I Peed A Little®

This week's winner is none other than our very own Virginia Belle. Virginia commented twice on the same post (the post before this one), and the contrast between her comments was fucking fantastic. I also realized that I'm a total and complete asshat and had overlooked adding her to my frequent visitors list. Oops. Sorry! If anyone else notices me fucking up like that, just comment/email/call/stalk/etc. until I pull my head out of my ass.

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Part I
oooooh, that just made my friday. thanks, sam. too funny. don't you hate it when those little buggers slip out like that??? this makes me glad i use tampons.

you should have warned just the men. i think women can handle this story. that was freakin' hilarious. i was cackling away. i'm sure my coworkers are like, "what is so f'in funny?" my stomach hurts from reading it, so i know you meant it when you said you were laughing just as hard. i would have fallen over if i had been in your spot. i would have ended up on the floor, naked and wet, laughing my ass off.

i'm loving your blog for all of the BC/bodily funtion tips i get. first it was the pube grooming, and now this...i'd forgotten about "instead".

ok, off i go to look at may ling...

Part II

oh. my. god.

*VB hurls into office trashcan.*

1. why would anyone ever do something this disgusting? if this isn't a sign of mental instability, i don't know what is. she needs meds.
2. great! as if we need men thinking women are crazier than they already do!
3. how do you know about this artist, let alone her website?
4. very few things literally make me sick to my stomach on sight. this is one of them. after 4 photos, i had to leave.
5. i wonder what the health department would say about this.
6. at least it would be hard to imitate her work. i bet she saves a fortune on copyright.
7. i wanna read a review of her show at the museum in NYC. i bet it's...juicy.

aaaaawww! that was bad. i'm sorry.

ok not really.

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I was laughing so hard that Chicken came running into the room to see what was going on...the hallmark of a winning comment. In response to this comment and others, I had never seen May Ling Su before yesterday. I don't like the sight of blood, so I do not enjoy my period quite as much as she does. I was diligently searching for some spice to add to my post and May Ling fit the bill perfectly. Also, bravo and wow to Schadeboy for single-handedly delivering two of his children. That's right, ladies...he DELIVERED THEM. On purpose. By himself. For all you men that get queasy when we ask you to buy us tampons, Schadeboy has set a standard that NONE of you will achieve. Bow your heads in shame. Thank you.

Crossing The Line

Warning & Disclaimer: This post is not intended for consumption while partaking in the following activities:

1. Eating
2. Drinking
3. Eating or drinking within the previous 36 hours
4. Ever intending to eat or drink again

You have been warned. The following post details an event that happened earlier this week. This event almost resulted in copious vomiting by one H3.2. It is that gross.

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H3.2 has developed a habit of watching me shower. It's not a sexual thing, it's more of a convenience issue. I tend to take a shower in the early evening around the time he arrives home from work. He wants to talk to me, and I'm in the shower. We talk about our days, the usual "hi honey I'm home how are you," except I'm showering while this conversation is unfolding.

This week is my blessed bleeding like a stuck pig time. You may mark it on your calendars for future reference if you would like. I'm very regular. I started spotting on Tuesday morning and my body waited until I stepped into the shower Tuesday evening to begin the true horror that is my monthly curse. During a short break in the torrential downpour I popped in my trusty Instead and continued about my shower without the tiresome imitation of Niagara Falls.

Several minutes later H3.2 asks me what is on my foot. At first he thinks it is a clump of hair before realizing that my hair was still dry. As I shower without my glasses I have no idea what he is talking about without bringing my foot up as close to my face as my 100 year old body will allow. I notice that there is a large blood clot nestled between my big toe and my first toe. I try in vain to shake my foot to dislodge it but the dastardly thing won't budge. I am forced to pick it up and dump it on the shower floor and wash it down to the drain where it sits and refuses to move. It is too large and gruesome to fit down the holes in the grate. I end up having to pick up the drain grating and pull the clot out in pieces and then wash it down the drain.

Meanwhile, H3.2 is appearing a bit ill. He says to me:

"The bleeding every month is one thing. The blood clots is another. But A BLOOD CLOT STUCK BETWEEN YOUR TOES THAT WON'T EVEN GO DOWN THE DRAIN? It's as big as the leeches on that Grey's Anatomy episode. That's just wrong."

Of course my inappropriate sense of humor means that while H3.2 is ranting about the disgusting sludge that is my menstrual flow I am laughing so hard that my stomach muscles are cramping. Yes, it is gross. Yes, I hate my period. But what the fuck I am supposed to do about it? He should see what it is like when I'm NOT on the pill.

Do you see the line of decency anywhere around here? In case you'd like to travel further down the bloody lane, visit May Ling Su and check out her original artwork.

Half-Nekkid Hands

Happy HNT. See Osbasso for more tasty morsels of nekkidness.

Dildo

Television is a substitute for living real life. Due to my stellar health, television has become much of my life. Or at least the part that hasn't been infiltrated by blogs, parenting and H3.2. Like the various sexual devices on the market, television can give you the illusion that you're really doing it. You believe you're interacting, forming relationships and discussing interesting books when truly you're just jerking off into empty space.

I've had several thoughts regarding television lately, and I'm sure that none of them are original. The first is American Idol's feud between Paula and Asslick Simon. I have seen enough press featuring the two of them disagreeing and fighting and blah blah blah to choke a fucking horse. Isn't that the point? To get people to watch the show, wondering if THIS episode is the one where Simon either: a) Fucks Paula up or b) Fucks Paula.

