I'm Here!

I made it. I arrived at 5:30am after more than twelve hours of road head/driving. Have a good weekend!

Road Trip

Here is an assignment for all my faithful blog readers:

Keep your fingers/toes crossed, say a prayer to whomever and think good traveling thoughts for me. I'm leaving today to drive 700 miles to visit my dear ole dad for the weekend. I'm not giving him much notice other than sending him an email before I get on the road and this post, of course. I just hope he remembers and doesn't shoot me when I open his front door at whatever horrid time in the middle of the night I show up. My dad has quite a collection of guns, including a handgun by his bedside and a shotgun by the bedroom door. I've never worried about burglars when visiting my dad, but I'm always careful about surprising him. I'll be driving back on Monday, so I miss out on all the Halloween fun this year. Dress up, eat too much candy and send me pics with which to blackmail you!

Chicken

Chicken has his own blog now, called Chicken's Page. Comments are not enabled because I know what kind of creepy people are out there (and yes, I mean YOU!). I decided that Chicken could have his own blog due to the parent/teacher conference I had today. It seems that my precious spawn is gifted in many areas. One of those areas is NOT writing. I knew this, as we have tussled over writing since first grade. He's reading at a 6-8th grade level according to his teacher and has a large vocabulary and excellent spelling and punctuation skills. He talks all day long and even in his sleep sometimes. However, he HATES to write. So if having a blog will encourage him to write, I'm all for it. Everything on his blog is directly out of his mouth. Some I may type for him, others he will do himself. I reserve the right to edit any profanity that leaks out, so his blog shall be safe for those aged 12 and under. Enjoy!

HNT Feetz

Yeah baby! Enjoy other Half-Nekkid Thursday parts at Osbasso. What?! You want a post, too?

Greedy Mosquito

"Yeah, you might want to cancel that appointment"

Said by Chicken in response to the reek emanating from the bathroom as I sat contemplating life, dreams, and the amount of times I would be flushing. From my royal throne I called and rescheduled my evening appointment for a more convenient time. Like a time where I am not permanently attached to porcelain. The good news is that you loyal readers finally get a new post from me. The bad news is that I may pass out in the middle of blogging due to toxic fume inhalation.

Just when I am teetering on the verge of dying a horrible, noxious death my delightful Chicken grabs the fan from my bedroom, sits it in the doorway of the bathroom, plugs it in and turns it on high. "To ensure that you don't stink like hell" he says. I have an in-ceiling bathroom fan, but I hate the sound of it. I'm sure that it does some weird hocus pocus to my intestines and I don't need any more help in that area.

"Did you hear the story of the Greedy Mosquito?" Chicken stated as he came out of the bathroom the other day. He was taking his afternoon poop when his butt cheek started to itch. His bowels are as regular as they come. He grabbed some toilet paper (cause the kid couldn't scratch his ass with his bare hand, heavens no!) and rubbed his ass. He looks down into the toilet and notices a dead mosquito floating amidst his poop masterpiece. The damn critter was trying to get a meal while Chicken took a shit. How gross is that?

In other random Chicken news, today I learned that I was not hanging up the pots and pans correctly. They must be hung right to left, with the smallest first. I had already been scolded for putting forks, knives and spoons in the same area when loading the dishwasher. Now, I'm all for Chicken cleaning the kitchen and cooking Top Ramen all by himself. However, this OCD thing in the kitchen is crazy. His room typically looks like a hurricane hit it, minus the water. He leaves a path of destruction that FEMA would not touch. Even in the kitchen his mess-making is legendary. He will drop shit on the floor, spill crap on the counter and generally have a fuck-all festival in the kitchen. As long as the utensils are properly placed in the dishwasher and the pots are hung correctly, he could care less about the mess. That's my kid.

Jomama

Someone had a baby! Visit Jomama and wish her and her son well. If you're really, really good you'll find a new post here soon.

