I Resolve...To Not Resolve

Another year has come to an end and I am happy to report that I haven't disappointed myself once in 2010. I know. I adore me, too. How have I managed this impossible feat? It's simple, really. I stopped making New Year's Resolutions about three years ago. Gone are the days when I'd sit down with a brand new journal and pen and plot out all the huge, unrealistic goals that I planned to meet in the new year. Ahhh, sweet freedom.

Have you ever taken a moment to examine the word 'resolution'? Broken down it's re-solution. The word is basically saying, "What? You didn't stick with this year's solution to the problem? Don't sweat it. Let's do it all over again!" It sounds wonderful, like a pardon from the President for killing a family of four, only the pardon is from yourself for not starting your own business or giving up caffeine. Yes, it sounds wonderful, but what happens when you catch a glimpse of yourself naked on December 19th and it's too late to lose that 50 pounds you resolved to lose? Trust me, even gastric bypass doesn't work that fast. So, you've disappointed yourself...again.

Not me. Not ever again. These past three years have been amazingly carefree. Except for the economy, but one can hardly blame me for that. Don't set yourselves up for failure. With my plan, you can make minimal effort and if you make any progress at all, it will be a victory. A small victory to be sure, but winning is winning.

And so, to encourage my friends, family, and fellow bloggers to join me in my quest to be happy in this new year and every new year to come I'm starting the No Resolution Revolution. It's just like making a resolution, only not. You take all the things you would normally resolve to do and do the opposite. Are you following me? No? Come on, keep up. It's not rocket science. Just do as I do.

In 2011, I promise (not resolve, see how that works?) to:
1. Eat as much as I possibly can in a 365 day span. Therefore, I also will
2. Gain so much weight that Weight Watchers will call me and offer their services free of charge.
3. Do absolutely no exercise and negatively impact my lung capacity.
4. Speaking of lung capacity, I will take up smoking again. Sure, I only smoked two cigs a day, but a carcinogen is a carcinogen, right? I'm sure it'll do the job.
5. Not put forth any effort toward being successful or achieving my dreams. Who needs a career that's financially and emotionally fulfilling? Not me, that's for damn sure.
6. Not pay any attention whatsoever to my husband and kids. They'll survive. If not, there's always the cat.
7. Let my house fall apart completely. I'm tired of spending my hard-earned money on this old ass house. Well, it's not exactly my hard-earned money, but still. I could start a nice gambling addiction with that money.
8. To be the most ungrateful bitch anyone has ever met. I've already got the bitch part down, so we're halfway there with that one.
9. To be the rootinest tootinest bible-thumpingest Christian this side of the Mississip. I almost wrote that whole sentence without laughing.
10. To actively, proactively, and reactively seek out alcoholism. That one shall begin before this post is finished being typed.

By the end of 2011, I will be a fat, lazy, alcoholic with no ambition, no friends, fucked up kids, and an iron lung. Damn! This shit is going to be fun.

I read a bumper sticker recently that said, "Where are we going and why am I in this handbasket?" let's just say that's my motto for 2011. We're not supposed to survive 2012, so why the hell would I go through all the trouble of doing all the things that everyone else is promising themselves to do. Fuck that. I'm going to have a ball during my supposed last year of existence and maybe do shit differently in my next lifetime.

Maybe.

Happy Fat Ass New Year to all my wonderful and loyal readers! I fucking love you guys! I'm never going to say that shit again, so you might want to print this out.

See ya next year!

Unqualified

As a stay-at-home mom, housewife, or as I like to call it, professional slave, I'm getting pretty sick of being underestimated. I'm an intelligent woman. Even at the ripe old age of pushing 40, I still have an abundance of potential. I'm smoking hot, if I do say so myself. And I do fucking say so. These extra pounds do nothing to detract from my inner bombshell. Fuck you if you think otherwise.

Why is it that people think that just because I haven't worked outside my home for several years now, I have nothing to offer?

To be honest, I have little desire to work for someone. I despise being told what to do, but as long as I'm treated with dignity and respect and I'm being paid, I can be a team player...for a little while. All I want is a part-time job paying decent money working somewhere between 9 am and 2 pm, so I can bring in a little extra while I'm waiting for someone to discover that I possess writing ability and talent and offer me millions of dollars to do something I love. Izzat too mush to ass? Sorry, I didn't realize that typed words can slur, too, when you drink too much.

