Toddlerisms

In case you've been under a rock or are just tuning in... I have a three-year-old satanic nazi terrorist toddler (and you just thought I was chemically imbalanced!)  And in truth, there are days that she is so pricelessly adorable I want to hug her until she stops kicking.  Alas, I love that little munchkin a thousand times over and thus she has managed to survive.  Despite the fact that I have an exorcist and psychiatrist on speed-dial, she's still the light of my life and makes me completely crack up several times a day.

This week's Toddlerisms...

Not Cool Mom! Not Cool!
(4:00 PM - staring at a leaf she wasn't supposed to pick)
Mommy you need to get the ladybugs!
There aren't any ladybugs.
Yeahhuh! Right there... and there... you get them off!
I am not picking your imaginary ladybugs. You do it!
Okay! *picks one off and sticks it in my face* See Mommy!
Yep!  Eat it!!
*looks like she just ate a lemon* NO!!!  They're ucky!  They've got legs!!!
LMAO . . .
*looks at me very serious*  I DON'T WANT SPIDERS!!

Pimping Out Mommy

(7:45 AM - standing at my bedside)
Mommy! Guess what!
*one eye opens* hmph?
It's a nice day outside! You need to get up and go to work! You need to make me some money!

I'm a Type 2... What's Your Excuse?

It seems The Queen is having some trouble making friends because she's a totally reclusive drunk paranoid, soft-hearted, and schizophrenic which makes it hard to open up and trust people.  So I'm dedicating this post to her and anyone else who thinks making a 'human connection' is the equivalent of shoving bamboo shafts under your fingernails.

The problem with real-life friendships is the personal connection which allows you to potentially get burned.  The secret is... expect to get burned and not give a shit about it.  I know... it seems like a very cynical approach to friendship.  How could you ever make long, lasting, meaningful bonds with someone if your friendship is based on the fact that they are probably a total asstard?  Much like gravity, I don't know the technicalities of how it works.  All I know is I count on gravity (and a few Twinkies) to keep my ass on the ground.  Same goes for cynicism.

There are four types of friends:

Type 1: The friend who is too scared of your psycho ass to fuck with you.
Type 2: The friend who thinks you're a scary fucking bitch but isn't afraid to fuck with you.
Type 3: The friend who isn't scared of you, but loves you too much to fuck with you

Type 4: The friend who is too stupid to be scared of you and will totally fuck with you.

I'm a 5'4" loud-mouthed, outspoken, spitfire who hates to have a serious moment.  The majority of my friends are young 20-somethings who fall into Type 1.  To them, I am a mother (scary!) and hysterically imbalanced (aka. a mother).  Age and attitude allow me to strike fear into their young minds.  The best way to handle Type 1 friends is to assure every six months you totally go postal on some unsuspecting stranger.  This serves only to remind them that they do NOT want to be on the other end of that psychotic melt-down. 

I am a Type 2 friend and therefore find Type 2 friends are the best!  If I'm not fucking with you... you should be worried.  I like to fuck with my friends (not literally), my relatives, co-workers, strangers, even people I pretty much hate... so you can bet if I'm not dishing a little shit in your direction... I don't like you... at all!  That being said, Type 2 friends are hard to come by.  It's the human fight vs. flight instinct that makes most people want to cower or conquer when confronted by a bitch.  Type 2 friends shoot the shit right back just to show some love.  So you're PMS'ing?  Stuff a cork in it and stop bitching!  If the idea that your friend might say something like that to you is appalling... you are NOT a Type 2 friend.  A Type 2 friend will NOT stab you in the back.  Why?  Because like myself, all Type 2 friends are open books.  With no prompting, a Type 2 will tell you the entire list of who she screwed, who she screwed around on, and who she gets a kick out of screwing with.  A Type 2 person lays it all on the table for everyone.  She can't stab you in the back because she's probably done worse (and told you about it).

