My Kick-Ass New Banner! Thanks Bob!

I have a fan! He made my new banner AND gave me idiot-proof instructions as to how to change my html code.

Does this mean I've been "Bobbed"?


Check him out at http://bobbed.net

The Cast

I've realized that referring to my friends by number is going to get old pretty quick, so I'm going to assign names and descriptions to those that I interact with most regularly.


Yvonne (Girlfriend #1)
A bright young woman who is my best friend and the bane of my existence all at the same time. She's beautiful and funny as hell, yet she has shockingly low self-esteem and an incredibly annoying (and involuntary) tendency to send out homing signals that end up attracting the biggest loser within a 10 mile radius.

I spent 2 years talking her into breaking up with an overbearing, abusive boyfriend who wanted her barefoot, pregnant and rubbing his feet, and I've recently spent an equal amount of time trying to counsel her into giving up on a guy who has strung her along with "I'm not ready for a commitment, but I'll still sleep with you".

Once you get her loosened up, she's shitloads of fun and one of the best people I've ever known. She's one of those apples at the top of the tree that men are afraid to climb up and go after, so I'm hoping she finds someone with a ladder pretty fucking soon or I'M going to be the one in therapy.

Hazel (Girlfriend #2)
Hazel is going through a divorce from a man she was with for 13 years and has two children with. He decided to screw around on her, and he expected her to just be ok with that, like some mafia wife who knows that her husband has a whore in an apartment downtown but turns a blind eye. Hazel told him to go fuck himself, moved herself and her boys to her mother's house, and got a lawyer. She'll walk away with half the equity from the house, the furniture, the cars, the motorcycle, AND half his 401K, plus a hefty child support payment. The funniest part was when she emptied out the freezer. As she was leaving, he called her cell, in a tizzy, "WHERE'S MY MEAT? DID YOU TAKE MY MEAT???" She snickered and said "Yeah, so? Your boys are hungry." She had the equivilant of an entire cow loaded into the back of her car. Revenge on cheating spouses can be so much fun.

Anyway, Hazel is going through a 'stage' (read: raging alcoholism designed to dull the pain). She's the first to volunteer to go to the bar, but the last to offer to drive.


Martha (Girlfriend #3)
She is more Yvonne's friend than mine, an acquaintance from high school who moved in the "popular" circle of annoying girls with big hair and designer clothes. Martha's trademark is having natural D cups on a size 2 frame, and she's naturally the center of attention whenever we go out to a bar. Going out with Martha generally leads to her luring us to whatever bar her boyfriend is hanging out at so she can have a very public scene and then end up ditching us to go blow him in the parking lot. Another beautiful girl with low self-esteem...sad, but she can get us into a club with a simple flash of cleavage, so we keep her around.


JoJo
JoJo dated my brother in law on and off for about 9 years. He's too stupid to realize how great she is, so he dumped her in favor of a fuck buddy because he's not ready to commit. She's an earthy/crunchy, Birkenstock-wearing, pot-smoking cool chick with a great apartment in the city and a successful career. I occasionally hang with her when I feel like abandoning the lameness of the local scene.


Emily
My traditional Portuguese friend who was the biggest club whore in the world until she got married last year. Now she barely leaves the house and has taken up a new hobby of complaining endlessly about how annoying her husband and his family have become. She's a raving, maniacal bitch most of the time, which quite honestly is part of her charm, and we share a birthday.


Ghengis
My closest male friend. I've known him forever, pretty much since fetus-hood. It was he who suggested I assign pseudonyms, and he also encouraged me to start my blog (i.e. you have HIM to thank for this mess). Ghengis was his first choice, but here are the runners-up:

• Lovely Penis (boys do like to flatter themselves, don't they)
  
• Condor (streaking from the sky, ca-CAW, ca-CAW)
• Captain Munch (Captain? First Mate, perhaps, and that's on a good day)

Ghengis is cool shit. He generally has great taste in music (I say 'generally' because he tried to pass some kind of country crapola off on me last week), a fantastically warped and perverted sense of humor, and a truly unique life perspective. Most importantly, he's cuddly. He's dating a pet psychic who apparently has great tits. I haven't met her yet, so I'll be the judge of that.



There are others, but these are the ones you'll hear most about.