For years I have worked several work-from-home, start-your-own-business, I-can't-believe-people-are-too-lazy-to-do-this-shit-themselves types of gigs. That means, I haven't been unemployed, I just don't work for others. Apparently, that renders me unqualified to work with people outside of my house.

I applied for a part-time job with McCormick. You know, the spice people.

This job was working 10 am-1 pm, Monday thru Friday as a taste tester for $12/hour. Are you freaking kidding me? You're going to pay me to taste food for three hours a day? I thought that shit was awesomeness dipped in chocolate with a side of Idris Elba. I had to send an email to some staffing company begging for the opportunity to apply. Then I had to fill out a long ass questionnaire about my food preferences, diet, willingness to taste unpleasant foods, name, rank, serial number, blood type, dress size and date I lost my virginity (November 12, 1988 if you're interested). Finally, I had to wait on pins and needles for their approval of me. It never came. They said I was unqualified.

Now, I don't offend easily, but if you want to know what 'useless' feels like, just let someone tell you you're not qualified to taste food. I don't even know what the hell to say about that. Am I also not qualified to walk? Breathe? Blink my eyes? This was a 'no experience necessary' job, but they were going to provide training. Who the fuck doesn't know how to eat? They could hire a toddler and still get an accurate account of whether something tastes good or not. It seems to me that they would have taken the first eight people who showed up clean, well-groomed, and literate.

But they're not taking me. Because I'm unqualified.

That fucking sucks.

This is my official boycott of McCormick spices. It's nothing but Spice Classics from here on out. Pardon me while I cry my poor, useless heart out. :(

Sick Bed Sex Ed

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS A PICTURE OF PEOPLE IN THEIR BIRTHDAY SUITS. THEY'RE NAKED. IF YOUR DELICATE SENSIBILITIES WILL BE OFFENDED COME BACK TOMORROW WHEN THIS POST WILL STILL BE HERE, BUT MAYBE YOU WON'T BE SO UPTIGHT.

I'm sick. And not in my usual "what the hell is wrong with that woman?" way. I'm sick in the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so get the fuck outta my face way. I hate being sick for lots of reasons, but the biggest one is because I have to sit still. I suck at sitting still which means I don't get much rest which means I stay sick for longer than I should have. Does the flu know that it's three days before Christmas? Does the flu know that it ruined the Winter Solstice party my youngest kids and I planned? My nine-year-old cut paper up into confetti-sized pieces to serve as "snow" and we couldn't even use them. You mean to tell me that I don't get to vacuum up a trillion tiny pieces of paper? Darn.

I dragged myself to the computer today so as to interact with the outside world and I came across this video. Now before you even think about it, you must watch the video. It's imperative to your understanding of the rest of this post. And it's hot. Pay close attention to the condom wrapper that will appear in the lower right quadrant of the screen. Don't blink because it's only there for a second.

Hot, right? Wtf? What happened to the other font I was using?

Hopefully, your eye is keen enough to have noticed the Magnum condom package. Magnum, for all you rock-dwellers, is a line of condoms designed by Trojan for the comfort of well-endowed men. I feel I should say that again for those who may not have understood. MAGNUM is designed for the comfort of WELL-ENDOWED men. The problem is, most men think they're well-endowed. The truth is that a large number of Magnum users are not. Would you like to know how you can tell if you should save your extra 35 cents per condom and go with the standard size? No? I'm going to tell you anyway, Nubby, because it's bad enough that you suck at oral sex, but now you're flopping around in a condom that's two sizes too big and the shit is starting to piss me off. I'm sorry. I'll try to keep the flashbacks to a minimum.

If the condom slides off every time you extract your pocket rocket from a honey pot, you might have a little dick. I'm just kidding. It might not be small, but it is too small for those Magnums.

Have you ever blown up a condom like a balloon?

As you can see, standard condoms can hold a lot of...what's the word I'm looking for...weight. If your pecker is bigger than the above picture, forget the Magnums and go straight to hot air balloons. And please upload a porn so that the rest of us can see this mythical beast.

Don't get upset and click the next blog button, Wee Willy Winkie, all hope is not lost.