The other thought occured while watching Oprah. She began her show by addressing the reams of mail she had received about her hair. Apparently she had relaxed her hair and then taped several shows before perming it again. Her hair was flat and straight. This so disturbed her legions of viewers that they WROTE HER and asked WHAT THE FUCK was up with her hair. Who does this? Who sends someone that they do not know a letter complaining about their hair? Who has that kind of time on their hands?

In more interesting news, Ewe Girl and I were discussing crows today, because all the cool kids talk about crows on Tuesdays. As we spoke about the general creepiness of crows Ewe Girl mentioned that crows will pluck out and eat the eyes of animal babies AS THEY ARE BEING BORN. What is more horrible and disgusting than that? Ewe Girl and I started laughing hysterically at the thought of a poor animal mommy pushing out her baby, and then realizing that her newborn is MISSING EYEBALLS while the crow is sitting on the nearby fence smacking his beak and enjoying the freshest, most tender eyeballs EVER. Ewe Girl and I are going to be best friends in Hell.

House Quote
"You blow dry your hair?" Dr. House
"I'll be out of your hair tomorrow. What's left of it." Wilson

One more thing:
I have nothing for HNT yet. Any suggestions? (Keep in mind there are limits to what I will show you perverts)

I Love Pussy

I Peed a Little®

I faithfully/obsessively read every comment made on this blog. Your comments make me chuckle, grin, sniffle and occassionally pee myself. Not a torrent of urine streaming all over the couch, mind you, but just enough to separate the ha ha funny from the OH FUCK MY STOMACH IS KILLING ME AND I JUST PEED A LITTLE FROM LAUGHING funny. This wetting of the panties event will be marked by a I Peed a Little® post. Although I cannot promise that you will make me pee every week, I would like to strive for that goal. One wet pair per week. That isn't too much to ask for, is it?

Comment of The Week

Brought to you by the Redneck Diva, the number 2 and the letter F, I bring you the Comment of the Week®:

Landing strip, racing stripe . . . Mr. Diva calls it "a napkin".

I think I woke up half the neighborhood when I read that one. By the way... I'm home. You'll be seeing a new post tomorrow evening if my brain isn't rotted from the overdose of estrogen and baby pictures.

Landing Strip

I couldn't leave without checking one last thing... and OMG people. I do NOT shave it bare. I have a landing strip, thank you very much. (Said in my most prim and proper voice.) I have conferred with numerous experts that will testify that said hair is a landing strip and is not to be confused with a racing stripe. Got it? L-a-n-d-i-n-g strip. Wherein Bornfool only sees the word strip. Have a good weekend.

Coochie + Toothpaste = Extra Whitening

For some reason H3.2 and I were discussing toothpaste and pussy (the vaginal, not the feline type) the other day in the shower. It started with a discussion of toothpaste and then naturally lead to eating pussy which of course ultimately ended in me mentioning H3.2 eating my pussy covered with toothpaste. He vehemently denied ever eating my pussy covered in toothpaste, while I protested that he had done so in the past. H3.2 said it wasn't even prudent to put toothpaste on a pussy (especially a freshly-shaven one) due to the stinging and general ouchiness of the endeavor.

Just to be perfectly clear, at no time did H3.2 eat toothpaste off my coochie. I was simply enjoying a very flustered H3.2 and his repeated denial of the event. However, to prove my point that coochie + toothpaste does not = death to coochie I exited the shower, squirted toothpaste (with extra whitening power!!) on my hand and got back into the shower. Where I proceeded to apply it to my coochie, avoiding the inner areas but liberally spreading it everywhere else. I must admit, the sensation of freshly-shaved coochie + toothpaste was rather... odd. I would liken the experience to Icy Hot. Even after washing it off and exiting the shower the cold/hot/minty fresh feeling lingered. And lingered. And lingered.

Just as this post must linger. For alas, dear readers I must leave for THREE WHOLE DAYS. I am off to a grand retreat in the mountains, eating home-cooked meals that are miraculously prepared and cleaned up without any Sam intervention. I may partake in deer watching from the large bay windows. I may sigh a gentle sigh at the beauty of nature. I may sleep when sleep calls me and sleep the sleep of one without a care in the world. But most importantly of all (Anna- STOP READING RIGHT NOW!!) I most certainly will scrapbook until my hands are bloody and the pictures are smeared with fecal matter as I cannot even stop to wipe my own ass. I will scrapbook from Friday evening until Sunday brunch and this time folks, I don't even have to stop to go outside and smoke. Because I am a quitter. And a scrapper. I am Sam.

Meet my friends A and B:
A. Exciting moment where Anna vomits up food from last month: I may even photograph and POST a layout or two for your "Oh my Gawd she really does scrapbook" pleasure.

B. Even more exciting moment where Anna can start reading again: I am paring down my scrappin' materials to the BARE minimum. I may not even pack underwear. Why? Because I am driving the fucking VETTE this weekend, ladies and gentlemen. To a mountainous location with curves and hills and dales and such. I would have a bit more room, except that my hot asian chick friend LD2 is riding up with me. She doesn't even realize that we're sharing a bed... ha ha ha... I'm serious. Really. Go see her blog. I'm going to scrap mommy stuff while she scraps Scotland and China and Places Other Than The Pool and Living Room Floor.