I find that Type 3 friends are also very rare.  However, since Type 3 friends are usually the quieter, sweeter, more innocent types... this could simple be demographics.  It takes a persistent Type 3 to keep up with me.  Namely because I treat Type 3 friends exactly like I treat Type 2's... it takes thick skin and a good sense of humor.  It's always nice to have a good Type 3 though.  I've got a couple and I hope their prayers are enough to get me into Heaven if I'm wrong. 

Last but not least, the dreaded Type 4.  I do NOT have Type 4 friends.  I abhor stupid people.  It's okay if a person is not afraid of me.  I really don't see myself as a scary person.  I'm a semi-Buddhist who prefers to make light of life rather than argue about stupid shit (Prince Charming would definitely argue this matter).  HOWEVER... I don't like to be fucked with and if you are too stupid to realize that... you are beyond help.  There is a rare misunderstanding in which a Type 4 may be converted into a Type 1 (you only thought you were the Alpha Bitch!) but few are worth the trouble. 

So how do you handle Type 4 'friends'?  Again, it all goes back to cynicism and not giving a shit!  You can either throw them out with the morning trash (no hard feelings) or find some personal satisfaction in keeping them around.

Example:
Friend #427 (11 years) - We're Type 4 'friends' because she stole my boyfriend and got herself knocked up.  I tolerate her because I found out that like kids, men are much more fun if you can send them home when you're done.

It should be noted that under different circumstances, this woman and I would have been great Type 2 friends.  We are both very sarcastic and cynical which probably explains why we've put up with each other all these years.

I'm not saying that you should go out and screw the husband's of all Type 4's... and whatever you do, don't screw a Type 4 (screw a Type 2, date a Type 3, and marry a Type 1).  But if you happen to have a Type 4 in your life, you need to either weed them out of find some kind of enjoyment in their presence.

I'm a firm believe in mind over matter...

"If you don't mind, it doesn't matter." 

(And if you don't matter, I certainly don't mind!). 

You're going to stumble upon a lot of Type 4 friends in life.  They'll stab you the back, lie, gossip, etc.  Your satisfaction is Type 4 people only get Type 4 people for friends.  Everyone else figures them out.  And while most are going to throw them out with the trash, you can bet that someday, they'll meet up with someone who just wants to fuck with them back. 

In the mean time, you can't let those Type 4's shut you down...

or you'll never meet

the Type 1's who make you feel young and invincible...

the Type 3's who remind you there's something good

(and maybe even sane)

in you...

or the Type 2's who remind you to

pick your ass up,

.

pour another drink,

.

.

and

.

.

.

find a midget to laugh at!

Do you ever wonder?

What would the Wizard of Oz been like if Toto had been a Rottweiler?

"I'll get you my pretty and your...

HOLY FUCK YOU CAN KEEP THE SHOES!"

My Green Thumb Is a Sick Fucker!

Okay... that's a joke.  I don't really have a green thumb.  If I put it in a pot, I could kill a Texas Sandbur.

So it should come as no surprise to you that I leave the major gardening to Prince Charming.  As a result I have a geranium plant (actually a pelargonium if you give a shit) that has three and a half foot long stems.  It is also the reason I have an aloe plant that is over two-feet wide (I think it ate one of our cats!)  When I have nearly sucked every last ounce of life from a plant, I hand it over to the care of PC and he saves it.

So what in the world inspired me to buy a house with a full wrap around flower garden?  The fact that the previous owner planted it full of low-maintenance perinials.  And it's a damn good thing because those bastards are on their own.  I won't even pull the weeds because it might be a flower and I just don't know it.  (I pull the dandelions!  I'm sure what those are!)

All this aside, we own an acre of pasture and I wanted a plum thicket.  Yes.  The farmers thought I was crazy because to them it's just a crappy bush, but frankly... I'm too lazy to go out in 104 degree heat to hunt wild plums.  So I drug Prince-Green-Fucking-Thumb out to a road ditch where we met the 'neighbors' and dug up a fine young plum bush to plant out back.

.

.

.

.

(2 weeks later)

.

.

.

.

The plum bush is dead!

But the lovely ground cover that came with it is not dead.

Know what that is?

Yeppers!

POISON IVY!!