Horse Cock

I may have mentioned that I have a client that refers to me as "HC" or horse cock due to a video that I was forced at finger point to watch. The video was entirely his fault, as he was the one that posted the link to the video. I simply had the misfortune to be sitting next to H3.2 when he clicked on the link. This client matches or exceeds my ability to talk about poop, penises and general vulgarity. I was introduced to him by H3.2 and he is a joy to have as a client. We'll call him Stallion for several reasons including the video. None of these reasons relate in any way to the man's penis or lack thereof.

During a meeting I recently had with Stallion we discussed a letter that needed to be sent out to a mutual fund company concerning one of his accounts. I typed up the letter, emailed it to him and he was instructed by me to sign it and give it to H3.2 (his co-worker). H3.2 would deliver the letter to me in a sealed envelope.

H3.2 arrives home from the office later that day and hands me the letter with a weird grin on his face. I was about to put the letter in my bag when he told me that I should review the letter before putting it away. Puzzled, I opened the letter and noted that it was signed. I again tried to get up to place the letter in my work bag. H3.2 said I really had to READ the letter. I was confused, because I WROTE the letter. I didn't need to read it. It needed a signature and that was all. Here's a summary of the letter I wrote:

123 Street
City, State 00000

Mutual Fund Company
123 Street
City, State 00000

October XX, 2005
Re: Account #123456

To Whom It May Concern:

Please do this and that regarding my account. Standard boring business stuff and information. If you have any questions, please contact my rep on this account.

Sincerely,

Stallion

This is the letter I received from H3.2. I only changed certain names to protect the guilty:

123 Street

City, State 00000

Mutual Fund Company
123 Street
City, State 00000

Re: Account #123456
October XX, 2005

To Whom It May Concern:

I am marginally-confused over certain responsibilities stated in my contract with your company. My financial advisor, Sam has informed me that if I do not pay her $333.00 each month, your company will send a crack team of "professionals" in a black van to my house to serve me a fresh batch of--I believe she said "horse semen"?--via a "live equine-flesh anal probe", twice monthly. I do not understand where in my contract that this is stated and fear that Ms. Sam will not be amenable to a contract change, as she seems to be excited about the prospect of filming the "contracted procedure". Please advise.

Sincerely,

Stallion

Now, just imagine with me for a moment if I had sent this form into the company. It still contained account numbers and names (including my own). It looked almost identical to the letter that I had written and it was properly signed. I had to triple check that the letter I was mailing off was the original letter and not the edited version. I love my job!

Undies Drawer

Well everyone, it is Friday. That means everyone goes home to their families and ignores Sam's Stories until Monday. For those of you die-hard fans, here's a snippet of a recent AIM conversation I had with one of H3.2's buddies. I'm calling him "Squash" because his name rhymes with squash and he's... well... squash-like. Don't ask.

Squash: what are you upto?
Sam: 5'3"
Squash: that sucks (what does that mean?)
Sam: sitting wit kid on couch
Sam: kid coloring/drawing
Squash: aww
Sam: i draw picture, he colors 'em
Squash: i want to color
Squash: what do you draw pictures of?
Sam: some pokemon char
Sam: he said "draw this"
Sam: so i drew it
Squash: humm
Squash: are you a good drawer?
Sam: i suppose
Sam: people usually use me as a sock drawer
Sam: sometimes an undies drawer
Squash: umm...?

In other very uninspiring news, Chicken said to me today "Did you know that the longest bird penis in the world is 17 inches?" WTF?? Chicken received a 2006 edition of the Guinness Book of World Records for his birthday and apparently this bird's penis is worthy of an entry in the Natural World Birds section (see page 88 if you have one). Chicken went on to describe said penis in detail. Here's what the book states:

The penis of the Argentinian lake drake [Oxyura vittata] has been measured everted [upside down] and unwound at 16.7 in [42.5 cm]. The base of this retractable penis is covered with spines, yet the tip is soft and brush-like.

Why does anyone need to know this? I suppose if I'm in Argentina and REALLY hard up for an interesting tourist attraction I could unwind some bird penis for kicks.

Note to self: When in Argentina, look for the blue-billed duck.

French Fries

"Until I get french fries I am not willing to whore myself out." So quoth Sam when buzzed on Patron. Said in reaction to Teddy Bear and H3.2 wanting to watch something other than ER.