I'll be back Sunday.... no Internet access on the mountain. No cell phone signal on the mountain. Bliss, I say. Pure bliss.

Attention People!

Some of you are driving me crazy. You comment. I log into my gmail account. I respond with wit, caring, love and sexual favors. I click send and then I notice. Your email address is noreply-comment@blogger.com. What are you trying to do to me? If it was one or two or sixteen of you I would understand. It is your subtle way of saying "Please don't talk to me." SOME of you simply DO NOT understand how to fix this problem. Therefore, a tutorial for you all to endure. *This only applies to blogger accounts.*

1. Log into blogger.
2. On the right panel you will notice "Edit Profile" beneath your pic or absence of pic
3. Click it
4. The first heading is Privacy
5. Check the box that reads: "Show my email address"
6. It will say "Currently set to samsstories@gmail.com" or in your case, whatever it is set to... if you want to change it, THAT box is located in the Identity section

Make sense? Please do this... do it for me. Do it for Chicken. Do it for world peace and endless nookie + tequila. I will respond to your comments. I will be funny. I might even be naked. On the inside.

Pussy + Boobie + Tattoo = HNT

H3.2's left appendage and his only tattoo + my breast in my new pajamas. Yes, that little bump is my nipple. Stop staring.

Dude perched on my breast after carefully examining it as he does every night. H3.2 trying to decide whether he wants to pet Dude or my breast...

For more Half-Nekkid Thursday goodness, see Osbasso.

Estella's Revenge

You may have noticed that I do not litter my sidebar with cutesy buttons. I do not do cutesy. I do lists. Functional lists that include snappy titles on occasion, but lists nonetheless. However, there comes a time where a button of superior quality or meaning must be added to the sidebar. In order to keep the frenzy of buttons to a manageable level, this means another button must die. Today marks the end of my Fuck IE button. Although I still firmly believe that IE must be fucked in the most unpleasant manner, I wish to add Estella's Revenge to my vast button collection. Goodbye Firefox button.... goodbye...

Hookers and Drugs

The other night I was rummaging through Chicken's backpack in a futile attempt to find tiny decorative ice packs for his school lunch. I'm not sure how any of us survived the meat-laden mayonnaise-dripping bacterial frenzy that constituted the school lunch of our childhood. According to modern scientific opinion and that whole refrigeration crap we're forced to CHILL food instead of sitting it out on the playground in baking heat for 5 hours until our children eat it. What the fuck is that about? I think kids are just pussies that can't take virulent strains of bacteria coursing through their wimpy little bodies.

Back to the great ice pack hunt of 2006: Have you ever attempted to find those little fuckers in the dead of the night? Of course, I did have Chicken's light on and I was holding his backpack upside down... however those damn ice packs are like little blue gnomes. The kind that you don't see all week long, however come Saturday morning they are having a fucking orgy under your bed and the wee little one is screeching "Fuck me in the ass!" as loud as he can. All the muttering about gnomes must have woken poor Chicken up because he gently inquired: "What are you doing Mommy?" "I'm searching for drugs and prostitutes in your backpack," was my reply. "Yippee! Drugs and prostitutes!" he shouts with glee and promptly falls back to sleep. That's my boy!

For those of you that are a bit concerned with Chicken's nickname being Chicken, please remember that I don't call him Chicken in front of his peers. Also, when I say Chicken I'm referring to this type of chicken. A Kung fu ass kicking chicken of the fiercest chicken nature. Not simply Chicken but the great and mighty:

El Chicken

Which many seem odd to any Spanish-speaking readers as the title should read El Pollo, but that's another tangent where I spew green globs of fury that Mexican restaurants create menus where I can order:

Pork Carnitas and Carne Asada Steak

Fucktards.

Rack 'Em

The other day I arrived at ESS (Chicken's after school program) to pick up my sweet, darling boy. My sweet, darling, comic, flamboyant and outspoken boy. The same boy whose group of girlfriends has been schooling him in being tougher. At home Chicken and I work on using his words to keep the fuckers/bullies off of his back. He also knows that if someone is harassing him, starts a fight and he isn't able to walk away, he can protect himself and I will back him up 100%.

While waiting for Chicken to arrive at the ESS office, I noticed a large fifth grade boy sitting in the office area looking quite miserable. The teacher asked him what his problem was and he sullenly replied that his stomache ached. I dismissed the event when Chicken came bouncing into view and we got into the car. Chicken was positively giddy that afternoon, and after settling him down I heard the best story ever.

Chicken walked up to that same fifth-grader and said "hi" earlier that afternoon. Not just "hi" but "hi" in a cheery, clownish, somewhat manic Chicken patented greeting. The kid's friend called Chicken a moron. The kid asked Chicken if he wanted to fight and started getting into Chicken's face and hitting him in the torso area. Chicken walked away and the kid followed him being a total prick. Chicken strode up to a wall and stopped with the fucker right behind him. Then Chicken kicked back behind him. Hard. He kicked the dumbass right in the family jewels. The kid grabbed his balls with an "oof" and muttered "that didn't hurt" before hobbling off to the office where he complained of a tummy ache.

How proud was I at that moment? So proud I could have hugged a nasty one-legged hooker with multiple veneral diseases.