I'm WEAK

I've never thought of myself as a weak person. I've always considered myself a survivor, a scrapper if you will, taking adversity in stride, trying to make the best of it. A professor of mine once gave me this sage advice: You're either green and growing, or you're ripe and rotting. I've always prided myself on being a lush, healthy tomato plant, but lately I think that the groundwater pollution has finally gotten to me.



I've always been a good student, a good wife, a good provider, a good mother...coincidentally, my downward spiral started right around the time I started working at the crappy dead-end job. Fucking night job. Night jobs can go to hell and die. 4 hours of sleep a night would turn Mother Theresa into a raving bitch.

I'm slowly clawing my way back from my Chernobyl-esque downfall, trying to make it right, trying to figure out what underlying issues I have that would explain my behavior and general lack of motivation...I want to be good, I want to do the right things...but I'm just so fucking unhappy I don't know where to even start.

It's the LEAST you could do...

Ain't that the truth. I need this on a bumper sticker or something.

So Much For My Happy Ending

Several of my girlfriends and I recently saw Avril Lavigne in concert. My best friend had gotten pretty good seats at half price, so we piled into the car and drove an hour to join the freakish mix of people that you would expect to see at such an event. "Have fun with the teeny boppers," the husband sneered as we pulled away.







(She looks good blonde, I didn't expect it. AND she's all of 5 feet tall. She had to stand on these huge blocks to be seen, and even then she was shorter than everybody in her band.)

I drove, since my best friend goes into panic attacks when going places she's not familiar with, and as we pulled up we fully realized what we were getting into. Immediately upon arrival, two chicks outfitted in 80's style prom dresses (paired with black combat boots, naturally) sauntered past the car. 10 year old girls sported heavy black eye makeup and red devil horns. I saw a pair of twenty-something parents posing their 7 year old daughter for a picture, teaching her how to throw up the shocker as she stuck out her tongue. It was really something. We seemed to make up our own little demographic; "chicks pushing 30 trying to relive their youth". There weren't too many like us, that was for certain, and it became clear that we had to be drunk before going through the gates. Girlfriend #3 to the rescue; she had the presence of mind to bring a cooler. Bless her little heart.

We knocked back 2 bottles of Twisted Tea apiece, and each poured another into a big red cup with ice that we could nurse as we walked up to the gates. We pushed our way through a scowling group of teenagers and got ourselves in.

First words out of #3's mouth; "I have to go tinkle." We collectively rolled our eyes and dutifully stood outside of the facilities while she relieved herself. #3 has an incredibly small bladder; can't be bigger than a fist, she literally has to piss about 8-10 times every time we go out. And she refuses to use Port-O-Potty's, so we have to hoof it to a real bathroom every time. She actually walked out, said "Shit! I have to go again!" and WENT BACK IN. I think it's time for her to see a doctor, but what do I know. She finally finished up and we made our way to our seats.

We sat down only to find some piss ant opening act called "Butch Walker" up on the stage. Now I've never heard of Butch Walker, nor did I recognize any of his material, but we cheered and screamed things like "WE LOVE YOU BUTCHIE!!!" and "I'LL HAVE ALL OF YOUR BABIES!!!" like a bunch of salivating groupies at an 'nSync concert, just for fun. We got disgusted glares from the responsible parents who were chaperoning groups of 12 year olds. Fuck them and their sensible shoes, we were there to party.

Gavin DeGraw was up next. I like his music, but he sat at a piano and wasn't much fun to watch. We yawned our way through that shit, and it was at that point Girlfriend #2 decided that she needed a drink. Keep in mind that a 16 oz of cheap draft beer was $6 bucks at this particular event; she wanted a margarita. The margaritas were upwards of $13 dollars, but it came in a 2 foot tall souvenier plastic guitar with a large straw, so she had to have it. By the time she staggered back to the seats, she was halfway through it and feeling pretty good. She opted to climb over the seats rather than walk through the aisle, and ended up in a strange man's lap. She thought this was hysterical; his wife did not. We dragged her over the last row of seats and sat her down. During this debaucle, the straw did not leave her lips. #3 had to piss again, so she climbed over the seats as well. Needless to say, we were not very popular with the people sitting behind us.