Aint that just fucking grand?!?!

So much for that grand adventure.

But please!  I'm a farmer's daughter (actually it's a rancher's daughter... but wheat... cows... what's the difference right?)  So here I am meandering through my yard looking for thistles that need dug up (because the previous owner never read a Noxious Weed flyer!) when I stumble upon this cute little fern growing in the damp shady soil beneith the trees.

Aint it cute and leafy?!?!

So I tell PC to put it in a pot so it doesn't get mowed over.  My plan was to put it in my bathroom once I was sure it was going to survive the transplant.  It survived (that should have been my first clue, right?) and continued to grow bigger and more... well... parsley like.  Hmmmm.  Does parsley grow wild in Kansas?

So today I was skimming through some native plant sites looking to identify the plants growing wild in our pasture. 

One plant name caught my eye...

"Really?  I didn't know THAT grew in Kansas"...

*click link* ...

"HOLY SHIT!!!  That looks just like my fern!" 

Shocked, I did a little more research on the plant to see if I could come to a certain indentification.  And finally... I marched out to the fern in the pot under the cedar tree and took a very close look at that bastard!!

Sure enough!  It looks just like this (minus the flowers that I'm sure will come soon enough)

Know what that shit is?

.

.

.

It's not a FERN!

.

.

.

It's not WILD PARSLEY!

.

.

.

(but it is in the parsley family)

.

.

.

IT IS

.

.

.

POISON HEMLOCK!!!

(is it a sign that this occurs the one day out of the year my in-laws visit my house?)

Yeah!  Just fuck me!  To hell with a garden, someone plant me a wine vineyard because I clearly need to drink more!  (I keep telling myself, they only come once a year, why waste a good plant?)

I need to stock up on Vodka!

I'm not an Apocalypse-fear-monger.  2012 doesn't phase me.  Bring on the earthquakes, meteors, aliens, etc.  I'm a modern day princess and I can take it all in stride.  But there is one thing that scares the holy living piss out of me.

ZOMBIES!!

Yeah yeah yeah... don't give me that 'they're slow' bullshit either!

Michael Myers never broke a sweat slashing up the cheerleaders!

And don't get all NRA macho and tell me it just takes a shotgun to beat the zombies!

Going after a horde of zombies with a shotgun is like fighting off a locust plague with a fly swatter!

To hell with that shit!!

Zombies are the reason I live in the middle of bum fuck Egypt!  I expect to have plenty of time to pack my provisions and hide out in my attic bawling like a sissy.  It's not like zombies just spontaneously pop out of wheat fields, right?

So leave it to some whacked out fucking scientists to totally bring my greatest fear straight to my backdoor!!  That's right!  The U.S. Department of Zombie Manufacturing has decided to move their #1 top secret zombie farm to my back door!!!

"Last year, Congress appropriated $32 million for a new 520,000-square-foot National Bio and Agro-Defense Facility in Kansas"  (Manhattan, Kansas to be specific!)

So what's the big deal?  It's not like these freaks are going to study dangerous shit in my backyard!  It's not like they'll be researching anthrax.  It's not like they'll have live foot-and-mouth disease.  It's not like they'll be studying "high-consequence biological threats involving human, zoonotic (i.e., transmitted from animals to humans), and foreign animal diseases"

Oh!

Wait!!

Yes they fucking WILL!!!

Am I the only one who saw Resident Evil?  Stephen King's 'The Stand'?  Are you fucking serious!?!?!

And why the move from Plum Island, New York to Manhattan, Kansas?  It's just because this facility is a major target for terrorism and it's not safe on the east coast!  Oh that's just fucking great isn't it?  So of all the places in the country to build it, they choose my backyard?

Oh... and you want the icing on the cake?  Manhattan, Kansas just happens to be built under a dam.  A dam which holds back 12,500 surface acres of water.  A dam that was built on what is probably the most active region of the Humbolt Fault Zone.

So yes, the intelligent minds at the Department of Homeland Security have decided to build their zombie factory in a major flood zone (even the dam couldn't hold back the flood waters in 1993) downriver from a dam sitting on a fault-line.  And frankly... all the fucking stupidity wouldn't bother me one bit if they hadn't picked a town 30 miles from my house!!!