There are two ways in which one could consider his trouser snake to be "big": length and width (girth, if you will). Most women prefer a nice healthy girth. Change the word 'healthy' to 'hefty' for me. Length can be a good thing, too, but if you're blessed with a lengthy tube steak, please consider the following. The average unaroused vagina is 3 to 4 inches long. When a woman is properly aroused, her vagina elongates to accommodate the pork sword. So that takes it to, say, 5 to 7 inches. If your mutton dagger is longer than the depth of her vagina and you get a little overzealous in your love making, you will be slamming repeatedly into her cervix. That shit hurts. Stop it. All you girthy men pay close attention. The key words to either facet of well-endowment are properly aroused. You know how it's so much easier and pleasant to remove a ring that's stuck on your finger if you lubricate it before attempting to yank it off? Yeah, like that.

Please don't confuse the two. If a woman tells you that you are big, ask that bitch to be specific. Am I wide or am I long? It's big, but is it strong? Can I make you scream on a train? In Spain? While dancing in the rain? Men, it's important that you know which one she means, so that you can give her pleasure accordingly, with little to no discomfort (see cervix slamming above).

And lastly, for all you gentlemen who are neither average nor big, don't fret.

Not everyone is laughing at you. No, really. All you need to do is get really fucking good at cunnilingus and pack some big, powerful toys in your overnight bag.

And please, for the love of multiple orgasms, walk past the Magnums in the drug store.

I'd like to thank The Empress at The Ranter's Box for teaching me all the nice new references to male genitalia. I had fun with them. There are plenty of words for vagina on her blog, too, but since we've only recently gotten "permission" to say vagina out loud, I thought I'd stick to vagina instead of beating around the, um, bush. I swear, I didn't plan that.

Jesus, Take the Wheel

I feel the need to channel Carrie Underwood today because somewhere Susan B. Anthony is rolling over in her grave.

Have you seen this shit?


Just what every parent wants for their little princess...Video Ho Girl Barbie. What. The. Fuck. That's a statement, not a question. Video Girl Barbie comes complete with a video camera in her necklace, form-fitting night club outfit, Jersey Shore hair, bodacious ta-ta's, and a bootylicious ass you can bounce a quarter off of. That reminds me, Video Ho. Beyonce called. She wants her ass back.

When I was a little girl, Barbie was someone to be admired. Sure, she was a doll, but she taught little girls that they could grow up and become doctors or astronauts, drive race cars, work as flight attendants or say "fuck it" and fly the damn planes themselves. And all without a dime from Ken's bitch ass.

Who's bright idea was it to take Beyonce and Snooki, meld them together, dye her hair blond, give her a camcorder with which to record her naughty misdeeds, and sell her to little girls? I want names. And addresses. AND a five gallon bucket, a pair of pruning shears, two spark plugs and a Snickers bar. Don't ask.

This just proves my point that we're getting dumber. How does one "evolve" from a doctor to a video ho? I must have missed that part of the evolutionary chart. So, it goes: ape, neanderthal, cro magnon, human, whore? Is this what the rest of us have to look forward to? Because if it is, let me off at the next stop.

Maybe this was no accident. Maybe there is a little Impotent Old Man somewhere who decided to take revenge on the fairer sex by putting them in their place, so to speak. Maybe IOM is so freakin' pissed that women have gone from subservient, homemaking, child-rearing, I-can't-do-anything-without-a-man doormats to strong, maid-having, nanny-hiring, fuck-you-asshole-I-don't-need-you-for-shit powerhouses, that he thought he could reverse years of feminism with the creation of a doll employed in the world's oldest profession. Don't give me that look. Video Ho-ing is only one shot of Hennessy away from prostitution and you know it. My point is that he was trying to start over from scratch. Career woman to ho; ho to housewife. Then things would be as they were meant to be. There's a fatal flaw in his plan, however. Everyone knows you can't turn a ho into a housewife.

I would like to tie IOM's loosely hanging balls into a sailor's knot, put a red bandana on his head, and plop him naked into the middle of a Lil Wayne video being filmed in Crip territory. Then all the booty bouncing video vixens could point and laugh as they drove their pimped out rides up and down his sadistic spine.

No actual video hoes were harmed in the making of this post.

Stay away from the trunk of my car.