Gavin finally finished up, and Avril came on. I have to say, she puts on a good show. She doesn't lip sync, actually PLAYS some instruments, and bounces around the stage like a bunny rabbit on crack. Any sense of lameness dissipated as we screamed the words to Avril's greatest hits. We might be pushing 30, but women of every age can relate to a chick who's been burned. Even though none of us would ever admit to buying one of her albums, we all knew the words to "I'm With You," "Don't Tell Me," "Complicated," and "So Much For My Happy Ending" by heart. Oddly enough, it was a pretty good time, and we wrapped our arms around each other and swayed to the beat much like the drunks at a Jimmy Buffet concert would.


As we were leaving, the 10 year old girl who had been sitting next to us attempted to snag Girlfriend #2's guitar-shaped margarita glass. #2 had a fit on her. "GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK! I PAID $13 BUCKS FOR THAT SHIT!" The kid dropped the glass and ran. "Yeah, that's what I thought ya little bitch," she mumbled under her breath as she picked it up. When we are faced with underaged teeny boppers, we take no prisoners.

We managed to find the car in the sea of bumper to bumper traffic and made our way into a line. Girlfriend #1 hissed under her breath "If you let anyone in front of us, I'm going to kick your ass." It was her car, so who was I to argue. I was a horrible selfish bitch, one of those people you just want to ram with your car because WHAT WOULD IT KILL THEM to let one lousy person into the line, but it wasn't my call. I mustered up every ounce of ruthlessness I could and tried not to look anyone in the eye. I was almost expecting a mob to come up and drag us out of the car for the beating we so richly deserved, but we managed to escape unscathed.

On the way home, #1 decided that we had to stop for gas. At the pump, she managed to stick her credit card into the slot where the receipt comes out instead of swiping it through like any normal person would have done. We had to steal a barrette off of #3, and we used it like a pair of tweezers to get the damned thing out. It's not unusual for an evening to end like this, either. Somebody usually ends up doing something that borders on retardation. This week, I'm just glad it wasn't me for a change.

So we had a good time. And we're all secretly downloading Avril's greatest hits so we can scream the man-hating lyrics in the privacy of our own cars, burning them onto unmarked CD's so that nobody catches us being lame. "Seriously baby, it's not mine..."

Horses

I took Oldest Child out for dinner at Applebee's this evening (you know, the place with all the goofy shit on the walls...Shenanigans!). We'd been school shopping, and it was always tradition in my childhood to be taken out to a meal in between hellish visits to various fitting rooms where my mother would scream at me for being "too fat to fit into anything". Since nothing is too good for my little angel, Applebee's it was.

We sat down, directly across from a gaggle of little old ladies having "supper". Oldest Child marveled at the goofy shit on the walls while I ordered up a drink. He even got a coloring book with 2 crayons: green and orange. "How am I supposed to color with just THESE?" A valid question indeed; Oldest Child is no fool.

So we order him up his Mac 'n Cheese, and as we're waiting, a family comes in with a small child, couldn't have been more than 2 years old. He promptly points at the old ladies and yells "Look Mommy! WHORES!!!" As my alcoholic beverage came shooting out of my nasal passages, one of the bitties actually said "Well I NEVER!" before her prehistoric counterpart poked her and said "Esther...behind us..."

There was a large carousel horse hung up next to the booth. The old whores had quite a laugh.

"That horse has no shame...look at the way she's dressed, she was asking for it"

Butt Plug Google Search

I was searching for a bit from a radio station I used to listen to, where they had someone call a hardware store saying nothing but "Butt Plug" over and over again, and made the mistake of typing nothing but "buttplug" into the Google toolbar. I wasn't prepared for what popped up. I found it so amusing that took a screenshot, circled the interesting parts and inserted my own commentary. Yeah, I'm a dork.

New Releases

My grandmother is a colorful character about whom endless stories could be written. She's a shameless chain-smoker who will tell you to "go fry your ass" as soon as look at you. It is my duty as the oldest grandchild to take her shopping on occasion. About a month ago, I took her out on such an excursion. A fine day of shopping and searching for restaurants that allow smoking that inevitably ended at the old lady's paradise; WalMart.

She needed a coaxial cable so she could watch The Bachelor in the den while she simultaneously wheeled and dealed on the Party Poker site, so we ventured into the media section. As we picked out the cable, she suddenly remembered that she'd wanted to buy a movie.

K: "Which movie, Grandma."
G: "Jesus Christ, I don't remember. It had that guy in it, from that other movie. He's a funny bastard."
K: "Do you remember what it's about?"
G: "Maureen told me it was funny. I don't know what the christ it's about."
K: "Ok, well why don't you go look at the new releases and see if you recognize it, Gram."

