I Shot the Fashion Police. But I Did Not Kill the Under-Paid Child Who Sews My Clothes.

You can't see in the photo, but the crotch of these pjs is completely ripped out and I'm wearing Hello Kitty skull leggings underneath. Total win.

I HATE being cold. It sucks. Maybe if I lived someplace that provided snow-fall on a regular basis it would be different. Because pretty things go a long way in my book and it’s hard to top a fresh, untouched snowfall.

Unfortunately, I reside in the bitter bible belt. Where snow too closely resembles semen. Which is totally prohibited. So God just doles out rainfall instead of snowflakes. It’s common knowledge that Christians dig golden showers*. And because God doesn’t always think things through to the finish**, all we end up with is vicious ice storms.

I’ve officially given up this winter. No more stylish coats or prancing around campus in heeled boots. I’m staying at home and refusing to get dressed in anything that doesn’t significantly contribute to my warmth.

Because it’s all about me.

The rest of you frozen bastards have my full sympathy as you carry out your daily lives. I do pity you for not having the foresight to get yourself knocked up at a tender young age. My iron-clad line of “staying home to spend quality time with the children” is simply a nice way of saying, “Fuck you all. I have the option of spending my days at home dressed like a bum and I’m going to take full adantage of it”.

Suckers.  

* See: The Virgin Mary story. No funky white stuff.

** See: 1. Ex-boyfriends 2. My life story 3. The Sweet-Valley High book series

I WILL NOT SCREAM OBSCENE WORDS (In Public)… (I Will Continue In The Privacy of My Own Home Obviously)

I love how some things transcend cultral differences and just lie inherent in all people. Like smiling. Or basic emotions. Or that moment you’re at a loud party and the room suddenly goes quiet just as you are screaming something innappropriate. 

That so has to be a universal phenomenon…!! 

Unless you’re Canadian. Everything flies in the Great North. That’s why people like Celine Dion, Chris Haney and Scott Abbott*, and all the dudes from Nickleback have been allowed to thrive. There is just no sense of right and wrong there. If a moral line exsisted in Canada it wouldn’t just be occassionally crossed. That line would be sodomized and held in a kinky postion until it curled itself into a safe little circle. But I digress…

Those awkward moments in a suddenly silent room…. 

As with many things in my life, I can’t help but feel I experience a freakishly abnormal amount of cringe-worthy shit. Like there was a mix-up at the People Factory in the Sky (you know, like where we all come from?)…. and there are rotund dwarfs that dole out various situations in little scoops and dollops (resulting in situations known to average folk as – fate, coiencidence, karma, bad luck, good luck – and all of those other wonder terms we use to explain things). But that’s all just science fiction we made up to explain for the fact that those ofish little men in the sky are fucking life up for people.

 I’m pretty sure they’ve been dealing with substance abuse problems for centuries. That’s why crappy lives are not evenly distributed across the board like they’re supposed to be. The cracked-out, sky men are screwing the whole system up. I’m calling for a mandatory NA meeting in heaven so they can get their shit together.

Because burnt-out, sky-dwarf junkies are the only explaination I can come up with for the outlandish amount of humiliating experiences I get myself into…

The list is long…

 Things like having a piece of basil the size of Kanye West’s ego stuck between your front teeth. And no one tells you. So you go to a job interview with it unknowly bitch-slapping you in the face like the imbecil you are every time you smile. 

Unintentionally setting off a fire alarm in the Smithsonian.

Walking in the door after a date, only to realize your zipper has been down for God-knows-how-long. Then noticing (as you’re ripping the bastard dennim from your body) that you are wearing panties so hideous your eccentric aunt wouldn’t even wear them.

Drinking way too much iced tea at a political rally… and then peeing on a sidewalk in front of the mayor. All because your friend told you a dead baby joke that made you laugh so hard you lost bladder control.

I can’t even recount the number of times I’ve stuck not only my foot in my mouth,  but my leg- all the way up to my perky vagina. (That bitch seems to stay oblivious to the wretched situations we find ourselves in. I can only attribute this to her passion for screwdrivers and desire to remain in the dark).