PSA: Dog Love is in the Heart of the Beholder

I get it. Your dog is the cutest thing since those funny looking Olsen twins. Aw, come on. When Full House premiered and they rolled out those buggers as one little baby "Michelle," didn't you think, "What the hell is that?" Eventually, we grew accustomed to their weird little faces and they became adorable to us. That's how I feel about your dog. He's cute in the same way as any creature who licks his own ass is cute---from a distance.

The reason I've got a bug up my ass about canines today, aside from not getting any for at least five days (sleep, that is. the other thing either now that you bring it up. thanks), is because some woman whom I don't know felt it necessary to send us a picture of her dog in a Christmas card. My husband knows her from work, so there are a couple ways I could look at this. On one hand, she could be some old bitty whose only companion is her beloved dog and who wants to share her love of said dog with the world because he makes her so happy. On the other hand, this could be hubby's other wife on the other side of town making sure 'daddy' has a picture of his cherished pet to carry with him at all times. Either way, I don't give a shit. I don't want a picture of that bitch's bitch in my house.

Let me clear something up for all you psycho dog owners out there: You love your dog. You want to dress your dog up in tiny designer outfits and carry it in your purse and take portraits of it and feed it caviar and oysters. You want to look up from the desk of your dead-end job and gaze into the blue/green/brown eyes of the loyal pup waiting patiently at home for your return. You. Not me.

There's a way to gauge whether or not you should send those $200 Petco portraits out to someone. Ask yourself a couple of questions. The first one should be, "Does this person know my dog?" If the answer is no, stop, calm your hyper ass down, remove the address label from the envelope, and step away from the postal worker. Your third grade teacher couldn't give less of a fuck about Trixie or how good she was when you took her to see Santa. The second question is, "Does this person love my dog?" Again, if the answer is no, save that precious portrait for someone who does. Don't waste your money; we're in a recession in case you didn't know. If you send a picture of your dog to someone who doesn't love him, it will end up in the trash. Or, and this is probably just me, it will get folded origami-style into the shape of a mouse and given to my cat. Sure, I may like your dog, it's not likely, but stranger things have happened. I may even think he's cute. But if I'm not falling all over myself trying to get to your house to play with the pwetty wittle puppy wuppy who's a cute dog? who's the cutest wittle puppy in da whole wide world? then I DON'T WANT A PICTURE OF YOUR FUCKING DOG.

As I was writing this, a commercial for an animal shelter came on. The dog was cute and the voice over was funny. Now that the commercial is over, I have no desire to ever see that dog again. See how that works?

While we're on the subject, the same thing goes for your kids. I don't know how many pictures of anonymous kids I have in my goddamn photo albums. A girl I worked with once gave me an 8x10 of her five-year-old. An 8x10, are you kidding me? What do you have a stash of gi-fucking-normous pictures stuffed in your bra to pass out like pro-life flyers? I had never even met the little heifer. Are people so proud of their little bundles of joy that they must insist on forcing their likenesses onto virtual strangers? Or are they so desperate for human companionship that they must create connections where clearly none exists?

Just to be clear any and all pictures of pets and children (let's throw in old people while we're at it) for whom I don't personally have love and/or affection will be trashed and burned, not necessarily in that order. You can waste your money, your Christmas card, your postage, and your time cutting those huge sheets into individual pictures if you want to. It won't last five minutes in my house.

Who the fuck is that? I don't know. Some dumbass I met on the bus stop gave me a picture of her twin rhesus monkeys. They were on a hit sitcom back in the '90's and then they grew up to vaguely resemble humans.

I apologize if this message is late and you've already purchased the Best Value package of pictures this year. Just think of it as advanced warning for next year. Besides, the dog will be a year older and a lot less cute. So will the kids.

Fuck!

I can't tell you how honored I am to do today's post. I have asked one of my favorite bloggers in the world to guest post and she has graciously agreed.

As you know, it is my mission in life to corrupt the world one 'fuck' at a time.


I believe the quickest way to do that is to start with the nicest, classiest people you can find and influence them so that 'fuck' becomes a regular part of their vocabulary. Like 'hello' or 'peanut butter' or 'I am a Christian.' You know, normal stuff. To that end, I have asked the sweetest woman I know to crash my blog and unleash a whirlwind of 'fucks' all over it.

