Victoria's Dirty Little Secret

Victoria has a dirty little secret. Amidst the lace and the frills, the satin and the silk, the padding and the bigger padding, she hides it. Among the fragrances, the body washes, and the diamond-studded brassieres, she conceals it. She's a sly fox, that Victoria.

If you look closely, though, the secret is not that hard to find. Discreetly open one of the drawers all the way at the bottom of the display case and you will find it. Open a closet deep into the recesses of the storage room and you will discover her secret: it's me. Me and all the other amply-endowed women of the world whose bras are hidden like wine stains on a white carpet.



They need to bury us under tables, in drawers, and behind closet doors lest they offend the delicate sensibilities of the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee. We wouldn't want the IBTC to go on a rampage, thrashing their barren chests about in protest, would we? Oh, the horror! The absolute insanely hilarious fucking horror!

I'm sorry. I don't mean to lash out at you flat-chested small-boobed women. I tend to do that when I feel judged. I'm working on it. No, really.

My question is this: if everyone wants to look like us, shouldn't the biggest boulder-like flopper stoppers be on brilliant display? Shouldn't underwear models be shaped like me (at least on top)? Shouldn't the Victoria's Secret fashion show feature women who, through no control of their own, come bouncing happily down the runway? I feel robbed of my rightful place in bobby royalty. Women are praying at night to deities in whom they don't even believe just so they can wake up with the body of a bombshell. Women are paying doctors thousands of dollars and enduring weeks of excruciating pain just so they can complain about how men no longer look into their eyes, but rather stare at their chests. And yet they bury us under mountains of glorified training bras and tiny thongs like we have the plague...

What would happen, Victoria, if you leave us all out there, big and small boobies alike? Might we lock bra straps in peace and harmony? Might we stand side-by-side, hand-in-hand and sing our henceforth self-proclaimed national anthem: Man! I Feel Like a Woman by Shania Twain? I think that the mixing of bra sizes would serve as evidence that real women do exist, and would therefore provide no plausible reason for anyone to purchase your padded, pinching monstrosities because the world would realize that women come in all different shapes and sizes. And that all their boobies are beautiful.

Fuck Victoria!

I'll take my business to Lane Bryant. True, I'd have to hide in the bushes on delivery day so I could knock the driver out and take my pick before the general public has access to the five measly bras in my size, but I'd get a bra. A pretty one, not the white one my grandmother wore. One with lace or animal print or polka dots or stripes or any color other than black or white or a nude that looks nothing like my nude skin. In my size.

And it damned sure won't be hidden in some obscure little drawer in the back.

I apologize, loyal readers, for my absence. Well, I haven't really been absent. I've been reading your posts, but I don't feel I'm in a good position to comment on anyone's life other than mine right now. I'm going through some things and as I work through them, I will keep you posted. Know that I haven't forgotten about you and I still love you to teeny tiny pieces.

Wasted Bitch Writing

So.....I want to apologize in advance because this is a drunk ass post by a pissed off wife and mother of four fucking children. Four. Did y'all know I had four fucking kids? How the fuck did that happen? I didn't even want any damned kids. If you get nothing from this intoxicated post, please tell your daughters not to let charming mother fuckers talk them into shit they never wanted to do.

Anyway, I'm getting white boy wasted (sorry, it's hard to distinguish what's racist and what's not when you're drunk. I get it now, Charlie Sheen) all by my fucking self because my "husband" decided that it would be more fun for him to get wasted with his friends/brothers/all the cops in any major city EVER than to commiserate with his wife at home over the fact that BOTH of our teenagers are failing classes. Fuck'em. Fuck him. Fuck all their asses.

Okay, I'll admit I'm a borderline alki, but before 8:30 PM (bedtime for my youngest two), I'm fucking Supermom. I don't even think about Jose (Cuervo) before then because that's just how fucking awesome a mom I am. I delay my sorrow drowning personal gratification to make sure my kids are taken care of. If that's not supermom, I don't know what is.

I started this blog because I was PMSing and didn't feel like fucking being nice and shit like I do on my other blog. That was the goddamn point. So, tonight is a bad night. It's a PMS night. It's a PMDD night. Which is why I needed the alcohol. Truth be told, it started last night, but that's neither here nor there.