*Disclaimer: If you are a clean, well-groomed, one-legged hooker free of all diseases I mean no disrespect toward you, your profession or your hilarious way of hopping around the street corner.

Creme Brulee

Can I shock you? I love to bake. LOVE IT. As a first at Sam's Stories, I give you my favorite dessert recipe: Creme Brulee. For those of you that have paid way too much for it at a nice restaurant you will be outraged at how simple it is to make. Creme brulee is gluten free, so I can eat it until I weigh 500 pounds if I so choose. The Cliff's Notes version is:

Boil heavy cream & sugar.
Beat egg yolks & vanilla extract.
Combine.
Bake.
Chill.
Torch sugar on top.

See? Even a chicken could do it. My Chicken loves helping me make it, although it is not a recipe for instant gratification as the chilling process takes at least 3 hours. However, I have given into gluttony and skipped this step. Yum. Without further ado.... my bestest friend:

Creme Brulee

2 cups heavy cream
4 egg yolks
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp. Vanilla Extract
8 tsp. fine raw sugar or granulated sugar for caramelizing

Preheat oven to 300° F.

In a saucepan over medium heat, combine cream and 1/4 cup sugar; cook, stirring, until it gently boils.

In a bowl, beat egg yolks and vanilla until blended.

Gradually pour hot cream into yolks, stirring constantly. Otherwise, you end up with scrambled eggs.

Place ramekins in 3" deep baking pan.

Divide mixture among four 7-oz ramekins.

Put ramekins (in pan) into the heated oven.

Add hot water to fill pan halfway up the side of the ramekins. (I recommend a tea kettle for easy pouring)

Bake until set. (30-35 minutes) The tops may be slightly browned.

Remove the pan from the oven and allow the ramekins to cool slightly.

Remove the ramekins from the pan, cool to room temperature, then chill thoroughly 3 hours or overnight. (I put them on a cutting board and cover them before putting in the fridge so they don't absorb the icky fridge smells)

Just before serving, sprinkle the custards with 2 tsp. sugar and caramelize the topping with a kitchen torch. You must have a kitchen torch. It is sooo fun. Just be careful not to blacken the sugar. Go slowly.

Then enjoy. I recommend a cup of cappuccino to go with the creme brulee.

For those of you that protest about the tools needed for the recipe, you can buy all four ramekins + the torch for $34.99 at Amazon.com. For about thirty-five bucks you can make this dessert over and over until you orgasm. It really is a beautiful thing.

*Disclaimer: I am not responsible for any resulting ill-fitting clothes after you make creme brulee over and over and eat all four servings by yourself. Although the servings are small, the desert is rich enough that you should NEVER eat more than one a day. Think of the gluttony at Willy Wonka's factory and what happened to those kids. Don't be them. One a day. No more.

Inane Questions

I stole this from Andi. She stole it from someone else...you know the drill.

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 24 and find line 5.
That would require moving from my current horizontal position on the couch. I do have the most recent FHM beside me, however.

Our club gathers each year to celebrate the hair on our upper lips and to honor Tom Selleck's achievements in the field.

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?
A stupid decorative pillow that was once featured in an HNT of my feet and the same FHM magazine. H3.2 has a subscription, but I'm the only one that reads it. Chicken loves it because I'll read the jokes to him. I can't wait until he grows up and realizes that I've been editing the jokes all this time...

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Seinfield, where I had to convince the youngster H3.2 that Elaine is the same actress that stars in the new show The New Adventures of Old Christine. He couldn't believe that she looked like such shit today compared to 1998. I explained to him that between 35 and 45 years old women go downhill FAST and he was welcome to stick around for a few more years and watch the rapid deterioration up close and personal.

4. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Nothing. The beautiful absence of sound. I love it. I shall cherish these 15 minutes for years.

5. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
I left my house this morning at 5:45am to take care of Baby Z. I believe I was sleep-walking.

6. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?
I looked at Andi's blog. I also read it for a bit because I blove Andi. She's a total book slut. I bet she would do it with a book she didn't even know AT ALL. And she'd love it and never look back. Unless it was good, and then she'd do it again. Before that, I was looking at myself naked. In the shower. Naked. Without my glasses, so really I didn't see anything exciting. You didn't miss much. I promise.

7. What are you wearing?
Duh, pajamas, granny panties and my Dude. My new pajamas shipped yesterday. I wonder if they will be here in time for next week's HNT?

8. Did you dream last night?
Dream... wet or dry?

9. When did you last laugh?
When H3.2 tried to convince me that being compared to a pig was a good thing. "What?" he exclaims, "you're both tasty!" How can you argue with that logic?

10. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Dust? Pictures? What kind of question is this? Dead people. I hang dead people on my walls. They make me laugh.

11. Seen anything weird lately?
Does Chicken count? I saw him disappear into his room a while back. Actually, that has to count. He never hangs out in his room. So that is weird. He's usually glued to my side. Oh, except I sent him to his room for being an asshat. I guess that is why the house is quiet.

12. What do you think of this quiz?
What do you think of my cock in your ass? Oh, sorry. The quiz is fine.

13. What is the last film you saw?
Land of the Dead. More aptly titled Yawn of the Dead by a user at imdb. I don't know if you could count it as an actual film, though. Maybe more of a middle-schoolers cinema project.