For example, a few weeks ago at a family dinner. I was talking to my 87 year old grandmother (who is the definition of traditions and lady-like manners) above the den of thirty family members screaming over each other. As I tried to convince her that this is the PRIME time to hit the dating scence up, the noise volume in the room reached a record-smashing level. She said she was done with men.

So naturally, the exact moment that I screamed, “Grandmother- YOU SHOULD TOTALLY BE A LESBIAN AND HIT IT WITH SOME HOT OLD CHICKS!!!”, was the precise moment of a room-wide lull.

Every single eyeball swiveled towards me.

Then I exploded in a massive cloud of sulfurish smoke.

Not really. But that would have only been fitting had it actually occured. Instead I was resigned to stand there and listen to numerous biblical lectures on homosexuality from my uber-godly cousin.

I have a feeling that all I’m going to get for Christmas is a do-it-yourself surgery kit with all the gear I will need to sew my mouth shut.

* The inventors of Trival Pursuit. The board game 77% responsible for public recognition amoung my family and friends of what an idiot I am.

You Know in Retro Rome Tigers Used To Eat Christians? What Happened To This Fad and How Can We Bring it Back?!?

Do you ever have the feeling that the authors of the bible had access to far more superior drugs than we do today?

Seriously!?!

In between the kids going to church every Sunday morning, attending a children’s program at church on a fairly regular basis on Sunday nights, and preschool at another church nursery once a week- my house is beginning to represent a Holy Rollers Convention.

And as if I wasn’t kicking myself enough about my all the lies I already tell them… Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, the Raven-Mocker(What? You don’t threaten your offspring with graphic, revamped tales from Cherokee mythology about death??)… This whole delve into the ins and outs of Christianity is almost too much for me.

Like every time Pie forces me to recount the story of Noah’s Ark I feel this sinister desire to slip in the fact that Noah was way into bestiality. And those cute little pigmy pigs we saw at the zoo the other day? Yeah, Pie. Those were some of Noah’s offspring. That’s why hogs are so aggressive. They remember their unwilling porking of biblical proportions and carry that with them in their DNA.

Oh, Adam and Eve? Sorry to squish the dream so young darling… But obviously Adam’s cock wasn’t big enough to satisfy Eve and she had to find some kinky action else where. Sticking a swishy snake tail into her angelic love nest was the kiss of death for all us women. Because now we’re destined to a life-time as being written off as ruthless bitches. When actually we’re just wise and Eve was simply a pioneer of smart decisions and early dildos. You know that snake was the inspiration for the Snake of Paradise? Let me get an ‘AMEN EVE!!’…!!

If I get a call from the school regarding my child informing them that Mary Mag. was the original “Other Woman” and that Jesus turning water into wine was his only redeeming trait I may be forced to move to another state. Because if my mother ever catches wind of the tiny bits of reality I slip into the bible lessons in my house I’ll probably be crucified. Upside-down of course.

Let’s just hope she never discovers that the miniature Psalms bible that Korbo received at his Baby Dedication is now involved in obscene acts in the bottom of my purse as it doubles for the kid’s on-the-go coloring book.

Alcoholics Should Never Give Each Other Advice or Attempt to be Rational

I have a feeling that most sibling advice conversations don’t follow the same patterns as mine do. Which is probably why I so rarely call my brother for advice. But desperate times call for desperate measures and trying to make a life-altering choice requires input. Unfortunately, my list of trusted confidantes I could talk to was limited to Sookie-Cat or my bro. I may have been better off speaking to the kitten…

T: This is a big decision. You should probably be sober for at least a week before making it.

Me: But you basically just struggled with the EXACT same situation and I know what a down-in-the-gutter alcoholic you are!!

T: Yeah, but I had a few drunk years to think everything over. That’s basically the equivalent to one week of sober thinking.

Somehow I have a feeling I’ll be wrestling with this mental monster for awhile…

The Upside Down Bean Battle

I love the bits of randomness I hear throughout my day. The kids and I were playing outside. Correction. The kids were playing outside. I was hauling BD’s entire drum set and 200 deceptively heavy cymbals from the van to the garage. As I stepped over the bean pile Korbo was attempting to pour his bowl of beans onto Pie’s princess plate (which was pristinly arranged with five beans). She threw her body across the plate and screamed, “NOOOOO!! Your little white flowers can’t mix with my chocolate bunnies!!!!”