I can't really remember what the point is, exactly. That's the price you pay after your fifth lemon drop, but I DO fucking remember that my husband is an asshole. That's right. I said it! You're an asshole, sweetheart.

He is the kind of person that likes to have the whole world thinking that everything is peachy when, in fact, it's quite shitty. That's why I'm posting this. Why the fuck should I be the only pissed off bitch in this relationship tonight? Rut roh, Shaggy! The world now knows that you're not perfect. How will you ever survive?

You know? I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck than I do right now. Maybe you'll still love my psycho ass tomorrow, maybe you won't. Right now, guess what?

I don't give a fuck.

What's that I spy? An empty shot glass? That's not right.

See ya when I see ya!

Half-Assed Weekend Post: Ben Gay and Milkshakes, Mmm Mmm Good

Has this ever happened to you?

You're walking down a city street/country road/Indian burial ground, minding your own business. It's a bright, sunny day, so there is a little pep in your step. Naturally, if you're boobylicious like me, pep makes your girls bounce. And wiggle. And dance. And otherwise just cause a goddamn scene. A dirty old man notices the ensuing commotion ten inches below your chin and proceeds to make a lame yet somehow lewd remark about your ample bosom like, "Got milk?" I think that's my least favorite of all the big tit jokes. I like to respond with, "Got a surgeon to remove my foot from your ass?" or "Got a baby carrot to hold next to your dick so it will look huge by comparison?" I'm no good at snappy comebacks. I'm too wordy for that. Who'da thunk?

I also hate it when they burst into a rousing chorus of "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..." This one I can't stand because I'm not entirely sure she's talking about boobs in that song. I shudder to think what she is talking about. Whatever it is that that bitch is charging people for, I'm damn sure not teaching it to some old dude.

But I digress.

So you're walking down the street, having a nice day when you're verbally assaulted by Jesus' uncle. You are appalled that this ancient ass man has the fucking nerve to think that he has a chance with you. What nimrod forgot to take Grandpa back to Shady Pines? Who in the hell left the gate open? And furthermore, what in the name of Ben Gay and support hose would make him think that I would even visualize his wrinkled, flaccid body let alone allow him to rest his glassy, jaundiced eyes on mine? Why, he has to be twice my age! At least! He's gotta be, what, 42? 43? And I'm only...

38

Oh.

Never mind.

Snobby bitch tantrum over. Pick your pride and your youth up off the ground. Dust them off. Dammit! They've got old all over them. This shit'll never come out.

A similar thing happened to me last year. I was being mauled by a guy who I mistook for a dirty old man.  Oh, that asshole was dirty all right, but upon closer inspection I realized that he couldn't have been that much older than me.

You know you're getting old when the dirty old men are the same age as you.

That's some bullshit right there.

When did you realize you were getting old(er)? If you're under 30, a simple I-could-only-hope-to-rock-half-as-hard-as-you-Mrs-Hyde-when-I'm-a-sexy-38-year-old-bombshell will suffice.

Dear Mrs Hyde: If I'm Not Coming, I'm Going

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Hold On Just a Little While Longer

Okay...I get it now. Once I survive having raised teenagers while they simultaneously survive having not been killed by a rabid bitch they call mom, my fairy godmother will appear to grant my wildest dreams and wishes.

My home will be transformed into a majestic oasis of beauty and light. There will be bathrooms that smell of early Spring raindrops, Scotch-guarded walls, floors so sanitary that not only can you eat off them, but you will eat off them. There will be kick-ass pixies who'll make sure that everything stays immaculate because if they see so much as a dirty sock on the floor, they'll zap your ass to kingdom come.

Angels will sing me to sleep at night and larks will serenade me in the morning. The sun will kiss my cheek and say, "Arise, precious queen of Hyde. Behold your reward for a job well done."

And there will be...




Silence.

And all will be right with the world.

Forever and ever.

Let the church say, "Aaaaaamen."

Dear Whiny Little Girl

Yesterday I received my first hate mail. Hot damn! I have arrived! You're not anybody in this blorld (blog world) if no one hates you.