So Grandma accosts a saleslady and asks her where the new movies hang out. Saleslady just started to point at the large display entitled (you guessed it) New Releases when grandma suddenly has a loud epiphany.

G: "I REMEMBER! Meet the Fuckers, that's what it's called. Miss, do you have Meet the Fuckers?"

Grandma has fantastic taste in porn.

I froze. She didn't just say that. Dear God.

Saleslady kept a straight face. "Fockers, dear. It's called 'Meet the Fockers' ". Bless her heart for being able to keep her shit together, as I could not. After about 10 seconds of complete open-mouthed shock, I busted up, doubled over with hysterical laughter. The saleslady lost it shortly thereafter, along with several passers-by. We got Gram her movie and quickly made our exit.

G: "You're going to tell Rhonda (my godmother, who was shopping in a different section) about this aren't you."
K: "Gram, I'm going to tell anyone who will listen. You're going to be an internet star once I'm done with you."
G: "Go fry your ass!"

So Gram's quite a character. I'd tell you about the time my dad caught her hanging out at Hooters, but that's a story for another day.

Hopelessness

I just got a call about a job I've been wanting for quite a while. There's a possibility I might even already have it. It's a job in my field, a job that would allow me to leave the crappy dead end position that I have right now. It's not for sure, but the probability is pretty good.

I'm not happy. I'm not hopeful. I'm not expecting it to come through, not in the slightest.

"You're nearing hopelessness," said my closest male friend. "It's a defense mechanism. You need to quit the crappy dead end job." How easy it is for my single friends to give me such advice. They don't have four other people to consider in every decision they make in their lives.

So I'm waiting. No, I'm not really even waiting. It's in the back of my mind that I'm supposed to get a phone call, but if a week goes by and nothing happens, I won't be the least bit surprised. Luck isn't really something that I've had over the last 4 years or so; why would it turn now?

I sat on my bed, contemplating my existence, mentally summing up my life's accomplishments. I have a master's degree, three beautiful kids...but what have I really done with my life? Will anybody remember me after I die? Will anybody (beyond my immediate family) care that I'm gone? What have I done to put my mark on the world?

And I felt an emotion break through the numbness I've been feeling all afternoon; fear. I started to cry.

I spent a good 10 minutes feeling pretty sorry for myself, when my youngest child came stumbling in with 2 laundry baskets on his head. He looked me over, took one of the laundry baskets, and put it on MY head so we'd match. Once he was satisfied that I was done crying, he left, bumping the doorway with his laundry basket on the way out.

Fucking pull yourself together and go play with your kids, stupid.

So I did.

Colors? Whites? Fuck, I'm so confused.

Glue

Youngest Child was far too quiet, and I took a trip around the house to investigate. I came upon my bedroom door, closed, and tried the handle. Locked from the inside. Little bastard. So I went and got the metal skewer that I use to jimmy the lock in such situations (yes, it's happened before), and found YC sitting on my bedroom carpet, covered in Elmer's Glue, using a paintbrush to mash it into the rug. How cute.

God makes children cute so we don't kill them. It's a natural defense mechanism.

Crazians

Ever notice that all the crazy fetish porn comes from Asia? Well I've taken to taken to using the phrase "Crazians" when referring to those people who happen to be from Asia who produce such fine cinema and/or products. And yes I'm allowed to do this, because I'm married to an Asian. At least that's what I'm told by my Asian friends, it's like a free pass to make off-color remarks.

These are various condom wrappers from Japan (click the image, it blows up so you can get a closer look). I notice that the Japanese are the craziest of all the Crazians when it comes to product labeling and packaging. Japan is so cool, I have to go there someday.

Cereal

I just walked into the den to find Youngest Child laying on the couch, watching TV, with a box of cereal dumped over in front of him. He had cereal piled halfway up his chest, and he's just popping Apple Jacks in his mouth like nothing happened.

Can I be a kid again? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease???

The Evolution of the F*ck Buddy

We've all heard the colorful terms that are used to describe a relationship that revolves around sex. Fuck buddy, friend with benefits, booty call, hook-up...I find it interesting that these kinds of interactions have become the norm among the 18-30 year old demographic. Settling down young is considered to be out of the ordinary, and fucking without emotion is status quo.

I can understand the random hook-up that leads to a few more no-strings booty calls over time. It's the whole "Friend with Benefits" title that confuses me.