Necrophilia is the New Black

I love that BD listens to my random conversations and always provides feed-back no matter what the subject matter. Like when I paused ESPN to ask him about necrophilia earlier.

Me: If you were going to have sex with a dead person, do you think it would be more enjoyable being a chick riding a man-corpse or a guy fucking a  cadaverous woman?

We discussed the various aspects of how much lube a man would have to use since, obviously, dead girls aren’t juicy. Compared a rigor-mortified cock (yeah, I’m betting that’s the first time you’ve heard that phrase today) to a refrigerator-chilled glass dildo. Discussed angles and positions when one person isn’t moving. Ultimately, we agreed that female necros have a leg up (pun intended) in the physical pleasure department over their male counterparts.

See? Not all deep marital conversations revolve around boring stuff.

And because I like to freak him out as much as possible. Just before I pushed play on the remote, I leaned over to whisper in his ear, “I’m really glad we had this conversation. Now, to keep in the festive sprit of the season, on Halloween night I’m going to dress you up like a homicide victim and you’re going to pretend to be a corpse while I perform all kinds of sinful acts on your lifeless body”.

Unfortunately for BD this was one of my more mild conversations of the day. He totally hearts me and shit.

Mama Didn’t Say There’d Be Days Like This: If She Had, I Would Have Ripped My Uterus Out to Prevent Them

Maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit. I would have only ripped my baby-making parts out if she’d warned me and neglected to tell me that their would be little happy pills out there so I’d be able to cope with a smile. My mom is one of those all-natural types though, so I doubt she would have mentioned prescriptions. It’s probably a good thing she sugar-coated what motherhood would be like.

The day kicked off with a flat tire on the van*. That left the Green Meanie for BD to drive to work. The poor, little Echo still has a broken window on it. Toyota bastards have discontinued making the windows (along with the cars) and have forced me to engage in a weird and terrifying quest into the salvage yard world.

No van meant no joy-riding for the kiddos and I. Our Monday morning tradition of busting up neighborhood swing sets and harassing bums while we drive past was out of the question. Luckily, I’m super resourceful and also happen to be an awful cook.

Ten bags of dry beans fill up the kids Sand&Water table really nicely.

That part of the morning was actually really chill. Besides being beany, there were tricycle races, a close examination of the flat tire**, hopscotch, and other general fun. And by general fun, I mean I pulled weeds and plowed into the garden (which has been masquerading as a forest for months) with a huge pair of shears. Then I told the kids it was a game and tricked them into dragging branches to the curb.

Because if there’s one thing I learned from my parent’s, it’s that children make excellent work mules.

The three summers I spent as a kid hauling rocks because my mom ordered the demolition of the stone wall in our backyard? Yeah. I wasn’t gaining a sense of worth or building good work values. I was mentally scripting letters to my congressman about child labor laws. Trying to make my eyes shoot laser beams at the lazy assholes sitting down and drinking iced lemonade. I was learning about the dark side of the human soul… And I was plotting about the day I would pass the seed of parental resentment on to my own children.

So they pulled weeds. And they fucking liked it***!! But they’ll learn. Oh yes, they’ll learn. Someday it will become blazingly apparent that the only reason they were born was because their mother was too sluggish to clean the kitty litter box herself****.

Anyway, the morning kicked ass. The kids were cute, well-behaved, and frolicky. We were like a fucking buy-this-product-so-you-can-be-so-happy commercial. Giggles, grins, and glee. (Couldn’t resist the temptation for some random alliteration).

Things shifted back to normal pretty quickly after lunch. Pie managed to lather her entire***** body with spaghetti sauce while I was cleaning up a spill in the kitchen. I was wiping her off when Korbo whipped his pull-up off and held it up like a trophy. Which after seeing its contents I almost wanted to hold it up too. But I’ve learned from past moments of strange, parental pride that whipping a Pamper full of something resembling brown Cool Whip above your head is not a smart thing to do. Not to mention it tends to freak other parents out at play-dates.