*Note to self: blogging while buzzed will probably lead to humilation and dismay. Fuck it.

HNT Pop-Up Video

For today's grand entry into the HNT hall of infamy, I present not one, not two, but THREE fascinating features of my abdomen. This week my belly was post-bloat stage so I have highlighted some specific features. First, my navel piercing. Second, my ladybug tattoo. Third, one of my two scars from my double hernia circa 1974. You loyal readers are fiercely calculating the circumference of the earth and my relative age and thinking "What the fuck?" How old is Sam? What the shit was she lifting at age XX to cause such a condition?

Some less informed readers might also wonder "Do girls get them things? I thought they were about my nut sack and shit." You have to imagine the slow southern drawl here and the sound of two dwarf hamsters (living in said southerner's head in lieu of a brain) chewing pellets and becoming quite puzzled. Reader's Digest version of the story is that I was six months old and constipated (thinking of you, SillyNessa). I have two matching scars that are razor-thin and barely noticeable.

H3.2 made a purdy picture akin to Pop-up Video illustrating the marvelous features of my abdomen. For more HNT goodness, go see Osbasso.

Inner Child is Insane

Your Inner Child Is Happy

You see life as simple, and simple is a very good thing. You're cheerful and upbeat, taking everything as it comes. And you decide not to worry, even when things look bad. You figure there's just so many great things to look forward to.

How Is Your Inner Child?

I got this quiz from Erin's place. Is this really my inner child? I'll update this post later... I don't know if I agree. Let me know what you think. Lurkers, it is time for you to come out and shine.

Spawn of Satan's Bday

So yesterday was quite an unusual day in sunny San Diego. It rained. Water poured forth from the sky. Dude was not amused and spent the day sleeping in a feeble attempt to make the cruel, cruel world go away. Chicken took drastic measures to avoid the rain today by PURPOSELY missing the school bus. He didn't want to walk home from the bus stop in the rain, so he avoided all school personnel until his bus had departed, then walked into the office to call me. However, I was waiting at the bus stop for him in order to drive him the whole block home safe and dry. Asshole. Yes, I just called my dear, sweet child an asshole.

I had to give him bonus points for being resourceful, but they were negated by the pissiness of the mommy when I had to drive through stupid traffic to pick his ass up at school and drive him back home. That's why I pay $179.00 per semester to the damn school district. You heard me correctly on that, for all of you mommies and daddies that pay diddly squat for school transportation. Almost two hundred dollars per semester. Without a bus pass, it is $1.75 each way.

So, I digress. Today is Chicken's birthday. He is a big, bad nine year old. Last week the mailman delivered a package from Amazon.com. It was addressed to Chicken, and Teddy Bear was watching him at the time. I had forgotten to give the blanket "Do not open anything for Chicken because it is probably a birthday present" statement. It was opened, and oh the wonders of Nintendogs for the Nintendo DS. Chicken wanted it sooo badly, however the mean and evil woman that I am, I instructed Teddy Bear to put it away until Chicken's ACTUAL birthday.

In which case I am severely punished for this misdeed, as Chicken gets up this morning and requests to play his new game. I instruct him to do his normal morning routine first, and then he can play. Twenty minutes later he bounces back into my room and requests the game again. I tell him where it is hidden, and he gleefully grabs the game and disappears into the mist/living room.

At this point H3.2 raises his head and says "What the fuck?" He informs me that it is 4:30am in the morning. I am blessed with a severe lack of vision, so I cannot read the huge numbers of my blue hair alarm clock unless I'm REALLY close to it. So I had no idea what time it was. Holy crap. No wonder I felt like I just was butt-fucked for 12 hours by angry pirates. Except for the fact that my ass probably would be sore if that happened, and my butt felt just dandy.

So I instruct my excited Satan spawn to go back to sleep. No dice. He was hopped up on birthday joy and no sleeping would be had by any means. I instruct him to chill in his room with his new game, shut off the 40 thousand lights he had turned on around the house, and I went back to sleep.