How do you handle a sexual relationship with someone you've been friends with for a relatively long time? Will the friendship ever be the same after an exchange of fluids has occurred? Can you ever completely go back to being "just friends"?

I'm thinking that this all depends on the level of the friendship before said exchange. Casual acquaintances probably have an easier time of separating emotion from sex. Close friends must have a more difficult time with the differentiation.

It seems that hurt feelings are inevitable. No matter what your intentions are going into it, somebody will end up feeling used. Somebody will end up having feelings that are unreciprocated. The women I know try to play it off like no big deal, it's just sex...but ulterior motives abound. Maybe if I give him the best blow job he's ever had, he'll call me again...

Women are not genetically programmed for casual sex. As cavewomen, we had to be very selective with our partners...9 months gestation was downright dangerous in the days of T-Rex, and we weren't gonna waste that one precious egg we produced per month on just any old hairy animal that happened to drag his knuckles by the cavern. That instinct remains intact today, no matter how hard we try to fight against it; we're picky, and when we give it up, we expect some level of commitment and respect.

Men on the other hand are genetically programmed to spread their seed to the four winds. Since the average lifespan in the days of the neanderthal was about 30, they had to spread it quick and do it right; any cave bitch would do. The more baby mamas the better. Species was propogated, Neanderthal man had done his job. Even if he got his ass eaten by a Pterodactyl immediately post-coitus, his destiny was fulfilled. Modern men don't seem to fight against this genetic predisposition as hard as women do.

"I wonder if she shaves..."

Does anybody truly believe that we, as women, have managed to buck millions of years of evolution in a single generation?

I don't think we've suddenly evolved into a species of worldly women who just want to fuck, harboring no desire to be committed to he who shares her body. I think we've just gotten better at hiding it. Modern cavewomen have to do what they can to protect their primitive hearts.

Sex, Love, & Infidelity

I've been with the same man for many years. I was extremely inexperienced when I met him, and had a ton of hangups and insecurities when it came to sex. God love him for putting up with me, and for working around my neuroticism, because I was a real pain in the ass back in the day.

It took me a lot of time to work through that, and now I've had a bit of a "renaissance", if you will. Lately, I crave the naughty. I want dirty talk, hard smacks on the ass, biting, and all the hair-pulling I can get. I fantasize about threesomes with strange women (and men); I love online porn. I flip through the husband's Playboy, and I DON'T just read the articles. I whip out "The Rabbit" when I'm home alone, I consider anal to be the best invention ever...I could go on and on, but you get the picture. Freaky Sex = GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.

"This bitch is insatiable lately."

So you think the husband would be thrilled. Unfortunately, this is not the case. My increased appetite has only served to disturb him. "Everything is about sex with you lately," the husband laments. How is that a bad thing? I'm sincerely confused.

On our vacation, we joked that we were going to have tons of freaky sex. Well, maybe HE was joking - I certainly wasn't, and we had a pretty good go at it. We had the dirtiest, filthiest sex we've ever had. I got it all: hair-pulling, biting, spanking, name-calling (what man wouldn't want to call his wife a whore, and not get slapped for it?), anal THREE TIMES in one day...good times, good times. Only one problem.

He didn't have a single orgasm. Not one.

He's tired, he's sore, he's not feeling so great...blah blah blah. I know the real reason; he's not into the freaky shit. It just doesn't do it for him. Me going from "mother of his children" to "shameless slut" in 4.2 seconds is a BAD THING. All this time, I thought he'd warm to it...maybe once he figured out that I was completely into it, he'd dive right in...NOPE.

The realization is rather painful. I married Vanilla, and I'm Rocky Road. And it's not something I can change. Goddammit.

So do I just let it rest? Do I accept a life with a man who refuses to cum on my face? Who doesn't want to call me filthy names because he "respects me too much"?

Would life with another be any better?

This has to be why humans cheat. We crave the excitement that comes with a new relationship; we want the novelty, the slightly nauseous/dizzy feeling you get when the sensation is almost overwhelming...the possibility of getting caught, the high that you get from knowing that what you're doing is wrong...hot, uninhibited, porn-star quality sex without having to worry about kids bursting in.

Or maybe this is why MEN cheat. They want sex, we want love. Isn't that how it's supposed to be?

Then why do I just want SEX?