14. If you turned a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?
How many multi? Two or fifty? Let's assume fifty. I would buy...Dude his nuts back. Then we could make sweet kitty love together.

15. Tell me something about you that I don't know.
The Internets know everything...except that I secretly dream of cutting off my hair.

16. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?
I'd sterilize 1/2 of the world for being stupid, mean, bad fuckers that shouldn't reproduce EVER.

17. Do you like to Dance?
Is Dance different than dance? No I don't. My wedding to H2? No dancing. I forbade dancing. I did have a killer open bar, though.

18. George Bush.
*vomits*

19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
My first child wasn't a girl. Now what the fuck do I do? I named Chicken Ashley before the ultrasound revealed that Ashley had a penis.

20. Imagine your boyfriend is making sweet love to his Xbox 360, what would you do?
Sit here and blog the most boring post ever.

21. Would you ever consider living abroad?
The Netherlands.
Oh, yes. I would. I thought you asked where, and I answered. Why is Essie here by the way? I'd complain if I was her.

22. What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
How the fuck did you get here? Did someone tell you we had gluten-free beer?

23. 4 people who must also do this meme in their journal.
Pick yourselves you lazy-assed sons/daughters of bitches. Comment. I'll read it.

Sidenote: I'm watching My Name is Earl right now with H3.2. I love that show. It is the best trash ever. "I bet it made a crunchy sound." hahaha

Half-Nekkid Facial*

Why am I green? 'Cause I'm a bit o Irish. My maternal grandfather's original surname was O'Malley. It was Americanized years ago. Is that Irish enough for you?

Osbasso instructed ALL of us to include a bit o green in our contributions, with a liberal splashing of alcohol or shamrocks to boot! Don't be alarmed by my mismatched background, it's only for a few days to honor the man, the legend, the hung like John Holmes... Osbasso. If you like the shamrock background on the left go visit Akane's Graphics.Earlier this week I was begging H3.2 on my KNEES to take a picture of my lips for HNT. It wasn't even Steak and BJ Day. I made random faces in order to obtain the best lip shots in the world. In the end, I didn't even get a lousy fucking T-shirt proclaiming "I made pouty faces and all I got was this stupid picture where a person cannot fully appreciate my lips." I really like my lips. Not because they are gorgeously overblown with whatever the fuck they inject into lips these days. No,I like them because they are just right. They are shaped nicely and dammit I like them. I don't know if they are as wonderful as my feet, but they'll do in a pinch.

My non-Irish HNT.

For more exciting pictures of Half-Nekkidness-Green, go visit Osbasso.

*(Pictures removed)

Therapy Needed

Chicken snooped on my blog the other day and came across a not-safe-for-children image. Namely, this one:

Needless to say, I was apalled. How does one open a dialogue about such a picture? I asked him what he thought of it. His response:

"I never DID like that candle guy."

Let's just forget this ever happened, huh? Until your therapy starts, that is....

Lacking Necessary Lubrication

I don't talk about my real job on my blog. I don't even say much about my semi-real job. For those of you that are lost/confused/peeing on the potted plant in the corner here is a little bit of background:

I was hired in September of 2003 by a financial company as a registered representative and life agent. Which means in normal people speak that I am a financial planner, although I cannot legally call myself one without passing another exam. I sit down with people and help them plan for their future, protect their assets, blah blah blah. I invest their money, write life insurance policies and send them to tax/mortgage/estate people. Some clients want to know which funds are appropriate in their 401(k) given their situation. Some need life insurance to protect their families. Some want to save up for a bigger home. Some people say that I simply cannot start another sentence with the word some. Some would be dead fucking wrong. Some need me to hold their hands and help them understand how to use the new-fangled electric windows in their car. I'm serious. I once showed a client where the magic button of window raising and lowering was located in her car.

I'm technically on a leave of absence from this job. Which means that I don't have to attend countless office meetings with my co-workers. I am also not taking on new clients. I am still servicing (in the most platonic way) my current client base. I'm on a leave of absence for several reasons. The biggest factor was my father being terminally ill. I knew that once he died I would need time to heal, so I took a position as a nanny taking care of my good friend's baby. That's another post...

To finish up the stupid background, the professional tax preparer at my office is being a douchebag and giving me a royal fucking headache. Plus, he was involved in a car accident over the weekend. Therefore, I am not having any of my clients go to him this year. I don't need the irritation and I don't like apoligizing to my clients for stupid shit that someone else does. It isn't rocket science, people. It's taxes. Simple taxes with just a few extra 1099-INT/DIV forms. I can fucking do it. *sighs*

The actual story? A particular client that I will call Fucking Cunt Face Bitch wanted me to take care of her taxes this year. She is elderly. I have held her hand and done EVERYTHING for this woman. Last year I picked up her tax paperwork, delivered them to the tax guy, he prepared them, I took them back to her, she signed them and I mailed them. She paid less than fifty dollars for this, of which I got nothing. Just doin' my job, ma'am. One would think that I made zillions of dollars helping this woman plus referrals to all her wealthy friends. Not a fat fucking chance. I helped her because it was the right thing to do. I've seen the way financial professionals fuck the elderly. However, Fucking Cunt Face Bitch erred. Oh, she fucking fucked the fucking pooch.