Hey, It's Okay

All over Blogville you'll find these wonderful 'themes' that bloggers use to overcome writer's block and provide structure to their blogs.  There are two reasons I avoid these scheduled posts:

1) Weekends are the busiest time on the street corner, so I'm always busy busting my ass to satisfy those 'born-again virgins'.  As a result, me 'weekend' is actually scheduled on Tuesday and Wednesday.  So while most of the world is downing espresso and bitching about the start of their workweek, I'm celebrating TGIMondays (I should so make that my theme right?)

AND

2) I have enough problems keeping my medications straight without trying to keep blog days from getting all mixed up.  Hell, if I mix up my Valium and birth control there's a chance I'll end up with another kid (but I won't give a shit!).  On the other hand, if I confuse "Half Naked Thursday" with "Monday Motivation" chances are I will 'motivate' a following of total perverts. 

That being said, I stumbled on a great idea from Airing My Dirty Laundry.  I just couldn't resist trying my hand at it.  Next week I might be too drunk (or laid up as well as down, sideways and diagonal) to repeat it, but tonight it seemed like a good idea.

Hey, It's Okay...

To walk around the house in your underwear because you're too lazy to go upstairs and find pants.

To go shopping by YOURSELF when you unexpectedly find out you have the day off.

To pretend you're still sleeping so you can steal one uninterrupted episode of Law & Order while Prince Charming keeps the toddler occupied.

To let your three-year-old play with her food if wearing red onions as bracelets encourages her to eat new things.

To laugh when your child hurts herself doing something you told her not to do 50 times.

To watch free 'bootlegged' movies online because I'm so NOT going to feel guilty that I robbed Hollywood of my $40.

To shut your chat box off so no one bothers you (or knows how long you sat on facebook doing nothing!)

To call your Mom a bitch (because she totally is one, she knows it, and that's why we love her!)

To randomly adopt people into your family because your real relatives totally suck!

and last but not least, because I was skimming the Yahoo!News section...

To totally believe the War of Drugs is ridiculous and that the country would benefit more from taxing the hell out of it.  (This theory is based solely on spitefulness at how much tax I pay on cigarettes, alcohol, and prescription drugs... because my vices are legal and it totally pisses me off that the drug dealer owns a nicer car than my doctor!)

---------------------------------------------------------
On a side note... I feel it necessary to point out that the Blogger spell check doesn't recognize the word "bloggers"!!

Welcome to Kansas! Where'd You Park Your Car?

For those of you who don't read know... I'm a Kansas girl.
Okay, I should rephrase that because it might give people a bad impression of Kansas...

I'm actually a born and raised Nebraska girl which is the reason for many of my less endearing traits.  Because I grew up in Nebraska, I can (and will) walk into a bar wearing fishnets, thigh-high boots, mini-skirt, and backless halter top.  I will then down two double shots of tequila and kick your ass at a game of pool.  If you happen to be staring too hard at my ass, I will be more than happy to seductively dump your drink in your lap.  And should all of this make you think you ever had a chance, I'll have one of my six-foot-tall boyfriends kick your ass in the alley before he takes me home!

While I am perfectly capable of fitting in amongst the drunks and sluts that reside in Nebraska, I simply could not endure the tragic redneck lack of intelligence that existed there.  I'm a classy girl.  I don't mean Grace Kelly kinda classy, I mean Marilyn (rocks the stilettos) Monroe Classy!  I can tell you to 'go fuck yourself' in such a nice way that you won't even realize it for 2 weeks.  Unfortunately, people in Nebraska are some strange cross between Neanderthal and Puritan-Americans (drunken, trash-talking, sister-fucking, assholes who are saved every Sunday!).

I'm not totally against Nebraska (or Nebraskans).  I still have many good friends from there and a few of my relatives managed to overcome our backwoods alcoholism to become decent humans. 