This shit is gonna be fucking fun.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mynx, author of Dribble and Secret Pleasures. Enjoy!

Look where I have landed.  

On a “Bitch called Mum  Mom,  oops, nearly Aussied your blog Mrs Hyde.

Firstly let me tell you how fucking glad I am to be asked to guest here.  Did you see that? I said the “F” word and not even on the naughty blog I also have.

Surprise you did I?

I never really say “fuck” on my blog.  Well I must have a couple of times because one day I did one of those word cloud thingys and there it was. 

In real life I do tend to say it more, but usually only when I am really stressed.  You see, I am/was a bit of a goody two shoes.  But here I am, where not only am I allowed to say “fuck”, I can even say it lots and lots.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, hehehe.

Said it out loud in the car the other day.  Big C said “Mum, the word is Fudge, FUDGE”.  

Fuck, I am being told off for bad words by a 14 year old.

I must admit that reading it in a lot of blogs tends to make it easier to say.  If my blog wasn’t a secret from my real life I might have replied “Awwww but Mrs Hyde says fuck all the time and her kids don’t tell her off”.

When Mrs Hyde asked me to write this guest, I suddenly remembered a situation when I said Fuck a lot, and very loudly.  And surprised a fuck load of people in the process.  

As I was a full time Mum, I got involved in the boys Kindergarten (preschool for 4 year olds).  So fucking involved, I was made chairperson of the fucking parents committee.  (see how good I am getting at using the f bomb)

Part of the role was planning and organising fundraising and the committee decided this particular year to have a massive garage sale (yard sale?).

Weeks of collecting stuff from parents, promoting it around the area. Sorting pricing and storing until the day.  An early start (5 am) to get things ready.  A sausage sizzle to keep the men happy while the women browsed.

If you think this was hard work, you are not wrong Narelle.  

The partner of one of the women on the committee had volunteered to help.  Yay, we thought, needed a guy or two to be useful.  

How wrong were we?

While we women worked our tushies off, this guy (let’s call him John) decided it was much more fun to sit on his arse and play on the computer half the morning.

Anytime something that needed a guy happened, he became the invisible man.  

Finally the day was over and while taking the money to a room to count, John approached me and said,“Gee this was an easy way to make a pile of cash, we should do it every month”

And being the lady I am, I gave him the death glare and walked away.

Jenny, who had seen him speak to me, but not heard the comment came over and asked me what was making me look so steamed.

It was then, for the first time in anybody’s memory that I let it really rip.

“That fucking, John, he fucking thinks that this was a fucking easy fucking way to fucking make money and has suggested that we fucking do it every fucking month.  Well if he wants to fucking organise this fucking nightmare, he fucking can, because there is no fucking way we are doing it again for at least another fucking year.”

When I finally came up for air, I looked at the girls around me and their stunned faces.

And then we laughed.

And it became a bit of a legend.  How John made Mynx say fuck more times in one minute than she had said in an entire year.

And the fucking Garage Sale, well it made a shit load of money and became a fucking annual event. 

And John, he remained a fucking lazy dumb ass.

Wasn't that fucking awesomeness dipped in chocolate and deep fried on a stick? And my two favorite subjects: fuck and dumnasses!

Thanks for dropping by and entertaining us today, Mynx. You can bring your arse over here and Aussie my blog any day! Love you!

Oh! Had to come back and edit to add this on: if any of my other readers would like to guest on either of my blogs, please let me know. Just remember that there are rules for The Well-Fed Spirit, but absolutely no rules whatsoever for A Bitch Called Mom. Well...maybe one or two rules, but you know what I mean. Rabbit and The Empress, I know you're busy, but as soon as things die down over there, I'm coming for you two...

Bottoms Up!

Today is my six month bloggerversary! That's right, six months ago today I thought to myself, "What trick can I employ to get myself to write on a semi-regular basis? I could put it at the top of my to-do list. Nah, that hasn't worked so far. I could beg the writing gods to have mercy on my undisciplined soul. Maybe if I had a clue as to who the writing gods might be. I could start a blog. Everyone else and his great nana is doing it. Why the hell not?" So I created The Well-Fed Spirit because I wanted to reach out to women and give a voice to those who might feel they don't have one. Two weeks later, I started my regular, tortuous bout of PMDD and A Bitch Called Mom was born.