I'm starting to think that there's something wrong with me. How can I love a man, have his children, build a life with him...but NOT be sexually fulfilled?

And is it possible to have BOTH?

Up until now, I always thought that people who cheated on their spouses were selfish animals. I could never see how a person could so easily separate sex and love; I believed them to be completely intertwined. Now I can almost understand why a man would have a mistress on the side, or why an otherwise happily married woman would be banging the pool boy.

Times may have changed, but humans remain the same. The urges don't change. Sure, sex and violence have become part of mainstream media, but you can't blame a 50% divorce rate on that alone. I think that cheating has ALWAYS gone on. The only difference is that now it's not as discreet as it once was, and women don't look the other way as much as they used to. Back in the day, a man cheating was more of a "boys will be boys" type of activity; now it's considered an ultimate betrayal, the stuff that a thousand Lifetime movies are made of.

Those of strong character can remain faithful for a lifetime, and as we know, that kind of resolve is a rare gift. I'm not so sure I'm that strong.

Post Vacation Wrap-Up

I'm back, thank Christ. 5 days in "the wilderness" (read: air conditioned motor home, 3 pools, 2 jacuzzis and an arcade) was plenty for this sunburned city girl.

We arrived Monday around noontime and checked in. "Canwegoswimmingcanwegoswimmingcanwegoswimming?" came from the backseat in stereo. 2 hours in the car, constant sibling violence ("He's touching me!!! He's touching me!!!), and having listened to The Incredibles playing on the DVD player for the whole trip, and I was plenty ready to let them sleep with the fishes.

Our days of fun in the sun consisted of trips to the pool and the fully equipped playground next door, a visit to the nearby amusement park and zoo, perusing the goods in the little shops along the beach (I found designer knockoffs, which partially salvaged the hell that is disguised as a "family vacation"), mini golf, candlepin bowling, and fireworks. And yes, it's all on film, documented for future examination by therapists. We're good parents, and here's our proof, fuckers.

The trip had it's moments, I'll sum up:

• Youngest Child insisted on going down the slide while holding onto 2 toys, leaving him with no hands to slow himself down. He was wearing those slippery basketball shorts, so he ended up flying off the end of the slide and landing almost a solid 3 feet away. As he was laid out flat on the sand, wailing at the top of his lungs, STILL clinging to those fucking toys, my husband looked at me in all seriousness and said "Wow. Those are some fast pants." Hilarity ensued, and the other parents glared at us for finding humor in the situation. In the words of Tucker Max "Fuck them if they can't take a joke."
• Oldest Child suddenly ran to the bathroom in the motor home, and urgently yelled from behind the door "Daddy, can you poop in this toilet???" (referring to the fact that the last camper we stayed in had a rather sensitive septic system that was only good for #1). My husband, without hesitation, yells back "Yeah, I'll be there in a second!" Oldest Child was not as amused as we were.
• I took the kids through a fun house at the amusement park, where they had a fine time...that was until we came to the giant spinning tube that you have to walk through to get out. Oldest and Youngest went through without issue, while Middle Child screamed like a girl and ran in the other direction. I attempted to physically drag him through it by the arms, both of us ending up ass over teakettle, and having to crawl out, much to the amusement of passers-by. Moral of the story: Fuck us if WE can't take a joke.

Beyond that, it was fairly uneventful. We did, however, discover that small towns have fairly odd names for their businesses:

• Curl Up & Dye hair salon (now, I thought that this was just a thing of fiction from that movie "The Runaway Bride". Someone ACTUALLY used the name. Classic.)
  
• Blow Brothers Septic Service

• Paid parking is named after "that guy who sits in the folding beach chair and collects the money". On one street, we saw Mike's Parking, Steve's Parking, George's Parking, and Anthony's Parking.
  
• Poofbottoms Fine Children's Clothing (poor children "fart"; rich children have "poofbottoms")
• CatWalk Women's Clothing. Doesn't seem funny right? Well you didn't see the sign, which had a cat's ASS as the A, with the butthole serving as the center. I shit you not. My husband and I almost had to pull over, we were laughing so hard. Might as well just call it the Cat's Ass and get it over with.

There were so many others...if more come to mind, I'll be sure to post. But you get the idea; rich people who live in small coastal towns are pretty fucking freaky.