I did a post about an episode of My Strange Addiction on TLC where the woman was addicted to makeup. I found it hilarious and, indeed strange. Her daughter did not. I didn't give a shit. I still don't, but because she's just a young bitch girl, I feel the need to address her concerns. Blame it on my maternal instincts.

Here is the comment from IAMASADBITCH with some red-pen corrections from yours truly:



"okay mrs hyde!
apparently you need a job and/ or a new hobby because its (it's) obvious you have neither when you can sit here all day long on the computer & waste your time, write an entire article about my beautiful mother when you don't even no (the word you're looking for is 'know') her! its (it's) apparent your (you're) unhappy with yourself for you to sit there and write all these negative things about other people...my advice grow up, get a life & grow some class (I don't think class can be grown, but you wouldn't know that, having none yourself) you look & sound like a complete dirtbag with your trashy mouth! did you ever think for 2 seconds my mother got paid to do this show?! (Of course she did. I never said she was an idiot, I said she was crazy) & if you ask me, you could definatly (definitely) use just as much make up as shes (she's) wearing (Um, no thanks. Deep lines and wrinkles don't appeal to me)!! misery loves company thats probly (that's probably) why you sit on the computer (I don't actually sit on the computer. That would make it difficult to type) all day long for people to agree with your ridiculous nonscence (nonsense), your (you're) sad & i feel sorry for you!

p.s...whatever you have to say about me or my mother will never phase either one of us considering where (we're) happy with ourselves & who we are.. so have fun sitting your ass online all day long making fun out of other people...&& GOD BLESS u sad bitch (Isn't it blasphemous to say 'God' and 'bitch' in the same sentence? So Christian-like...I really believe she's sending blessings my way)! :) <3"

First, I'd like to point out that when a little, red squiggly line appears under a word you've typed, it means the word is misspelled. 
Because you're a child, I won't give you the standard ass whupping usually reserved for full-fledged adults. That would be like arguing with a toddler which, for all intents and purposes, you are.

Do you know what's really sad, IAMASADBITCH? That you actually believed that your mother could go on television, on a nationally broadcast reality show looking like the poltergeist clown and not have people laugh at her. You're not angry with me, honey. You're angry because you couldn't talk your mom out of doing something so ridiculously moronic, it has people begging for more episodes of Jersey Shore. With all the drug addiction and alcoholism and sex and food addictions out there, your mother is addicted to makeup? How the fuck is that not hilarious? Your mother, I'm sure, was well aware of the reactions people would have as we watched her recount all the effort she goes to just to make sure her makeup has staying power and is super intense at all times. It was a blog post waiting to happen, really. It was a stand-up comedian's dream. I wonder if Jay Leno received hate mail from you as well? No? You've gotta respect Maureen's hustle, though. If I, like she, had no job and spent all my money buying makeup in lieu of paying bills and someone offered me money to have my bullshit aired, I'd have to at least consider it. But also, I'd have enough sense to realize that many, many people would call me on said bullshit.

Calling me a bitch is redundant. I know I'm a bitch and so does everyone who reads my blog. It's in the blog title, in case you had too much makeup in your eyes to read it. This is my blog. I can say what the hell I want about whomever I choose. If you didn't like it, creating a bogus account and attempting to insult my readers and me was the wrong way to go. I guess they didn't teach you at Backwoods High that we live in a free country. Freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to blog about dumbasses at will.

I can appreciate your need to defend your mother. Even though mine was not the best, I was fiercely protective of her, so I get it. It's also very easy to be a badass in cyberspace. But, sweetie, anyone who puts their business on television for the whole world to see is fair game. Just ask celebrities. Everyone with the ability to type, speak, and/or aim a camera makes it a point to be all in their personal lives because once you let the public into your life, it's no longer personal. Your mother wanted her fifteen minutes of fame. She got it. If that has caused you pain, I suggest you take it up with her.

Clearly, you were so busy being offended and embarrassed that you missed my point. My point was that the term "addiction" is grossly overused. I've been guilty of it myself from time to time. People claim to be addicted to Farmville, to reality TV, to carbs, to sniffing cat shit. I don't really care, but it's not addiction. Nobody is addicted to makeup. Please. I can't even wrap my brain around how stupid an idea that is.

