the right size. Go on, grab my ass if you like.

Being a multi-tasker, I also learned how to add text to my photos.

I have decided that captcha is my mortal enemy. Captcha I effing hatechya.

There has to be some little tit dweeb IT guy out there laughing his ass off when we get the motherfuckers wrong. Almost words, gobbledygook and blurry numbers. If I forget my glasses at work I'm toast.

When I get voted ruler of the world every single captcha ever will be instantly solvable by typing I'm drunk. Obviously if you're drunk you can't be a robot.

And I've figured out why I am socially inept. It's because I think in a foreign language. That's right - I think in Bitch.

It all makes sense now. I'm out in public trying to have a real life convo, and it's awkward as hell. Always. But like any person who thinks in a foreign language, I've got to translate my thoughts into your language before I can say them out loud.

It's tough, and not every thing I think has a translation. Sometimes a lot gets lost in the translation like every shred of personality I have. Sometimes I wish more got lost in the translation - it would save me some of those more shameful incidents.

I leave you with this.

 

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