When we got home this morning, I almost dropped to my knees and kissed the driveway, I was that happy to be home. My own bed, a COMPUTER...heaven...too bad we couldn't get in, as husband lost the house keys. After spending 20 minutes digging through the car, we realized that we were going to have to send Oldest Child through a window to unlock the door from the inside. Then came the final straw...

"I'm not doing it unless you raise my allowance."

WHAT THE FUCK!!! If I'd EVER tried to blackmail my parents, I would have been beaten within an inch of my life.

We told him that unless he wanted to sleep in the yard, he'd better get his ass up to that window and do as he was told. He knows we're crazy enough to follow through with a threat like that, so that was the end of his extortion scheme.

Still haven't found the keys, but I can't seem to muster up the energy to care. I've got my computer, everything else can go to hell for a few hours. Husband scolded me for turning on the computer before I even bothered with the air conditioner, but I could give a shit less. If he wants me sane, then he'll allow me my vices.

Vacation

I should be doing laundry right now. We're going on vacation tomorrow morning, and nobody has anything to wear. I've been pretty exhausted due to my crappy night job, and the 8 loads of laundry that accumulate in a week's time is a pretty daunting task even to those who actually get 8 hours of sleep in a day.

...ok...I put a load in. I have about 40 minutes to write. I figure I should get a bit out of my system before I'm cut off from my digital lifeline for 5 days. God help me.

Vacation last year was pretty disastrous. We had never taken the three children on vacation, and decided it was time to bite the bullet. We borrowed my father in law's motor home and chose a campground that was literally in the middle of nowhere. We were going to tow the car, so we could venture off of the grounds to go shopping or see the sights that the middle of nowhere had to offer, but we discovered after the first 10 minutes on the road that the tow bar was fucked and that we couldn't drag the car after all. So we left it, and resigned ourselves to being trapped at Camp Bumfuck for four solid days. No outlet shopping for me. Goddammit.







Their vacation might have sucked ass too, but at least they had a convertible.














It rained the whole first day. Thankfully, we'd had the presence of mind to bring the full Disney DVD catalog and a Sony bag system, so the children were entertained by the idiot box for a few peaceful hours while the monsoon worked its way past the town. Once the novelty of a small, portable television wore off, the boys started getting antsy. I hate it when they get dirty, but I was so desperate to keep them occupied (and approaching the edge of my sanity) that I allowed them to frolick in the mud puddles of the playground across the path. By the time they were done, their fingers and toes were pruny and they even had mud in their ears, but they had a ball and didn't seem to care. We ushered them back to the site, hosed them off (literally hosed them - they weren't stepping foot inside the camper until we had at least gotten the big chunks off of them) and gave them showers. We decided that it was bedtime...it was only 7:30, but they didn't know that...we took advantage of the fact that none of them could tell time yet and bought ourselves some peace. We got drunk, made s'mores, and wondered how we could have been so stupid so as to set ourselves up for such torture. Tomorrow was bound to be better.

The next day, the kids were up at the ass crack of dawn (damned 7:30 bedtime came back to bite us, that's for sure) and eager for fun in the sun. We sunblocked them up and headed down to the edge of the river to go swimming. A few campers looked at us kinda funny as we walked by in our bathing suits; it became clear why when we got to the water. Not only was it about 6 inches deep, but it was fucking freezing cold. You had to wade out about 20 yards to get to any kind of depth that would be appropriate for a dip, but by the time you got there your feet were blue with hypothermia and the current was so strong that your ass would be three towns down the river before you ever realized what the hell was going on. The brochure hadn't mentioned the fact that the river was fed by melting ice caps on the nearby mountains...we figured being July, it wouldn't be 34 degrees, but we figured wrong. Thankfully, this campground had a pool, so we switched paths and spent the afternoon in a nice, warm, chlorinated body of water. Yeah, we were really getting back to nature.

3 hours (and 5 attempted sibling-related drownings later...thank God for water wings), we headed back to the camper. We had lunch, the kids played at the playground, we had dinner, watched a DVD, made s'mores, and headed to bed. Repeat this three more times, add in a few brotherly fist fights over legos and dump trucks and you have an idea of what our vacation consisted of. No car to venture off, and not a whole lot to do at the campground.

On day 5, we packed up and headed to a nearby theme park that was on the way home. $200 in admissions, meals, and memorabilia later, our vacation was over. We'd done our duty as parents; we'd gone camping, made s'mores, gone to an overpriced theme park, bought them souveniers to their little heart's desires, and gotten it all on film as proof of a mission accomplished. Now when they whine that we never do anything, we can whip out the video and say "ah HA! You ungrateful little bastard, how about THIS!!!"