I'm not going to address your insults because they're juvenile and they prove just how young and naive and insecure you are. You can save your mean girl act for someone else because tantrums don't bother me. Why don't you go kick a puppy or something? Don't worry, you won't always be this way. You will grow up (hopefully) and you will be able to discern the productive from the counterproductive. I will address the statement you made about how happy you and your mother are with yourselves. You stated that you would not be phased by anything I said. Ah...you're showing your hand, little girl. I'd say you're quite phased, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. I don't know anything about you aside from your being a coward, but it is obvious that your mother is not happy with herself. If she were, she would not believe that the only way she can be beautiful is to hide herself behind all that makeup. I hope she didn't pass that lesson on to you. As mothers, we try our best not to pass our insecurities on to our children, but our best efforts are not always enough.

I feel sorry for the both of you and don't think that your barely coherent rant didn't give me something to think about. When you see  people on TV, it's easy to forget that they are real people with real problems. They are set apart from you because you don't know them personally. And if they're doing something that you deem ridiculous, well, then they get what they deserve, right? I never thought of her as a real person until your anonymous comment on my blog. If someone had caused my daughter as much pain as my post has obviously caused you, I would be very upset and probably just as irrational. I did not intend to hurt your feelings, didn't even know you existed, but this is not a hole that was dug by me. You're angry with the wrong woman.

Do yourself a favor and stop trolling the internet looking to see who is bashing your mother. Instead, find her a good shrink. That is, if she actually does believe that she's addicted to makeup, which is probably not the case. It's not going to get any better. I doubt there is someone out there going, "I'm addicted to green eyeliner, too! Let's form a support group!" There is a chance, though, and if I find them, I will definitely send them your way. You can rest assured that neither you nor your mom will get anymore attention from me. Stop trying to stretch your fifteen minutes into a half an hour at my expense.

And please inform your mother that black eyeliner is equally dramatic and far less scary.


Every time I set out to rip someone a new one, I start to do that whole mom thing that pisses me off. Oh, well, I'll bring the bitch back tomorrow. Do you guys have any advice for our young visitor? She may never read it, but somehow, I think she'll be back. Remember when you were nineteen and you cared about what other people were saying about you?

BTW, so sorry about the clowns, my friends. I promise to give you plenty of warning next time.

It Won't Kill You to be Normal

My ass hurts.

Ouch.

I'm sure all you perverts are coming up with countless scenarios as to why that is. Could I have given hubby an extra special valentine's day present?  Hell no. Exit only, please.

Could I have been taking horseback riding lessons? Yes, but not recently.

My ass hurts because people, in general, are a pain in my ass. Not just my kids and people I know, either. People from all over the world, all walks of life, people of all races and genders and religions and body mass indices get on my fucking nerves.

I know you're asking yourself, because you'd better not dare ask me, is it all those people or is it Mrs. Hyde? It stands to reason that if you have a problem between an entire group of people and one lone person, that the problem would lie with the [delusional] individual. It seems highly unlikely that the issue would be hundreds upon hundreds of other people instead of just the one little old me.

Trust me, it's them.

I even have a special name for them. I call them...dumbasses. Speaking of dumbasses, The Dumbass of the Week for the week ending 2/12 was Gangster Church. Google New Rising Missionary Baptist Church and tell them of the high honor they have achieved for themselves over at ABCM.

The dumbass about whom I'd like to bitch today is Maureen.

Maureen is a woman I saw on the TV show My Strange Addiction. Maureen is a fifty-something (don't quote me) woman who is addicted to makeup. More specifically, she is addicted to green eyeliner. Maureen, my friends, is a dumbass.

As I attempted to catch up on  my Tivo'd episodes of this show on TLC, I watched her talk about how severe her addiction to makeup really is. She spends four hours putting on makeup everyday. The only time her face goes unpainted is when she showers in the morning, which means that she sleeps in full fucking makeup. She visited a tattoo artist to see about having green eyeliner permanently tattooed to her eyelids. Green. Eyeliner. I shit you not. Even I can't make this stuff up. The tattoo artist was confused as to why a sane person would want permanent green eyeliner. She said to Maureen, "Bitch, if you wear a blue top one day, you're going to look real fucking stupid with permanent green eyeliner around your tired ass eyes." I'm paraphrasing, of course. Maureen replied, "I wear green eyeliner everyday no matter what color I have on." The tattoo artist was speechless. I wasn't. But then, she couldn't hear me screaming at her through the TV.