Nebraska has brought us many great things:

• Kool Aid (key ingredient in drinks like Dead Puppies, Antifreeze #3, Smurf Piss, Poison Purple Death and Swamp Water).
• Arbor Day (the State Tree of Nebraska is Marijuana)
• The Reuben Sandwich, Spam, and Runza Restaurant (to satisfy your munchies!)
• 9-1-1 emergency system (to respond to all the alcohol-related accidents)
• the strobe light (fits right in with the Kool Aid and State Tree)
• Hallmark cards (when you don't have the words to say, 'Go to hell assfuck!')
• "Boys Don't Cry" and "Natural Born Killers" (homophobia and serial killers... makes us proud!)
• Malcom X (A Nebraska born African American? No surprise he became a civil rights leader!)
• L. Ron Hubbard (Can you say 'Scientology'?... Too much of that State Tree going on)
• Larry the Cable Guy (Get 'er Done!)

But a few good deeds certainly don't make up for the 'please step back 100 years' aspect of that state.

So now I'm a Kansas girl.  And very proud to say I live just far enough south of the border that I don't have to encounter those Northern wackos unless K-State is playing the Huskers.

In honor of the great state of Kansas, here are a few important things Kansas has provided:

• Dodge City - the windiest city in the U.S. (because Nebraska blows and Oklahoma sucks!)
• World's richest salt deposits (bring on the Margaritas!)
• Largest natural gas field in the U.S. (I thought I smelled something funky!)
• Clyde Tombaugh - discovered Pluto (it's still a planet in my book)
• Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickock, and Bat Masterson (we don't dial 9-1-1)
• Bob Dole ("Life is very important to Americans.")
• Pizza Slut Hut
• Custer's 7th Calvary (Whoopsie!)
• The helicopter (because ejecting from a crashing plane didn't seem like a challenge)
• And when it comes to weirdos... there's The Dalton Gang and The Birdman of Alcatraz

And in case you have a sudden urge to come visit me in Kansas, there are three important things you need to know...

1) It's not a snowing unless you can't find your car!

2) It's not windy unless you can't find your car!

3) You're not drunk unless you

can't find your car!

Lay off the fiber already!!!

For those of you who don't know... aside from hooking myself out on the street corner to pay for CB's crack habit, I also have to maintain a full time job to pay the mortgage on my palace. 

For 7 years I pushed a desk in an effort to corrupt the future of this country.  Unfortunately, the politicians education is not a priority.  I didn't get cut with the budget.  I cut myself because of the budget.  After 7 years of working with the 'worst' kids (I use quotes because they were far from the worst in my opinion) if I had renewed my contract I'd have made just over 12K annual income (before taxes, insurance and required 6% retirement)  In comparison... the asshole who flips burgers at the local cholesterol factory is making minimum wage for a full 40 hour week.  He's bringing in 17K!  But I'm sure the grease-broiled slab of cow's ass you intend to inhale with the deep-fried potatoes and chocolate shake is way more important than the education of future generations.  After all, if we keep eating that shit we won't have to worry about the future because we'll drop dead at 40 with arteries so clogged even Draino can't fix them.  But that bitchfest about fucked up priorities aside...

After crunching the numbers I came to the conclusion that being a 'professional' wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  It just so happened a 'lowly' hotel housekeeping position was offered to me at the exact moment our home loan was on the line and I simply couldn't afford to say 'No,' to any job.  I figured after 7 years of putting up with teenage bullshit, I was more than qualified to clean up a hotel guest's shit!  And though it's not where I pictured myself at 30, I can't complain.  I like my coworkers.  Some days my boss can act like the fucking Mexican she is, but most days I like her.  And generally I don't have to do any more than wash a shower, make a bed, wash a shower, make a bed.

That being said, there are often times I'd like to pull the guests aside and have a real 'heart to heart' with them:

Dear Wolfman,
     I realize it is a full moon out and there are certain things you do not have control over.  However, you are only staying in my hotel for 2 nights.  Therefore, I would appreciate it if you could saw your toenails off in your own home or car rather than making me pick these nasty clippings out of the carpet because they have velcroed in too firmly for the vacuum to suction out.