Let me just say right here that everything was okay until about 5:00pm. Then it all went to shit. Such unbelievable shit that only can happen when your child has been mainlining birthday goodness on 7 hours of sleep. Now, to you and me seven hours of sleep might be a cause for celebration. In my child it means lock the fucking doors and hide.

By 7pm Chicken had earned himself a month of no electronics and was in bed for the night, an hour and a half early. I decided that I must be the worst parent ever to exist in the whole realm of parenthood. My child was snotty, disrespectful, did not listen and was a basic jerk-off. I know some of these terms are redundant. But FUCK ME, he upset my ex-stepdad who is the most mellow man in the history of the world with his "your gifts suck ass" attitude. I did not raise my child to act like that, I swear. He will spend the next month repenting his actions or my name isn't Sam. Well, you know what I mean.

Sidenote: I should have known that the day was doomed when Chicken opened his first and very cool Erector set and wanted to know if it aided in giving erections.

I'm Insane, Not Stupid

Some of you may have noticed that the past several weeks I have been blogging at a furious rate of one or two posts per week. My hands are blistered and chapped due to the intensity of my blogging. You may insert your excuse of choice HERE. So this post is a "Get off/on your blogging ass and write" thing. It may suck ass, but I'm writing and that's the point.

Sidenote:
Dude is licking his ass right now. Next to me on the couch he is licking his ass. Gross.

Notable Quote of The Day:
"I'm insane, not stupid." My response to H3.2's inquiry about the caffeinated status of my evening Pumpkin Spice Latte.

Annoying Conversation:
Sam: "Why are you reading over my shoulder?"
H3.2: "I'm not. I'm reading, but your shoulder is over here."

I was inspired to post today by two incidents. One, as I was walking by a full-length mirror this morning during my weekly ritual of getting dressed, I noticed that a certain part of my body looked pretty damn good. I grabbed the camera and snapped a couple shots of myself. You'll have to wait until Thursday to see the results, but I am proud.

The other thing is more aptly classified as reading a blog rather than an "incident". I was over at The Hot Librarian's place and she did a post about this Google thing where you put your name + needs and search. I've heard of it before, and decided to try it out for myself. I found TWO interesting things. TWO. The primary cause of this is my name. Duh. There is a famous actress with my name that has a movie out/coming out/whatever. There is also a character on a popular television show with my name. In addition, there is a damn doll with books and clothes and shit with my name. I say that it was my name FIRST and these bitches should change their shit now. Well, except for the doll. Supposedly she arrived in 1854 but I haven't seen the proof of that alleged claim. Due to these unforeseen cockblockers my searches sucked. Here are the ones I kept:

So basically, Sam needs to start getting dirty...
Sam needs warm winter clothing, summer outfits, and lots of pretty outfits for school...

I totally agree with these two statements. Except for the warm winter clothing - uh I live in San Diego? I believe that the second statement is a direct result of the damn doll, for obvious reasons. So I was about to give up on the whole "Sam needs" thing until H3.2 saved my blogging ass. He sent me to Googlism, which offered a plethora of interesting tidbits.

1. Sam is a babe.
2. Sam is ready to hit the beach in her blue striped spandex bathing suit.
3. Sam is a selftaught wood carver.
4. Sam is a doll that comes with a series of six books.
5. Sam is the best south African batsman of all time.
6. Sam is adamant she doesn't want to be seen as a sex symbol.
7. Sam is a happy camper.
8. Sam is usually traveling the world competing with the Australian pastry team.
9. Sam is dilated 3 cm and is 90 percent effaced.
10. Sam is one of the top 50 most beautiful people.

Obviously, numbers 4, 6 and 10 belong to the same suck ass bitches that fucked up my search before. Please go away movie star chick and damn doll. By the way, my mother purchased the set of 6 books for Christmas one year. When I was in my TWENTIES.

Which leads me to the end of this post. Recently, I was referred to as "psycho". I would like to make it known that I prefer the term "insane". Psycho has a negative connotation that irritates me. Psycho people in my mind are insane + mean/evil practitioners of dismay and doom. I am slightly off-kilter but that does not make me psycho. It makes me interesting.