Apparently, somebody forgot to tell this bitch that she is FIFTY. Oh, and that she looks like the Poltergeist clown.


I realize that I am eating this voyeuristic crap up like a lard ass at a buffet...or...me...at a buffet, but since when does every dumbass thing that dumbass people like to hitch their dumbass brains to qualify as an addiction?

That bitch is not addicted to makeup.

That bitch is fucking crazy.

She got it in her head that if she never takes that ugly makeup off, she can, somehow, hold on to the way she looked in 1969 when that shit was in style. Question: was it ever in style? And if so, why? Her skin looks so leathery that if she opens her mouth in public, someone might mistake her head for an overnight bag. I'd shut the hell up if I were her.

If she wants to know about addiction, I'll tell her about the time my mother left an eight-year-old me and my four younger siblings at home alone for three days while she satisfied her heroine jones. That's addiction. Or the time the doctor told my father that if he didn't stop drinking, the corrosion of his liver and pancreas was going to kill him, yet my dad kept drinking. That's addiction. Makeup is not a fucking addiction. An obsession, maybe. Making your face look like a handbag, for sure. But an addiction? Fuck no.

Wash your face, get over the idea that the Six Million Dollar Man is going to leave the Bionic Woman for you,  and give your poor skin a rest, lady.

The sad part is, aside from all the damage she's done to her skin, she's actually pretty without all that goop. She looks about ten years younger than she does with it on. She looks normal.

Why the fuck does the whole world hate normal?

Handyman Sucks Donkey Balls: Film at Eleven

This is part two of the story I started yesterday. Click here if you've been avoiding my blog and need to catch up. I'm appalled, but I'll wait for you to come back.

Now...

The back door had been missing a screen door since Inspector Dickwad (thanks, Kara!) made me remove it while he stood there and watched. I think he may have even gotten off on watching me sweat and struggle while he stood his geeky ass there offering no help whatsoever. Lanky bastard. We knew we needed a new one, but with now four kids and one income, it just wasn't a priority.

Last year, the pipe under the kitchen sink started leaking. I asked my Facebook friends in a status update if they knew a good handyman. A friend recommended a guy that we grew up with; his grandfather was the pastor of our church. I remembered that he used to do handy work when we were younger and he had even replaced a lock for me once, so I called him and we made arrangements and blah blah blah. He repaired the leaky pipe, no problem, so I asked if he would look at the door and give me an estimate. For $205, he would buy the screen door, install it, paint the back door (which was peeling from years of weather exposure), and change the lock. Great! Small price to pay for all that quality work, right? 

Oh, how wrong I was. This is that rare glimpse of my being taken advantage of that I promised you yesterday. Is your printer on?

I gave him a check for the full amount because, foolishly, I trusted this pastor's grandson that I had known for 20 years. I remember asking him, "Don't you have to measure the door frame?" To which he replied, "I already did." That was quick, I thought. Boy, does he work fast. He was supposed to come back in three days, which would give him time to order the door, if necessary, and get all the supplies. That would have been Thursday. 

Thursday came and went. He didn't even call. I called and left a very, um, firm message on his voicemail. He called about an hour later apologizing that he was still at work and he had lost track of time, and asked if he could come the next day. 

"Hell, no you can't come tomorrow. I have shit to do that I was supposed to do today that I didn't do because your high yellow ass was supposed to be here installing my fucking door!" Clearly, I didn't give a rat's ass that I knew this guy from church.

More apologies as he attempted to calm me down. I could have let him come on Friday. I really didn't have anything to do, but I couldn't let him monopolize my time. It was the principle, you see. We decided he would come on Monday at 9 AM. By 10:30 on Monday, when he still hadn't showed or called, I was on the verge of a killing spree. I called him again. He was on his way to Home Depot at that very moment TO SEE IF THEY HAD THE DOOR I NEEDED and then he was coming straight to my house. And by the way, I still owed him $45 because he had forgotten to include the price of the paint and the lock. I'm convinced that I heard a vessel pop in my head, but considering I'm still alive and the left half of my body still functions properly, maybe it was my imagination. I recalculated everything, realized that he had forgotten to include those things in his price and told him to just come the hell on because it was going to be really difficult for him to walk with my foot in his ass if he didn't.