Dear Poodle Lady,
    I do not even want to know how long you'd been growing that out before you decided to shave it in my tub.  Please keep in mind that while the bars are open until 2am in Aggieville, you should NEVER feed your gremlin after midnight!

Dear Party Guy,
   I commend you for being responsible enough to use a condom.  Next time could you also be responsible enough to see it finds it's way to a trashcan?

Dear FiberOne,
  You checked in on Thursday with 2 full rolls of toilet paper stocked in your bathroom.  On Friday you requested another roll.  Saturday morning you requested yet another roll.  When I cleaned your room Saturday afternoon I found 3 bath towels, 3 hand towels and 3 wash clothes covered in shit.  In addition, there was only 1 roll of toilet paper in the bathroom so I was required to add an additional roll.  Either you have a severe vitamin deficiency that is inspiring you to eat the toilet paper or you need to
LAY OFF THE FIBER ALREADY!!!

She stole MY holiday!!

Three years ago today at 1 o'clock in the morning I was admitted to the hospital for a scheduled forcible eviction. 

I didn't know my blood pressure was on the rise.

I didn't know that a pregnant woman is NOT supposed to swell up like the Staypuff Marshmallow Man.

And frankly...

I did NOT care.

What I DID know is this:
...I had been pregnant FORevvvaah!!!
...I was still suffering from strep throat which I contracted in DECEMBER!
...I'd had a foot in my ribs and a shoulder blade on my sciatic since February!
...I was carrying an alien monster in my ribcage (no shit! we had to have an ultrasound to confirm she was head down because she was too high to REACH!)
...My doctor had resorted to prescribing SEX and we weren't even overdue yet!  Are you kidding me?  That's how I got myself into this mess! (yes, I realize that risk factor is gone now... like adding gas to a full tank... but even on a full tank, this clunker wasn't going anywhere on 4 flat tires!)

So when Doc decided to induce, I didn't question it.  I screamed, "Hell YES!"

Without hesitation we arrived at the hospital 30 minutes early (the quicker we start, the sooner it's over... right?)

We were immediately bombarded with tons of papers, wires being attached, nurses walking us through the procedures, scan my bracelet, scan my chart, scan my medicine, scan my uterus, scan Prince Charming, scan my bracelet... yep... they all match up.  But wait!  You got my middle initial wrong!  Ummm... and my birthday!  OMG!  That's not MY bracelet you dumbasses!!!!!!!  So we started out our great endeavor with the knowledge that these people had no idea who I was and their computer had screwed up.... so much for a vote of confidence!

Once the bracelet/scanner fiasco is fixed and I'm really who I am (scan bracelet, chart, meds, etc... though it just seems stupid now doesn't it?) they start to tell me about the drug they are going to give me.  PITOCIN.  So here I am with a watermelon sitting on my spinal cord as I read the pamphlet about pitocin...

SIDE-EFFECTS:

• Nausea (got it)
• Vomiting (are you sure you haven't given me this drug already?)
• Hypertension (isn't my blood-pressure already high?)
• Allergic Reaction (duh!)
• Cardiac Arrest or Stroke (meh... same as birth control pills)
• RUPTURE of the UTERUS... (WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!  I COULD EXPLODE?!?!?!?!)... hmmmm... I'll risk it!

So yes, I signed the paper (I'd have signed away my soul to get that child out of me!) and took the drug.  I stared in amazement as my contractions climbed off the chart.  I thought to myself, "This is going to be a breeze!  That was massive and I didn't feel a thing!"  With that... I went to sleep.

The next few hours are pretty boring...
...Sleep... pelvic exam... sleep... pelvic exam... shoot evil darts at attendant for bring Prince Charming lunch and not me... steal PC's food while the nurses aren't looking... pelvic exam... pretend to ignore the uninvited mother-in-law... pelvic exam... you get the drift?