Update:
I'm sorry to do this, but I had to turn on word verification. Those fucking spammers were spamming really old posts, and I had to spend oodles of time going back, finding them and deleting them. Please forgive me!! I've just deleted every piece of spam, and I'm over it. Anonymous comments will not be turned off...EVER!

You Don't Have A Vagina

Alternate title: Sam's style of parenting is sure cause Chicken to seek solace in therapy/drugs/prostitutes.

Chicken is rather fussy today about his fourth grade teacher. He brought a piece of paper home today with the words "Curse Mrs. XX" on it in large, jagged letters. I'm checking his backpack for a handgun on Monday morning. His birthday is next week so I'm feebly attempting to bribe him into submission with the promised glories of presents, cake, friends, balloons and strippers. I finally had it with him, and I laid down the law, Sam style.

Chicken, you need to talk to me when you're upset about something. If you are angry at your teacher, it is unfair to take it out on the people around you that love you and take care of you. That's what girls do, and you don't have a vagina. Therefore, you are not allowed to be pissed off at one thing and yell at someone else that is totally innocent in the situation. Got it?

That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

HNT Lazy Ass Hands

Okay, I have been sucking at the whole blog thing lately. I've been working way too much, planning Chicken's birthday celebration and... shit I don't know. So here's my lame-assed contribution. If I'm blogging, this is where I am (on the couch) and who I'm with (my Dude). See my cute hands? Ohhh... ahhhh. Happy HNT!

Right in the Ass

I got tagged by Erin. The ONLY reason that I am doing this tag list is the comment she left on my blog "Hey, I've tagged you. May your hating commence ... now". Everyone knows how I feel about being tagged, so please do not try this at home. In addition, I lost my dad again, damn man keeps disappearing off the radar and I lose my shit. Luckily, I found him before I hopped in the car and drove 700 miles to check on him. I love driving, but that wasn't what I had planned for my weekend. It only took 4 hours for the damn nursing people to figure out that he was still alive. Nice.

So I'm feeling pretty surly and this is what you get when Sam's had one of those days. Instead of writing a bunch of witty, vulgar shit I'm going to display my list in pictures to the extent that I can find ones that fit my warped mind. I also added the last two items on the list because I've had them hanging around for a while with no post to compliment them. Also, one of these pictures I took myself. Please don't blame me for the condiment picture, I searched under mayonnaise. WTF?!

*Warning: This post may take three or four days to load. It took me fucking hours to find all these damn pictures and you better appreciate the effort.

1) Shampoo and Conditioner


2) Soap


3) Color


4) Soda


5) Food


6) Movie


7) Band


8) Disney Character


9) Actor & Actress


11) Video Game


12) Computer Game


13) Store


14) Alcohol


15) Number


16) Car


17) Book


18) T.V. Show


19) Website


20) Condiment


21) Fruit


22) Vegetable


23) Restaurant


24) Blogger


25) Place


26) Favorite Cat Toy


27) Favorite 911 Call
I Want A Western Burger

Nessa Did Me

I asked Silly Nessa to "do me" on a post of hers where you get random responses to the following questions:

1. I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavor of jello to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.

I felt kind of dirty because she had already done more than 20 people and I was afraid of catching bloggeritis. But, Nessa's a clean and tidy girl so I'm sure that she used ample protection. This is what she had to say:

1. Random: I absolutely love the way you write - it doesn't match how you look, which is so sweet & innocent ;)
2. Song/Movie: ACDC - You Shook Me All Night Long (I don't know why)
3. Jello: Lime!!!!
4. You & Me: shhhhh...what do you look like?
5. First Memory: you came to see me to tell me you were a wheat sufferer too & it was kismit
6. Animal: fox - for sure
7. Wondering: do you always wear glasses?

My Responses:
1. My brain does not match my outsides. It's not just the way I write. Ask anyone.