Exhibit A:
Very early January, on the phone with Fucking Cunt Face Bitch. Small talk, health inquiries (she's old and I care about my clients). She busts out with, "Is your dad dead yet?" WHAT??!! Can you ask that question in a manner less fucking insensitive. I wanted to call her the next week and say, "Yup, he kicked the bucket bitch. Are you happy now?"

Exhibit B:
I call Fucking Cunt Face Bitch today to inform her that I will not be taking care of her taxes this year due to a car accident and some other tax issues. She yells at me and HANGS UP ON ME.

By the way, the client that I mentioned earlier that couldn't operate her car windows? It was her. Ungrateful bitch. She shall no longer be my client so fast her fucking head will spin. Spin.

Asshole

Chicken is cognitively advanced for his age in multiple subjects and consistently amazes me with his grasp of complex ideas. However, his writing sucks ass. He can verbally express himself until I am nervously looking around for a sharp object with which to impale myself. Almost every day I must bellow "You may not talk to me until you complete XX task that I asked to you do." Who am I kidding? Multiple times a day I holler this like a farmer at a pig hollering festival where the first prize is sexual relations with aforementioned pig.

His written skills are grade level on a good day. Somewhere between his brain and the paper the ideas get stuck and he stops cold. As a child that doesn't want to do ANYTHING that he can't do well, he hates to write with a hateful passion he typically reserves for minivans. Yes, it's that bad.

Recently Chicken was required to write a five paragraph report. Which he conveniently forgot about until the night before it was due. I thought briefly about killing myself right there as an unforgettable lesson in procrastination for Chicken, and then decided against it. Although I bet he never would have put off another project as long as he lived. "The last time I put off something someone DIED" would ricochet off his synapses for all time. Great parenting idea, I must save that one for later...

To maturely express my feelings about the procrastination I called him an asshole. Which is not that uncommon in this household. It's similar the term brat at Sam's place. I use it to refer to the cat, the kid, the H3.2 and various inanimate objects. Stunned by the word, Chicken laughed, stood up on his chair (I was sitting next to him) pulled down his pajama bottoms and boxers, spread his buttcheeks and yelled "Here's my asshole!" Oh My Gawd. I did not want to see that. Thank goodness he had just showered.

Erin recently posted about the delight found in calling your child an asshole and mentioned an episode of Sex in The City. At that moment I decided to educate all parents that call their children assholes. You may think that it is a swell way to express yourself, however it can lead to the dreaded sighting of your 9 year-olds brown eye. Please, for the love of your retinas do NOT call your child an asshole. It will scar you.

Victoria's Boring Secret

I pussed out. I suppose it is the icky, just want to lay around feeling I've had all weekend that made me buy these jammies. They look so cute and comfy and not at all liable to send Chicken to therapy. I also purchased five more pairs of my favorite granny panties. I will attempt to don the pajamas and pose most seductively for a future HNT. The order should be here in a week or so...

For all the ladies that poured through endless pictures of hot models in a failed attempt to procure me sexy pj's, thank you!!

Layout

I'm changing the look/feel/taste of my blog. Check out the sidebar and look for more changes to come...

See?

There is a real post (of sorts) below. This post is a poor excuse for why I have been blogging steadily but not reading many blogs. See this curl? I've been so busy/tired/fucking exhausted that I haven't straightened my hair. My permanent straightening has grown out to the point where my crazy wispies around my face and the nape of my neck are in full control. H3.2 hates them. I think they're cute. If all my hair was this cute naturally, I'd be a happy camper. Alas, some is this curly, some is wavy, some is almost straight and there is SO much of it.

And... notice now I italicized real? Because according to the rules (see below) you're not supposed to quote something to add emphasis. So I hereby end my quoting for emphasis and begin my italicizing.

Oral Issues

In his DOL (daily oral language) studies today, Chicken was asked by his teacher to add a suffix to the word quick. His response? Quicken. I guess the forehead writing scarred him. We'll just add that to the list of issues to bring up in his therapy some day.

Speaking of oral, I took Dude to the Veterinarian last month to get his teeth cleaned. It seems that when he goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, he is merely wetting his tooth brush and NOT BRUSHING HIS TEETH AT ALL. As a result, he had a nasty build-up of tartar. It cost me just over $300.00. As a direct result of the bill (which included knocking his ass out and cleaning and blah blah blah), I decided that trusting a three year-old to brush his own teeth is folly. Therefore, I have been doing it myself.


Notice how in the second picture he is looking directly into the camera as if to say "I cannot believe the amusement you are getting out of this situation." Yes, Dude it is amusing to me. So much so that I am having H3.2 photograph it for all the Internets to see your humiliation. Why would I do this to my beloved cat?

1. $300.00
2. He is on a diet and is not taking kindly to the reduction in food, therefore he is waking me up at all hours MEOWING loudly, rustling the blinds, knocking shit over, etc.
3. He's a stoner cat. That's not to say he's a daily smoker, however he has smoked in the past. He gets a bit upset by the teeth brushing and then says "Where's the Doritos?" You may notice that I don't have gloves on and I'm wearing only a T-shirt. Dude is fully claw equipped and could rip me a new one if he so desired. You may also notice that he doesn't say "Duuuuddde, where's the Doritos?" because he doesn't talk to himself.