At 1 PM my doctor informs me I'm making NO PROGRESS (We're talking 0/0 after almost 12 hours of contractions) and she's going to send me home if things don't change soon.  Let the bawling, cursing, and pissed off mumbles begin.  (I swear to all that is evil and unholy about this child I'm having her today!) And just like that... my water broke!  Congratulations!  You will be giving birth to the spawn of Satan today! 

The next couple hours are pretty much a blur so I'll sum it up for you...
Wearing an oxygen mask
WHILE a blood pressure cuff cuts your arm off at the knee
PLUS puking in a trash can
WHILE having massive contractions
will result in a thumbs up when asked if you'd like drugs! 
That's right... I caved at 4 o'clock!  At that point they could have offered me a bullet and I'd have nodded in approval!

When the epidural kicked in, I came to a very quick conclusion... why would any woman ever torture herself with a natural birth?  I was in Heaven!!  If I ever find myself knocked up again, I'm demanding they start the epidural during the first trimester!

It took 3 hours to go from 0 to push (gimme a break, I'm not a Corvette!) and 40 minutes to cross the finish line!

Minutes later they handled me the most beautiful child I've ever seen in the whole world.  From day one she has been utterly spoiled, totally dramatic, short tempered, and selfish.  And if I ever had any doubts, she's even stolen MY holiday! 

So this year (since she's still too young to read a calendar) I intend to reschedule her birthday. 

I'm the MOM...

I get to do that! 

Because for 3 years she has been determined that the whole world revolves around her. 

And frankly... 

mine does...

just not today!

Nonetheless...

 here's to the best thing in my life,

my light,

my joy,

my whole heart!! 

Without her it wouldn't be a holiday worth celebrating! 

(but don't you dare tell her it's her birthday!)

If this was Oz...

There would be more people with

BRAINS!

(enough said)

Are We Name Calling Already?

Crazy Brunette has been sneaking shots to The Queen again.  I have no choice but to translate her drunken slurs.

"I had sex ONCE" ---  She had sex ONCE... SOBER!

"gave birth to a BIMBO" ---  No Mom, you adopted the BIMBO.  I'm the BITCH!

"I did everything right" ---  Really? Then why wasn't I calling the milk man Daddy?

"I raised her with a strict hand" ---  Uh Oh!  Is this one of those serious moments?

After that her inebriated babbles become so ridiculous even I can't interpret them.  What I do know is that I was not the one who told the minister to "GO FUCK HIMSELF!",  I was NOT the one who passed out in the front yard next to what was previously a Thanksgiving turkey dinner, I was not the one bumming cigarettes off her daughters, AND I was NOT the one who stumbled through the door after a night of drinking in a cornfield with the cop's sons... wait!  That last one was ME!

The Queen wants you to believe that I am a BIG FAT LIAR because Crazy Brunette is brain-washing her I have way too many blackmail photos.  Fortunately for me, I have a mind like a steal trap.  I can clearly remember the one time I dared to flat out LIE to my mother.  I'm not saying there weren't a million other little fibs and skirting the subjects... but only one BOLD FACED LIE!

It occurred on the previously mentioned night of the drunken cornfield party:

I was a sweet, innocent, seventeen-year-old who always did what her parents told her to do (I can't even type that with a straight-face) 
I went to the party fully intending to stay sober <---TRUE STATEMENT. 
Why?  Because my 'escort' was scared of my mother.  However, his twin brother was not quite as smart scared.  So while the 'good son' went to town to get me a soda, the 'bad son' got me drunk on Aftershock. 
Long story short I was TRASHED... with a capital FUCK!  But I had a curfew and the 'good son' was determined for me to make it home on time.

"You can't take me home!  My Mom's going to KILL ME!"

He actually said, "If I don't take you home, she'll kill me!" 

(Hell of a friend he was!)

So yes... I'm drunk.  But you can bet I'm gonna do my damnedest to pretend I'm not.
I stumble into the front door and come face to face with an angry talking mountain that looks a lot like my Mom if I squint really hard!  Between trying to focus my eyes and trying to supress my vomit, I'm trying to think of an excuse that doesn't involve the words "I'm DRUNK!"  I came up with some story about having to stop at a water fountain to get a drink on the way home from the cornfield (I later recalled this was actually the dream I had while passed out in the car).  It is at this point the The Queen pops the question:

YOU BEEN DRINKING OR SMOKING?