2. I get it, although I hate AC/DC. The song fits.

3. That one works too, this is getting creepy....

4. I'm 3" tall, 200lbs, no teeth, flat head. The perfect woman.

5. Wheat, the bane of my existence.

6. Yeah, I'm sneaky like that. If I could be reincarnated I'd choose a beaver, though. (No, not THAT kind of beaver) I have wanted to be a beaver since early elementary school. I'm a Pisces so I love the water, but I want to be a mammal. Beavers build intricate dams and shit and I would love to do that all day long. Plus I could use the word "dam" all the time. Beavers have these cool underwater entrances to their homes where they hang out all safe and snugly. They have really cool tails. Yeah, in case you're reading my blog God and reincarnation is an option, I want to be a beaver. Thanks.

7. I always wear my glasses. I am so blind they denied me for Lasik and PRK. My corneas are too thin for Lasik and my eyes are still getting worse every year. I'm still working on finding contacts that can correct my vision fully and not be a pain in the ass. I used to wear them when I was younger and my vision wasn't so bad.

Now, don't any of you get the idea that I'm going to do this for anyone else. I'm too damn lazy and thinking hurts. However, I am terribly selfish so if you want to comment on something random that you think about me, I will respond to it.

Dry Cleaners

I went to the dry cleaner's today to get my favorite suit cleaned and to FINALLY get the matching pants hemmed. I purchased the jacket, skirt and pants months ago, but I have a fear of getting things tailored. I once had a lined silk dress ruined by an incompetent woman and I didn't want my new pants ruined. So today I took the plunge and tried a new place. I handed over my skirt and jacket with ease, and cautiously asked if the seamstress was available. To my joy/dismay the seamstress was there and I was directed to a changing thing. I say "thing" because it was NOT a changing room. It was a small space created by hanging fabric on four sides. The "door" was an opening in the fabric which I could close by fastening two 1" square pieces of velcro together.

I'm standing in this "room" and I realize that I'm wearing what H3.2 refers to as cute panties. Which means they are more than a thong, but not a whole lot more. (Sorry for the mental picture Dad!) Also, I hear a lot of male voices behind me, and I realize that I forgot to blog about a certain subject some time ago...

There are different categories of men. And each of these categories have subsets that have a particular way of letting a woman know that she is attractive. You have the white, male, blue collar worker that likes to yell, holler, whistle and generally make verbal asses out of themselves. You have the drunken prick at the bar that tries to grope you, the "Is your Daddy a thief" stupid pickup lines... on and on it goes. Lately I have been disturbed by the "I have taken your clothes off and bent you over whatever handy dandy surface is nearby and am ravaging you RIGHT NOW look". In the culture of this particular subset, this is just as normal as whistling is at a construction site.

It usually happens to me when I am in work attire, AKA suit, heels, stockings, etc. When I am working I'm in professional financial person mode. I'm thinking about the stock market, 401(k)'s and a particular client's inadequate life insurance. I'm not thinking about Nookie. I'm clean and pure and chaste dammit. These men look at me and I feel like taking a shower. Don't get me wrong, it is not the "Wow you're hot" look. It's the "Don't move I'm about to cum look". EW!

So, back to the dry cleaners. I'm in this changing "place" and I hear a group of men belonging to this particular subset right behind me. And I'm standing there in my cute panties. And my Xanax hasn't kicked in yet. Did I mention the fabric isn't as thick as I would prefer in a changing area? I'm thinking two feet of concrete would be more to my liking. Then I bend over to pull my dress pants on and my bottom touches the fabric. I'm imagining the imprint of my ass on the fabric and 6 or 7 instant hard-ons. I'm hoping that someone will just throw water on me and we can cut to the "I'm meeeeellllllting" part.

Some of you may be thinking at this point that I am one whacked-out bitch and no one cares about my damn panties or my ass against the fabric in a dry cleaners. However, if you care to recall one fact all of this may make sense:

I am a female. Any rational thoughts or feelings of logic are feeble at best and do not operate AT ALL when I am PMSing.