In a completely unrelated manner, I'm having English issues. Specifically with the United States' version of quotation marks. Always put punctuation INSIDE the quotations NO MATTER FUCKING WHAT. However, I read these cool things called books when I'm not reading blogs. Some of these books are not American English and use quotation marks inside or outside depending on usage. The way they should be used, in my opinion. As I frequently fuck all to hell English and grammar rules on this blog I don't know if I care whether I'm using the American standard or not. But... a teeny tiny part of me wants to do it correctly. My previous training in written English was in the form of papers written for college which did not include free-flowing rambling, run-on sentences and dialogue. Those damn business professors frown on that sort of thing. Fuck. I'll get over it.

Last and least: I will do my best to scrapbook this weekend to alleviate some of the picture frenzy recently noticed on this blog. Also (I lied, that wasn't last) I will try to get my buddy Emma to post this weekend. She has a lot of shit stored up I am sure.

I Blove You

On Thursday, March 9th, 2006 I had my twenty-thousandth visitor since I started keeping track with a Site Meter on August 2, 2005. For me, a blogger that started this whole thing just to keep my mind off of smoking and my son being gone for the summer this is an amazing milestone. I didn't realize that people would READ my posts when I began this journey. I never dreamed that I would have T.M.A.S. (The Mutual Adoration Society) going on with other bloggers. Many thanks to Shelli and Manblogger for dreaming that term up.

Speaking of Shelli, on her blogger profile her random question is "Please describe how you could take the peel off an apple all in one go..." Her most beautific answer: "With my apple peeler-corer-slicer." To those of you that are saying "huh?" if you had one, you would know. I need to get off my lazy butt and figure out how to make the yummy apple with baked goodness on top without gluten. Again, if you were a Pampered Chef slut (I am in recovery for this affliction)... you would know.

Okay, stop right there. H3.2 is reading over my shoulder and protesting that "You're not making any sense" because he isn't a Pampered Chef slut. Ever the backseat driver living vicariously through my blog because he isn't cool enough to have his own blog he's complaining. And now he says "I could have my own blog, just nobody would visit it and I post on FORUMS all DAY. AND I had a blog WAY before you did and I've had MANY websites." So, um shut up H3.2. However, as our year anniversary is coming up fast and furious with no Vin Diesel or riced-out cars in sight here's the back story on apple peeler/corer/slicer and the yummy apple with baked goodness on top. For all of you groaning and thinking "WTF" and "we don't come here for this" blame H3.2. I blame him.

This is THE apple/peeler/corer/slicer made by Pampered Chef. The picture illustrates not only the AP/C/S but the STAND as well. You may ooohhh and aaahhhh now. H3.2 claims to know what a AP/C/S is (I'm so tied of typing it out), however if he doesn't know about THE AP/C/S then he don't know nothing. How's that for fucked up Engrish 101?

As far as the yummy goodness goes, the recipe can be found here. For those of you that don't care enough to visit Pampered Chef, the short version is sliced apples with a flour/sugar/oats/butter/nuts layer on top, all baked into... YUMMY GOODNESS. However I can't eat the flour/oats part. Which makes it not goodness but suckness.

Fuck. All I wanted to say was "You all are great" and "Thanks for the HBI." However, since I'm already here, I'd like to share a weird Sam/Chicken thingy. Oh, and please disregard any typos in this post. I'm tired. Very, very tired.

*picture removed*

This is Chicken's forehead last week. We were at the post office, I was mailing a check and forgot to write down the check number. I grabbed my pen, lifted up Chicken's hair and wrote it on his forehead. Later I had him pull back his hair so I could enter the number into Quicken.

His hair isn't long, but it is just long enough to cover the writing. Doesn't he have the bluest eyeballs ever? Especially compared to my not quite blue but it says so on my driver's license blue eyes? Notice the scattering of freckles on his nose? A perfect match to mine. I love my Chicken. He lets me write on his forehead... and then model it so I can blog about it.

Wesson's Favorite Spot HNT

Wesson is now nine months old, yet he's still firmly attached to the breasts. I've thought about weaning him, but who could blame a cold-blooded fellow for liking to hang out with the girls?

I typically wear a tank top with a shelf bra and pop him in for easy handling. He doesn't fall out and he's kept snug and warm. We've even run a few errands like this (with a T-shirt over the tank). For this HNT, you're even treated to a peek at H3.2's finger as he takes the shot. The bra under the sports bra is just for HNT happiness. H3.2 says the girls look better that way on film, while still displaying Wesson in all his glory. Or Wesson looks better that way while still displaying the girls in all their glory? Either way, when we tried this shot with a regular tank + shelf bra the girls looked like ass cheeks. So much so I could have posted "I have a snake up my ass" and you would have thought I was a freak. Or more of a freak. Or simply "Freaky, that's HAWT!"

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday. For more half-nekkidness, go visit Osbasso and join the circus.

PS There is a new post for Wednesday below. Like you come here for the writing.

Cooter

Overheard:
(in my shower as I am showering and H3.2 is standing outside of the shower talking to me)

He looks down and says: "Shave your cooter."

I am outraged at the Dukes of Hazzard reference being used on my private parts. Thou shall not call it a cooter. It's many things, but not a cooter. Cooter is a mechanic. Cooter is not my pussy. I screech: "What? It's not a cooter!"

He shrugs and replies, "I will call it a cooter until you shave it."