Parenting is all about keeping score so you can defend yourself when they reach adulthood and try to blame you for their being in therapy.

So forgive me if I'm not jumping for joy at the thought of 5 days of family togetherness near a body of water...at least this time we're in a cottage, and can leave at will...I won't be cheated of outlet shopping THIS time around. And the body of water is actually suitable for swimming this time (we double checked, bastards aren't going to pull one over on US again). For now, I'm reserving judgement, but I have a feeling that I'd have a better time staying home and working. At least then I'd have French Fries to keep me entertained.

My dead end job

I have to be at work in 4 hours. I work the graveyard shift at a shipping company that shall remain nameless. I'm a training supervisor, meaning that it is my duty to shape the freakish people sent to me by human resources into prize package slingers. Our turnover rate is hovering around 70% right now, which means that 70% of the work I do is completely useless.

One of my recent trainees was a man who had a quite obvious affinity for recreational herbal substances (read: pothead). He came into work late one evening, and when asked why, he informed us that he'd been making home-made french fries and that he couldn't leave the fryer before the timer went off. Knave Pothead, I knight thee: Sir French Fry.

Ding! Fries are done!

French Fry wasn't much of a talker. We are required to record a conversation during each night of training, meaning that we are required to pretend to care about the trainee in question by asking personal questions. I was having a bit of trouble eliciting any personal information (potheads are, by nature, rather paranoid and skittish)...that was, until I saw a rather large oriental carpet come down the package chute, and a moment of genius overtook me.

"Wow...this almost looks like a huge joint", I casually commented as I pulled the rug from the chute.

French Fry's eyes lit up like a fucking 4th of July fireworks display.

"Awww DUDE...I would SO take this on if it were really a giant J, man!" French Fry went from a slumped-over, half-asleep burnout to an animated fast-talker in 6.2 seconds flat. He started going on and on about his how he smokes every night with his Dad, and how his Dad has premium shit growing in the basement; apparently, Dad is a serious grower, and has a bunch of different varieties flourishing and flowering under lamps. French Fry's job is to water the plants. Good job, French Fry.

My log for the evening read:

"Asked Daniel if he had any hobbies. He mentioned that his father is a gardener, and that he enjoys assisting his father with the care and harvest of his crop. He also enjoys making homemade french fries."

I think maybe "I was making homemade french fries" was a euphemism for "I was rolling up a bunch of J's and couldn't leave until the bag was empty". Ya think?

French Fry has actually turned out to be a stellar employee...except for the nights he's late because he had to water the stash. It's a good thing our company doesn't randomly drug test, because we'd lose all of our French Fries...and half the supervisors as well.

Maybe if I give French Fry a night off, he'll share.

An unoriginal introduction

Call me K. That's it. K. I'd prefer to remain anonymous, well hidden from the men in white coats who could quite legitimately take me away at any moment, so K it is.

I recently changed the name of the blog. I had this whole poetic autumn theme going on, but once I saw the tone my blog was taking, I decided to keep it simple and non-poetic. Besides, I fucking hate poetry, who was I trying to fool into thinking I had any culture?

Fall is, by far, my favorite out of all of the seasons. I adore the changing leaves, the cooler weather, the freshly stocked school supplies in the aisles of WalMart and Staples...it's just a fantastic time of year, and those who challenge me on this point will be stabbed in the eye with a newly sharpened #2 pencil.

Fall allows me to hide in my favorite bulky cable knit sweaters. Sweaters are a chubby girl's best friend. Summer is a hellish time for chubby chicks; leg-baring shorts, short sleeved shirts that show off the ghostly white upper arms...my only salvation this year was the fact that capris came back into fashion. I can deal with showing off a couple of shins and an occasional ankle. Daring, I know. I can be a real showy whore when I want to be. Ankle fetish porno beckons.

Since fall is coming, I thought this a perfect time of year to finally start my blog. If you decide to come back after reading this horrendously unoriginal introduction, you'll be exposed to stories of job hunting, a shaky marriage, feelings of general inadequacy and the pooping habits of small children. Who knows, maybe my life will become more interesting as the blog progresses...hell, I'll probably throw in a bit of juicy fiction here and there...so pull up a chair, it's bound to improve.