With both of them covered in various goo, I decided it was a bath would be simplest and herded them into the bathroom to strip any remaining clothing. I was walking back into the living room in search of baby wipes when I heard a weird noise. I stopped. A second later a little scratching noise happened again. It was coming from the entertainment center. A few seconds of Nancy Drew type shit later I slide open the door of the cd machine thingy that holds like thousands of millions of cds…

I was shocked to see that inside, rather than cds, was the kitten.

Korbo had struck again.

Despite all of this, or maybe because of it, who the hell knows?, I wouldn’t trade the madness of my life for anything. I love seeing the fruit of my beliefs (read: karma is a bitch) springing to life. I put my parents through HELL and I don’t expect anything less from my bambinos. Maybe I just like pondering my past kind actions as well…. because those kids make me happier than should be legally possible. Obviously, besides all the nasty messes I’ve gotten myself in, I’ve done lots of cool, good karma type crap.

* A van which I own ONLY because I have off-spring.
** During which we deduced poking shredded rubber with sticks and dead June bugs will not repair it.
*** Already grasping reverse psychology at such a young age. Genius!
**** I think I may have stumbled onto something to discuss with my therapist next time we’re delving into how I turned out the way I did.
***** If anyone need tips on how to remove spaghetti sauce from curly and tangled toddler hair I’m the one to call.

Fetuses Dig Math

You cannot believe any words that force themselves out of my mouth. Actually, you can’t even believe any words that cha-cha or moonwalk their way out of my mouth.

For the past two plus years I have been declaring the fact that my child-bearing days are over. FOR GOOD. Like my uterus has stretched and contorted itself twice. And two is the number of acceptable orgasams to be obtained during a typical sex-session. So, this all seems to make sense in my brain. Two years, two orgasams*, two children to show for it. Obviously, you have to fuck to make cute, little, squishable babies. And if two is the number of times you expect to come while fucking to make a human nugget of unexpressable cuddlyness. Then it makes sense that two seperate sack-sessions, with four seperate orgasams, should equal two, adorable mini-humans.

Then comes the reasons I hate (and SUCK) at math. All of the above is logical**. I’ve had my body bliss (read: screamed so loud my neighbors probably suspect us of illeagal dolphin experiments) and have the seedlings to show for it. That should be it.

But for some reason I keep dwelling on what it would be like to have another little BD-baby…

I mean, would it be a girl or have a giant, German sasuage? Would it give me the sweetest kisses imaginable like Pie and Korbo do? Would it be deformed and give me an step-up in the circus world? How much longer would it take me to graduate? How would it fit into our family dynamics? How would our family dynamics change? What the hell would my boobs look like after nursing a third child? Would it be even more mischevous than it’s older sibblings? Would that even be possibile? Would I be able to survive if it were sneakier??

I’m chalking all of these INSANE ponderings up to a change in medication and general, bad decision making abilities. You know, the ones causing constant upheaval in my life. Baby Numero 3 is not going to happen right now.

Unless that dream I had about pulling my IUD out of my uterus and then riding BD like a world-class bull rider wasn’t really a dream… And if that’s the case, gear up for this summer, because I’m poppin’ out one cooler-than-shit kid.

* I would just like to note that I have had more than two orgasams during the past few years. Hell, I’ve had more than two orgasams during the past two days. Obviously, the number of orgasams has nothing to do with this equation. Orgasams kick-ass. And I kick-ass at providing/experiencing them.

** Logical being a fairly broad term when it’s being applied to me.

Fate is a Tricky Bastard Who Likes to Screw with Midnight Bakers

Every once in a while something spontaneously happens in my brain and I just feel the need to CREATE.

And by create, I totally mean pretend I’m a mad-scientist/top chef and make something really yummy that I can eat.

It was around nine p.m. when this over-whelming need to bake something came upon me. Being that it was such an impulsive thing I grabbed the first recipe book I saw, flipped it open, and left the rest to fate.

Fate spoke. It was decided- cinnamon rolls.