And a light bulb went off in my head! (though it was pretty dim and probably burnt out soon after)  The Queen knew I smoked.  She knew I'd smoked since I was 14.  Hell, I bummed cigarettes off The Queen.  Thus, I attempted to FLAT OUT LIE TO HER!

I replied with a beaming smile,

"SMOKING!"

...

WRONG ANSWER!!

Clearly, her idea of "smoking" was WAAAAAY different than mine!

This single word.....

one alcohol-inspired LIE.....

immediately activated my mother's 

BAT SHIT CRAZY,

hysterical,

screaming,

OMG-your-voice-is-hurting-my-EYES,

pissed off,

Holy-Hell-your-face-is-melting,

mad as a hornet,

if-I-let-you-kill-me-will-you-shut-up,

SUPER BITCH MODE!

Needless to say, a phone call to the boy's Mom (did I mention their Dad is the local Deputy Sheriff?) gives her the facts and lands me with the one major grounding in my life.  2 months for being an hour late (60 minutes = 60 days), 2 weeks for being drunk... oh, and an extra 2 days for lipping off.

So no...

I DO NOT LIE! 

I might bend the facts. 

I might change the subject. 

I might say something too confusing to understand.

But I never lie! 

(I leave that to the politicians and preachers!)

------------------------
Dear Queen,

I realize this is the one of the few times I received a firm punishment.  But I've always thought it was very unfair.  There were certainly times I deserved to be punished (though I'm not going to elaborate because I might not have gotten CAUGHT).  However, this punishment was completely uncalled for. 

I was an hour late for curfew, but we really DID have car trouble and his mother could vouch for it.  And you always told me I could drink as long as I didn't drive.  Not only was I NOT driving, but I was also NOT in a vehicle with a drunk driver.  

I believe you owe me 2 months and 2 weeks of my life back.  Of course, to prevent an extensive investigation into my previous mischief, I'm gonna write this one off as an oversight and forgive you... because  I definitely deserved it for the other shit I did.

Lock Up Your Husbands!

I'M BACK!!!!

I'm not going to bore you with a list of lame excuses about why I've been away...

I LIVE IN KANSAS

That's really the only excuse I need. 

That simple statement can equally justify everything from going to church to committing mass murder. 

So don't make me bore you with the long list of "to-do's" I've had over the last several months or make me jabber on about what I wanted to accomplish...

blah blah blah.

I LIVE IN KANSAS!
Let's just leave it at that.

What really matters is that I have finally overcome my selfishness and decided to once again bless you with my awe-inspiring presence on a regular basis.  And for a very good reason...

I believe my vast inheritance of The Queen's valuable junk might be at stake!

I'LL BE DAMNED IF I'M GONNA LET SOME

STILETTO-WEARING, FOUL-MOUTHED, HOOCHIE

GET HER GRUBBY HANDS ON MY INHERITANCE!

I've put up with 30 years of The Queen's insane, neurotic, quad-polar, paranoia and I intend to remain the SOLE HEIR to her estate when she becomes so demented she starts hand-feeding the crocs in the moat.

That being said...

I've broke out the hair dye, polished off the tiara, and shaved my legs for this.

You, dear readers, are completely entitled to read, relish, and laugh at the ramblings of The Queen.  I will even tolerate you calling her 'Mom', 'Your Highness', and 'Skanky Old Hag'.  But if you think for one second that you're getting your hands on that beer-tab encrusted crown of hers... you better be prepared to take a maternity sobriety test!

Tonight, while The Queen and CrazyBrunette are out traipsing stumbling around in their sexy ruby slippers, I am sitting at home trying to resist the urge to slip my daughter a Valium just so I can shut Nick Jr. off.  And before either of you lip off about your 'adventurous' lives, there's one thing you should remember...

...things didn't turn out so great for the original owner of those ruby slippers.  I'd watch out for falling houses if I were you.