Finally, he showed up, installed the door, replaced the lock, but couldn't paint the door because he had forgotten to bring the paint. He'd left it at home, but he promised that he'd come back on Wednesday to finish the job. I was so happy to finally have had my door installed that I didn't really give a shit at that point. Just get the fuck outta my house before I let my husband do to you what he's been wanting to for two weeks now. I gave him $45 cash this time because somewhere in the back of mind, I still felt like I could trust him. I know, fucking stupid. And this was just last year, so I can't blame youth.

Of course, he didn't show up on Wednesday and, of course, he didn't call. I didn't call him this time because I wanted to see if he would even bother to call me and offer an explanation. He never called. It's been almost a year and I still haven't gotten a phone call from him. I sent my "friend" who'd recommended him a message on FB, telling her that he had essentially taken my money and not done the work he was paid for. She said, "I know! He did the same thing to me!" 

What?! Well, why the fuck did she recommend him to me? I don't get it. Are they trying to drive me to drink? 'Cause everybody knows I'm only three shots of Cuervo away from alcoholism. It's a very delicate situation over here.

As you might imagine, if someone takes advantage of my good heart and kind nature, I don't take it too well. I've imagined many diabolical things that I would like to have done to him. I thought of superimposing an image of his head onto the body of a guy 'taking one up the ass' and mailing it to his wife. Thankfully, I still have at least two brain cells left to rub together (also, I don't know how to do that shit), so if he has been harmed in anyway, I had nothing to do with it. 

I swear. 

Turns out the screen door was too small for the frame and he forced it in there with blocks of wood. There are still gaps around the screen, so if you leave the inside door open, flies will find their way into my kitchen while I'm trying to decorate one of my beautiful cakes.

This is a Valentine's cake I did last year for a friend.

There is a big gap around the lock where he cut the wrong sized hole for it. And the pipe under the sink? Still leaky. 

Hubby wants to stuff his head into that gap around the lock. I can't let him do that because he's the only one working. If he goes to jail, we'll starve. 

And hooking ain't what it used to be.

Do you have any home improvement nightmares? Please share. I know I'm not the only (temporary) dumbass.

News at Six: Clean, Safe Housing Not Sufficient for Foster Children

I'm too nice for my own good. You can put your coffee back in your nose; I'm serious. I know I'm a judgmental bitch on this blog, but that's just to get all the bullshit out of my head in order to function in the real world. Most of the time, okay 65% of the time (that's more often than not), I'm a pretty rational, compassionate, genuinely nice person. I may show that side of me to you sometime, but if you need a Mrs. Nice Hyde fix right now, go here.

A couple weeks ago, Bruce of Dreamodeling! wrote a post about finding the right remodeler. His post brought up some very bad memories for me about home improvement jobs gone horribly wrong. This is a rare glimpse of Mrs. Hyde being taken advantage of and being powerless to change it. You might want to print this one out.



Initially this was going to be one post, but it became too long as I tend to ramble. Who wants to read a long ass post on one blog when they've got 60 other blogs that they follow? So, I've divided it into two separate posts, one that you get today, and another that you'll get tomorrow. I'm a very considerate bitch.

A few years ago before we adopted the [teenage] girl, hubby and I jumped through hoops to get certified as foster parents. We had to get our cat licensed, take six weeks of parenting classes, get background checks and fingerprinted, get our home inspected by both the fire and health inspectors. All understandable, of course; health and safety issues and all. We had to have a separate bedroom for her. Okay...what the fuck? This was a child that was coming from a group home. There she shared a room with four other girls, but in my house, she had to have her own room. Whatever, ass clowns.