In the spirit of celebration, I have decided to piss off as many people as possible today. Those of you who usually find me lovable or at least entertaining might want to tighten your big girl/boy drawers. It's about to get bumpy in this bitch.

I was on my way inside my favorite grocery store, Aldi, yesterday when I noticed a protest going on just a few yards away. About 15 people with signs that read, "Church and liquor don't mix" and "God doesn't approve" were shouting at anyone within earshot about the travesty that was unfolding before our eyes. A liquor store was opening right next door to their church and they were not happy about it. And worse, God wasn't happy about it.

Let me briefly interject that I find it hilariously ironic that someone decided to build a liquor store right beside a church, but that's just me.

Anyway, a young man approached me as I struggled to shut the trunk of my van while maintaining a death grip on my reusable bags so they wouldn't fly away in the 40 mph winds. He politely asked if I would sign their petition to prevent the liquor store from opening next to their awesome, wonderful, sent-straight-from- heaven church. I told him I didn't really care whether there was a liquor store next to his church because hey, it ain't my fricking church, but that I would sign the petition if that would make him happy enough to skip his little ass out of my face.

"I don't understand, Ma'am." He was so well-mannered. His mama would have been proud.

I explained to him that it's all a matter of perspective. What if, instead of seeing this situation as a curse, they looked at it as a blessing. If there is a liquor store next door to your church, doesn't that give you countless opportunities to "save" the "sinners" who might have a "drinking problem"?

He said, "Ma'am, I can see how you would think that, but there are many members of our church, including myself, who are recovering from alcoholism and it's not a good idea to have a liquor store there while we're trying to worship."

At this point, I'm about two seconds away from cursing him out because he's called me "ma'am" twice already. Asshole. He starts to rattle off a list of the long line of alcoholics in his ancestry and I told him to save the drama for his mama. My father was both an alcoholic and a drug addict, my mother still is a drug addict, I have at least six other family members with addictions of some kind and my husband is just a shot away from being an alcoholic himself. I, myself have at least three shots to go before I get there, so I'm good. The point is I'm familiar with addiction, so you don't need to sell me on it, Little Preacher Boy.

Here's my question: at what point do we make addicts responsible for their own sobriety? For that matter, when do we make people, in general, responsible for their own lives? I understand that it is a daily struggle for addicts to maintain their sobriety. I applaud anyone who battles with this disease and manages to come out on top most of the time. Temptation is everywhere. How will a recovering addict learn to deal with temptation in a healthy, productive way if we shield them from it? How can they know the victory of overcoming an obstacle, if we hide the obstacles from them?

If you're an alcoholic and you work at a dentist's office in a shopping center that just so happens to be three doors down from a bar, are you going to quit your job? Petition that they uproot their entire business so that you won't have to walk past it everyday? Or will you walk right past it and, when you feel tempted, keep on going until you find an AA meeting? Isn't that what's supposed to happen? When you find yourself in a situation that you feel you can't handle without the assistance of alcohol, you need to seek the assistance of those who are there to support you because they all have been where you are and will not judge you. Right? If that's not how it works, you definitely won't find my ass parked at an AA meeting when I finally fall off the edge of this cliff. Fuck that.

If you walk down the street in any poor neighborhood in America, you will find a church on the corner. If you keep walking in the same direction, you will find a liquor store one block down. Keep walking and you'll find that the pattern repeats itself: church, liquor store, church, liquor store. This is where poor people find solace. If it can't be found in church, we'll just walk down a block and find it at the bottom of a bottle.

I wonder if the protesters would have been as up-in-arms if the store were opening a block away. Is proximity the issue? Is God okay with liquor stores being erected a whole city block away from the church, just not right next door? And wouldn't the recovering alcoholics still have to walk past the liquor to get to the Lord? Or vice versa?

What's your take?

To those who will un-follow me now, I say, "Hey, it's been real." I'll see you at the next meeting. To those of you who will stick around, I say, "Thanks for having my back whether you agree with me or not." And feel free to cuss my ass out if you think I'm being offensive. You know I'd extend the same courtesy to you. That's how love works: I piss you off, you put your foot up my ass, we have a good laugh or cry, and then start that shit all over again.