Everything looked simple enough- flour, sugar, milk and all that homey-type shit. I set out the butter and checked the next step. Now, this was some old book of my grandma’s, and obviously made for grandma-level cooking skills and senses*. This meant that other than flour and milk there were no measurements listed. NO MEASUREMENTS LISTED.

This fact was definitely one of those blessing-sodimizing-a-curse situations.
I HATE measuring ingredients. The lack of direction made me super happy since it left me free to be utterly lazy and take creative control**. But at the same time the lack of direction left me free to be utterly lazy and take creative control. That my friends, is an extremely dangerous situation.

Things went downhill pretty quickly. First, in my excitement about my culinary genius taking flight, I substituted water instead of milk. I did catch that mistake and dumped part of the mixture out then drizzled milk into the dough. I’m not sure if that’s where I went wrong***.

Things spiraled quickly out of control. My dough never reached a solid enough stage to roll it and do the cool, little sprinkle cinnamon and sugar stage. I’m good at improvising though and decided that Fate was sending me a sign that instead of cinnamon rolls I should just bake one giant, cinnamon bun.

I dumped the mess into a pan and poured melted butter over it. It looked pretty soupy but I had faith it would all bake out in the oven. Because everyone knows that ovens contain magic pixie-dust that transforms disastrous dishes into delectable delights****. That’s when Fate’s pulled his next giant strap-on out of the bag to fuck me up in the ass with.

I was out of cinnamon.

HOW THE HELL DO YOU MAKE THE WORLD’S BEST GIANT CINNAMON ROLL WITHOUT CINNAMON!?!

Well, for one it helps to have my brain. I scoured the pantry and decided that brown sugar was the closest I could find. This dish was going to taste amazing. My moment to shine had arrived. With visions of Food Network challenges dancing in my mind I doused the dough with heaps of brown sugar. I checked the recipe book and saw that (thankfully!) even seniors need help with the baking time. Awesome. 

I popped my food baby into the oven and waited. Almost half an hour later my creation was ready. And it was then I learned that Fate is a mother-fucker who had set me up to fail. My giant cinnamon roll was more scrummy than scrumptious.

Think dough soup with lots of weird, semi-carmailzed, butter substance.

That was pretty much the point I gave up, accepted my loss, and ripped open a bag of Double-Stuff Oreos. Sometimes you just have to let Fate have his little fuck-fest in the sun…

Foot-noteys:
* Like the way they can move like ninjas when frying bacon and NEVER GET BURNT. It’s like some kind of sixth sense develops after you hit AARP eligibility.

** Taking “creative control” with melted butter and organic raw sugar is a dangerous path. Especially when you’ve been watching Paula Dean marathons.

*** Actually, I think I “went wrong” when the idea to bake first crossed my mind.

**** If ovens could bake the way I can alliterate the world would be a well-fed place indeed.

The Final Result of My Sexcapades with Fate:

Cinnamon Rolls = Massive Fail from Audy D. on Vimeo.

Playing Double Dutch in a Mermaid Costume is a Valuable Skill

I'm currently functioning on 40 minutes of sleep, strong coffee -with a horrifying amount of raw sugar in each glass, and a few forms of self-medicating bubble-bubble, brain-buzzy bliss.

So far the kids and I have done a VERY messy art project, eaten candy corn and brownies, planted rocks outside  (I won’t even digress into how that came about), pretended to be mermaids and flopped the length of the house on our bellies, changed outfits 3x, and shook our tail-feathers to the most annoying version of the Chicken Dance more times than I care to acknowledge. I’m still shuddering from the experience. If anyone says Hokey Pokey I will be forced to rip my ears off my skull with Bob the Builder pliers.

Have I mentioned that it’s not yet 10:30 AM?? I’m inbetween suggesting Hide and Seek (so that I can sneak in a nap in the bathroom shower) or walking down to see BD at work so I can bum cigarettes from someone. Because I ONLY HAVE ONE LITTLE SOLDIER LEFT!! 

Yup- for a quick recap: brain function of an ant-eater, singing 'Praise Ye the Pharmacist', possibly being systematically killed by my children, orally maiming any object containing sugar, and painfully close to being cigarette-less. Hello Monday.