Our whole house had to be rearranged. The six-year-old girl had to move in with the seven-year-old boy, the twelve-year-old boy moved into the basement, and hubby had to give up the mancave. The state didn't care where my kids slept as long as the girl was comfortable and safe. I didn't think that was fair to anybody because that would have her moving into a home where all the kids (and one adult) already resented her for having to give up their rooms. I damn near killed myself with the fumes of some off-brand WD-40 trying to clean crayon marks off the wall in her new room. We also had to get rid of the bunk beds that our younger kids slept in. Are you kidding me? The girl was 13, a big 13. Not only was she big enough to refrain from falling off a bunk, but she wasn't going to be sleeping in it. She wasn't even going to be in the same room with it.

I hope they don't think I did that shit. Fuck no. I just closed the door when the social worker came to inspect. She asked, pointing at the closed bedroom door that I stood blocking, "Is that where your kids sleep?" I smiled and said, "Yes." Then I gave her my don't-even-think-about-it look. She didn't even think about it. That bitch might have had severe gingivitis, but she wasn't stupid.

Anyway, the health inspector came out and ripped our house to shreds. It just wasn't good enough for their precious foster child. Did these people forget that this child was technically homeless? And they're saying that my clean, safe, warm home was not good enough for her? In our kitchen, some of the tiles had fallen off the wall. We live in an old house with almost all of the original fixtures, so that style/brand of tile is not even manufactured anymore. Even so, with all the money we had to pay for inspections and such (yes, we had to pay for all that shit), we just didn't have the money to have it repaired.

He failed us because of the kitchen tiles. To this day, I still don't see how that is a health issue. When he came back months later, he approved the kitchen wall, but was about to fail us again for the screen door in the back of the house. He said he must have missed it the last time. It was pretty banged up, but damn. That mother fucker was starting to piss me off! I asked him if I just removed the screen door, would that be sufficient enough to pass his ridiculous inspection. His reply, "Yeah, I guess." I took it off while he stood his dumb ass there and watched.

There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of foster children waiting to be placed in safe, loving homes. Meanwhile good people who would give those children what they need are being subjected to bullshit. I understand that there are some people who are mean to these children and who only do it for the money. But it was clear to anyone with half a brain that we weren't those people. The hubs is a cop, as I've mentioned before and I am a stay-at-home mom. We have three (now four) children who are thriving and healthy and happy. They know this because they interviewed our children and scrutinized their school and medical records. Not only that, but we weren't trying to foster multiple children, just this child. So no, we weren't in it for the money. Besides, if they think that little monthly stipend is enough to raise a child, they are sorely mistaken. And just plain dumb as fuck.

This experience has succeeded in achieving one major thing: we will never do foster care again. It's sad that they are pushing good people away because there are so many children that still need homes. But that's it for me. I've saved one child, which is more than lots of other people can say.

She'll be 18 in five months, but she still has two years of high school to go. She was moved around in foster care so much because of her anger issues, that she fell behind in school. It's a shame because that girl is smart as a whip.

I was so looking forward to my kids moving the hell outta my house once they had turned 18.

Damn.

I just depressed myself.

I'll be back with part two, Handyman Sucks Donkey Balls, tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm going to replenish my vodka stash and cry about how half my life is gone and I have yet to do anything with it.

It's five o'clock somewhere, right?

Random Acts of Dumbassness Revisited

Did you see it? Look to your left. How about now? Not that, silly. I'm talking about my Studio Thirty Plus 2011 Boomerang Award for Best Mommy Blog! Yay me! I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you who voted for me. I don't care if you weren't actually familiar with my blog at the time, but only voted because you liked the name A Bitch Called Mom. A vote is a vote. Besides, I did the same thing with the categories where I didn't recognize any of the blogs. This confirms my suspicions that I am the best thing since butter pecan ice cream. I knew it.

In case you missed it, here it is again.

Isn't she purty?

I think is says something that the Best Mommy Blog title went to a blog that bitches about motherhood (and countless other things).  I think women are grateful that I am not ashamed that, while I adore my children, motherhood can be a bitch. A big, sexy bitch at that.