Happy bloggerversary to me and to The Empress of The Ranter's Box fame, who celebrated hers just a few days ago (November 31st!). You know what they say about great minds. She's my sister from another mister, so if you haven't had the pleasure of reading her blog, get your ass over there now!

I just thought of something...she started her blog roughly a week before I started mine. She has almost 200 followers and I have 25. Hmmm. Guess that means I don't know what the fuck I'm doing out here in this crazy blog world.

Oh, well...bottoms up!

Ten Things I Hate About You

I read a post yesterday (Hey, Barb!) where the blogger listed ten things she loves. I considered doing that. I've been extra specially bitchy lately and I could stand to impart a little gratitude. PMS is kicking my ass this month, y'all. I apologize to my male readers, but only a little. It's life. Deal.

After I read Barb's post, I tried to compile a list of things that I love. She had about three things on her list that I could have stolen, but I figured since I already hijacked her idea, I'd save any additional thievery for another day. I would like to post my list here for your enjoyment but...it doesn't exist. I gave up after about two minutes and decided to ride this extreme PMS to the end. Below you will find the list of:

Ten Things I Fucking Hate Only I Shortened It To Five Things Because My Attention Span Isn't That Long:

1. Stupid people. If you're new to this blog, you may not know of my strong dislike of the common sense-impaired. Read this and this and this to catch up. Don't worry, we'll wait. Well, I won't, but maybe my loyal readers will. Serves your ass right for getting here so late. While you're doing that, the rest of us will amuse ourselves with this hilarious video of Katt Williams.

Twenty on eleven, bitch! If I could get my hair as straight and bouncy as his, I'd have one less thing to bitch about. That would only leave 7428. Every little bit helps. One day at a time.

2. I hate when I'm trying to do something I shouldn't be doing, and a kid walks in and catches me. I quit smoking officially about five years ago. Unofficially, I still smoke the occasional cigarette or Black and Mild (the wine flavor is awesome). Mostly, I do it when some kid has catapulted me into crisis mode or when I'm out drinking with the hubs. He smokes cigars and I can't stand the smoke unless I'm smoking, too. Go figure. So the other day, I found out my sixteen year old hooked school and was "discovered" at his girlfriend's grandmother's house sleeping on the sofa in the middle of the day. Nobody was at home but those two and when they were found, the girl was on top of the boy...sleeping. Yeah, that's what I said. After comparing notes, the other mother and I concluded that they had, indeed, had sex.

I'm so not ready for this bullshit.

I ripped him a new asshole and then hightailed it to the liquor store where I purchased one Black and Mild. For those that don't know, a Black and Mild is like a small, cheap cigar that comes in various flavors for your ghetto ass enjoyment. As I was sitting in my parked car on the driveway smoking my cheap cigar and minding my own fucking business, guess who comes barreling out the front door having the nerve to look at me like he's disappointed? My late son. May his soul rest in peace 'cause there's not much left of his body.

3. I hate when I fold a load of freshly washed and dried towels and place them neatly inside the linen closet only to come back ten minutes later and discover that my once neat pile has been overturned because some kid or grown ass man needed to get his/her favorite towel from the bottom of the fucking pile. You don't understand. That shit is like nails on a chalkboard to me. No, worse. It's like leaving a teaspoon of butter pecan ice cream in an otherwise empty container. Somebody should die.

4. I hate when I want to be left alone and people don't take the hint. "Are you okay, Mrs. Hyde? Is something wrong? It sure seems like something is wrong. Are you sure nothing is wrong 'cause I'd hate to find out that something was wrong and I left it alone because you told me nothing was wrong." Let me make this clear: EVEN IF SOMETHING IS WRONG, IF I SAY THERE'S NOT, ASSUME THAT EVERYTHING IS PEACHY FUCKING KEEN.

5. I hate when people can't read my mind. If I know what's going on in my chaotic head, why the hell don't you? If you cared, you'd know what I was thinking. Okay, I'll give you one clue. When I bare my teeth like this, it means I'm considering sprinkling cat nip in your crotch and letting my cat go to town. Pop quiz: what am I thinking now? Damn shame...I thought you loved me.

This looks like a job for Jose Cuervo.