HNT My Least Favorite Part

Welcome all to another addition of Half-Nekkid Thursday, led by Osbasso The Great and Just. Today I present my least favorite part, my tummy. I chose to do some playing around with Picasa before publishing this picture, and I still am pissed that there isn't a "Six Pack Abs" button on the damn program. Oh well... If you look closely, there is another bug peeking out this week, this time a ladybug. And there is also something shiny in my belly button. Enjoy your Half-Nekkid Day!
Update: I must say, because I'm so insecure about my belly that this is a pre-period slightly bloated shot. I know, some of you want to shoot me right now. I'm sitting at home eating caramel corn wallowing in PMS, what can I say?

Fuck The Morning

I may have mentioned in the past that I firmly believe that mornings should be cancelled. The day should start no earlier than 11:00am, and end promptly at 11:00pm. That way I would be assured my standard twelve hours of sleep, which is my preference when at all possible. I have never been a morning person. My dear mother took me to a shrink when I was ten because she thought there was something wrong with me whenI didn't jump joyfully out of bed in the morning. I could have saved her the money if she had thought to ask me what was the problem. I would have said "FUCK THE MORNING!" Well, I suppose that would have prompted shock therapy or something of that nature, so I'm glad she didn't ask.

Much to my dismay, I have given birth to an alien child that loves the morning. He takes after my father. My dad loves to say at about 5:30am when I am visiting, "You're burning daylight". Yes, I am burning daylight Dad, and I intend to burn it for about 6 more hours. But I just grumble and either fall back asleep or give up and have some coffee with him. I know that he's going to take a nap eventually, and then I'll go back to sleep. I'm not stupid.

When Chicken was out of his crib but not yet grasping the awesome concept of time, I would tell him that he could not get out of bed until Mr. Sunny got up. Otherwise, he would paddle around the house in his footie pajamas at ungodly hours wanting breakfast. The nerve of some people!

Now Chicken has a morning routine. He sets his alarm clock as early as I will allow, usually 6:00am. This gives him 65 minutes to get dressed, make his lunch, make and eat his breakfast and walk out the door. He complains bitterly that this isn't enough time. He prefers to lay in bed for a while after waking, stretching and slowly luxuriating in the morning light. He also likes to watch the news after breakfast. I swear one morning I'm going to catch him reading the morning paper while drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a pipe at the kitchen table. My child is an old man.

Chicken has been grounded for the last two weeks from electronics. This includes the television, X-box, computers and his Nintendo DS. This means he has a lot more time on his hands in the morning, and he's smart enough to know that is when I am at my weakest. His devious plan is to do a bunch of chores in the morning, bounce into my room around six in the morning and tell him all of the glorious things that he had accomplished. This the same child that can take a whole day to do chores that would last any other human being 20 minutes. Then he asks to play video games. I say "No". He asks to watch television, I cave in and he hops away.

I know I'm a terrible mother and I suck at discipline. Chicken will either be a brilliant (enter something socially acceptable here) in adulthood or the badest mofo mob boss ever. I just hope he has some low level thug do the killing/maiming/beating because then I can just be proud and say that my son is a business man that deals in imports/exports while providing protection to local small businesses. It's the American dream.

On Thursday morning he struck again. This is the email that I composed to my father at 6:30am. Yes, you read correctly. I was awake and able to operate a computer at 6:30am IN THE MORNING because I was so freaked out by my child.

I'm up. Why, oh why am I up? Because my child is insane. Going back to bed. Have I mentioned that Chicken takes after his dear Gramps? He woke me up at 6:10am to say that he had emptied the clothes dryer, dishwasher, reloaded the dishwasher, fed the cat, turned the snake light on, gotten dressed, made his lunch and was about to make his breakfast. He had forgotten to set his alarm, but he woke up at 5:30 anyway. By the way, his only duties in the morning are to get dressed, make his lunch, eat breakfast and turn the snake light on.... I must blog about this crazy child and his "gramps" early rising habits.

My father's response: "That's my Grandson and yes, that is blogable ;^) "

I'm so proud of my dad. He used "blogable". I think I may shed a tear. Thankfully, Chicken's restriction ends tomorrow. I am assuming that the most productive two weeks of my child's life will end as well. At least I'll be able to sleep in the morning. 'Cause that's what matters, right?