While I was dicking around otherwise occupied this week, I also received this award from Chief a.k.a. Dad over at Unsound Reasoning. I usually don't bother with all that a.k.a. crap, but apparently, some of you were uncomfortable calling him Dad, so he changed his moniker for his loyal readers. You're lucky it was him and not me because if my blog name was Pussy Willow and my readers had a problem calling me 'Pussy', then that would just be your fucking problem, wouldn't it? Don't worry, Chief, you'll always be my daddy Dad to me. ;)


Hannah at Erratic Questions About a Simple Life gave me this one

The Stylish Blogger Award. This is the third time I've received this award and I just have one question: how do you people know I'm stylish? Most of you have only seen the one picture of me, and in that pic I just so happen to be dressed up (it was my 20th high school reunion. More on that at a later date). I really don't care, award whore that I am, I was just wondering.

Thank you, lady and gentleman, for your kind words and blog love. I eat this shit up like king crab legs and melted butter. It's fucking orgasmic. It's also apparent to me that every time I ignore you guys for a few days, you shower me with awards to gain my attention. So to keep our dysfunctional relationship going, I shall continue to abuse you.

A few months back, I attempted to create a regular weekly series called Random Acts of Dumbassness. In this series, I would comb the internet for stupidity, and there is stupidity a-fucking-plenty on there, post my faves, and have my readers vote on the best one, dubbed Dumbass of the Week. That series never had a chance to get to get off the ground because the following week, my friend was killed over a parking space. I plunged into an abyss of sadness and anger for awhile, and by the time I emerged, I'd forgotten all about it.

Well, it's back! I couldn't just let all that stupidity go un-bitched about. I don't think it will be a weekly occurrence, but I will pull it out and dust it off for you occasionally. I meant that in the dirtiest way possible.

Click this link to see our first contestant, Ass to Mouth Disease. Sue me, okay. I couldn't figure out how to embed the picture into this post, so I just provided a link. What? The website wouldn't let me copy and paste, which is pretty much all I know how to do. How stupid or stoned do you have to be to brush your teeth with Preparation H? When his mouth starts to smell like itchy, burning ass, I'm sure he'll learn his lesson and read the label next time, ten shots of tequila or not.

Our second contestant is Cancer Head:

God didn't make crack heads for our amusement, people.

This has got to be one of those things where they pay homeless people to do stupid shit and then post it on the net. I'll bet he's got one up his ass, too. Why the hell not? It's no worse than this.

Next, we have Boy-Stuffed Shark:

I wonder what's eating little Timmy?

Sadly, this was the last time Timmy was ever seen alive. Let's bow our heads in a moment of silence and pray that the rest of his siblings don't make the mistake of taunting a hungry shark. Seriously, he couldn't be sending a bigger dinner invitation to the shark if he jumped into the shark's mouth himself. BTW, that would have been his next trick...had he survived.

And finally our last contestant and my personal fave, Gangster Church:

That little window of text on the pic? I didn't do that. You know I'm tech challenged.

If you're not a member of this church, you ain't shit. And not only are you not shit, they won't hesitate to do a drive by on your punk ass or straight jack you for your papers if they catch yo ass in the streets. I want to know who's idea this was. And I want to know who approved of it. And I want to know who sold the shirts at the church bazaar. And I want to know how many of said members thought it was a good idea to not only buy one, but also wear it proudly outside the four walls of their bedrooms. I guess it's true that sheep will follow you anywhere you lead them. Can you imagine what one of their Sunday services looks like? I can see it now...a 400 pound bouncer at the door to keep out the riffraff,  he doesn't speak a word, but if you get out of hand, he slowly opens his blazer to reveal the Glock that's strapped to his waist. Video ho attire and colorful weaves are the norm. Instead of playing hymns as they pass the collection plate, they play songs like Get Money by Junior Mafia. The ushers crip walk down the aisle and little old ladies throw their hands in the air and praise the Lord like they just don't care as the choir sings  In Da Club by 50 Cent. After all, God is in da club, right? The pastor comes out looking like an unholy cross between Dolemite and the pope. He is lavished with praise and amens as he informs the congregation that the deacons will be pimp-slapping all the non-tithers. 

Sorry for rambling on that one. I'm just trying to wrap my head around a church that openly condones stupidity in the name of God.

Cast your votes in the comments below. If you don't cast a vote for Dumbass of the Week, you ain't shit!