Award Whore

It's been five days since my last post and in that time, I've won two blog awards. You mean I don't even have to do a damn thing to win an award? Nice. I didn't actually win them per se. My awesome blog friends have given them to me because they think I'm hot shit. I guess that's tantamount to entering a beauty contest where your mom is one of the judges. That's fine by me. It's about time I had an unfair advantage over something.

The first award was from the source of my second guest post on a blog. Semi True Torystellar from Can U Relate granted me the Tanned Hide Blog Award

Because some crap should not be put up with. I love it! And if you get to spank an ass in the process, all the better. Somebody was checking out my blog when they created this award. This blog is the birthplace of inspiration for many. You're welcome.

The second one is from a newcomer to A Bitch Called Mom, Kara over at Visions Unto Myself.

This is, by far, my favorite because it involves cupcakes that I didn't have to bake myself. Now that's somebody who thought to herself, 'what does this bitch really need in her life?' The answer is both simple and straightforward, although my husband still can't manage to figure it out. Say it with me, moms....LESS WORK. Or better...PERSONAL CHEF. Or best of all...GORGEOUS MAN BEARING CAKE.

Thank you, thank you, thank you ladies for believing that I am award-worthy. Just in case you're wondering what the hell you were thinking giving an award to a bitch like me, let me ease your minds by saying you had no choice. You might want to pay better attention to the subliminal messages strategically placed on my page from now on. I won't say you're gullible or anything like that, but...

Speaking of cake...

Is it just me or does food taste like crap when you're PMSing? Every damn thing I put in my mouth (minds out of the gutter please) tastes like metal right now. It's gotten so bad that I've taken to eating on paper plates with plastic utensils and consuming all beverages from plastic bottles or cups. Is this some freaky pregnancy spin-off?

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I couldn't eat sugar. To answer your question before you get a chance to think about asking it, no. Neither my doctor nor my nurse midwife instructed me to stay away from sugar to preserve the health of my baby. They didn't say I was damn near diabetic or anything drastic like that. I couldn't eat sugar because every time I tried to eat something sweet, my mouth would be flooded with the taste of metal. Needless to say, it was disgusting. I mean I couldn't eat anything even remotely sweet. Not cake, not pie, not cookies, not corn flakes sprinkled with sugar. Nothing. The thought of having sugar anywhere near me made me nauseous.

As a result of my sugar drought, I only gained 10 pounds during my whole pregnancy and five of those pounds belonged to the baby. And I was a sweet person. I don't think I yelled at my husband or oldest son (the oldest daughter wasn't adopted yet and the youngest son was still a baby) for the entire 37 weeks. I also didn't curse out: cashiers, trash guys (more on them in an upcoming post), my father-in-law (whom I curse out at least twice a week), or Verizon tech support, not that they would understand me anyway. If you think that statement is racist, it's because you don't know our history. I actually had a conversation with one guy that went like this:

Guy Who Lives In India: Verizon Tech Support, how may I help you?
Me: Hello. I can't connect to the internet.
GWLII: I'm so sorry to hear that, Ma'am. I can help you take care of this problem. Garble, garble, crunch, crunch?
Me: I'm sorry. I didn't understand you. Can you say that again?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't understand you. Will you repeat that?
Me: I didn't understand what you said.
GWLII: Please repeat that, ma'am.
Me: If I can't understand you and you can't understand me, how are you going to help me with my computer?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. Can you repeat that?

Dial tone......

I'm not going to start bitching about outsourcing, but if you must outsource, can you hire the people who speak the language of those they're meant to help? I'm just saying. If Indian companies were outsourcing to America, do you think they'd hire my non-Hindi speaking ass? I understand that some people read another language better than they speak it. I can read Spanish way better than I can speak Spanish, but still I'm not getting a job taking donations for Telemundo.

I digress. Oh, I was saying what an absolute pleasure I was to be around during my last pregnancy due to a lack of sugar.

Hold the phone! I think I just figured out this whole bitch thing.

No, wait. I lost it.



Oh, yeah, I guess I'm supposed to take off my hooker heels and put on my pimp hat, so here goes. I entrust the Tanned Hide Award to the following blogs:

Crazy Ramblings of a Tired Mom
stupid stuff i see and hear
The Journey

Neither of them put up with much bullshit.

And the warm and fuzzy cupcake award goes to:

Secret Pleasures (these are cupcakes of a whole 'nother kind)...