Damn! It's not like I look like these women. And yes, I had to work really, really, REALLY hard to find the most tasteful picture of hairy snatch the Internet had to offer so as not to cause some people (Schadeboy) to spew a non-caffeinated beverage on their computer. Which I'm not sure that he would but I'm trying to be sensitive and all today in respect of you guys and your rockingness. (Which IS a word I swear) Plus, it's just such a great picture. When thinking of all natural grooming, I do not conjure up a picture as delightful as this one. Onto my story....

"Fuck" I say. Shaving commences. I cannot, will not have it called a cooter. Not in a house, not with a mouse, not for all the green eggs and ham in the world.

So...it's almost HNT time... I still have a backlog of 1/2 to 3/4 finished posts-which is unlike me. I'm full of it. However, I just wanted to say "Thank you." For all of you that were able to read a post about a controversial subject and offer your opinions in a thoughtful, constructive way. I was prepared to come home tonight to mayhem at Sam's Stories. Instead I found tears in my eyes after reading all your comments. Thanks. Your rockingness is appreciated, applauded and anus. Why anus, you so rightfully ask? Because I'm typing along when I say "I need a word that starts with an "A" and before I can describe what type of word Chicken shouts out "Anus!" That's just the word I was looking for. Anus.

House

"I love cows"

"Do we have our bowling shoes on?"

"I'm Doctor House. I heard you'd rather die than admit to having sex."

GAWD I love this show. I want to hump its leg. Is that possible? I own season 1 courtesy of H3.2. He hooks me up good like that.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy!

Before continuing our previously scheduled blog filled with hilarity and words like fuck and shit, I would like to address my previous post (written while filled with a furious rage like no fury has ever seen furiously furied) in a calm and rational manner. First, if you haven't read The Hardest Thing (a post I wrote in September), please take a moment and read it. I'll wait.

First I'd like to make several things VERY clear:

1. I've never had an abortion.
2. I don't think I ever could.
3. I think you are killing a baby when you have an abortion.

Sounds pretty pro-life, huh? I'm pro-choice, though. Just wait... and consider if you will the following scenarios:

A homeless female drug addict gets pregnant. Or better yet, a non-caucasian homeless female drug addict gets pregnant. She can't get clean, however she does "the right thing" and decides to give the baby up for adoption. She delivers a non-caucasian baby that is addicted to drugs. The market for drug-addicted non-white babies is BOOMING let me tell you. Couples are lining the streets begging for those kids. You can say that she shouldn't have sex, she should have used protection... shoulda coulda woulda. Does that baby have any chance of a normal life? Does your average family want to take that baby (white/black/asian/hispanic/etc.) into their lives? Nope. Does this suck? Yes. Is it the truth? Most certainly.

A girl is 12. She is pregnant. She cannot raise the child. She is a child. She gives the child up for adoption because she cannot get an abortion. She spends the REST of her life with a hole in her heart. She is more likely than her peers to get pregnant again within several years in an attempt to fill the emptiness. Yes, having an abortion can cause emotional scars. Try carrying a child for almost a year and walking away. Deal with it when you're still a child yourself.

A female has 3 kids and is married. They are JUST making it financially. They are using birth control. She gets pregnant. Another child will push them over the edge. They might become homeless.

A young, adult single woman gets pregnant. She cannot legally get an abortion. She keeps the baby. She resents the child for the REST of his/her life and passes on a cycle of abuse and resentment.

A woman gets pregnant. She wants an abortion. She backs out at the last minute. She has her baby. She loves him/her and is thankful she didn't do it.

A woman gets pregnant. She has an abortion. She regrets it for the rest of her life.

A woman gets pregnant she has an abortion. Something goes terribly wrong. She dies along with the baby.

A woman gets pregnant and gets an abortion. And another. And another. And another. Hey- it's birth control!

I don't like abortion, however I believe that it should be an option. I believe it HAS to be an option.

Important Sidenote:
Chicken was just craning his head around the laptop to see what I'm posting about as I share some of my posts with him. I told him that I didn't want to share this post with him. Then I thought about it further. I explained abortion and the first thing he said was "BAD!" Then I said "What if I got pregnant right now?" Chicken happily yelped "Baby sister!" I added, "and H3.2 bailed on us? Do you know how expensive babies are?" He got quiet. I said "How would I take care of us?" He thought a moment and said with emotion, "Sorry, baby, but we need to press the 'escape' button." Think about that for a moment.

We continued to talk about babies and how different people feel about abortion. We talked about some of the situations listed above. I told him (as always) that "This is how I feel, and you have to make up your own mind about how YOU feel about it."

And that's what I ask of you: Make up your own mind. However, think of all the people out there that need this choice. It might be you someday.

And to anonymous (not Tob): Why do I care about South Dakota? Because the purpose of the law is to start the ball rolling... rolling across the whole of the United States. To overturn Roe v. Wade. To end every American's ability to decide for themselves whether abortion is right FOR THEM.

To all of you "Dear Readers" that didn't start a comments war on each other: Thank you. Thank you for being tolerant. We're all different and we're all people. Now, back to our regularly scheduled Sam's Stories.

Fuck You South Dakota

That is all. Because starting this summer, if you want to get an abortion in South Dakota, your LIFE MUST BE AT RISK.

Fuck you.

Pajama Time!

I got a fifty dollar gift card from H3.2 to use at Victoria's Secret. I want cute pj's. Problem: cute/sexy-ish pj's that won't freak out Chicken. I want something to wear that will be comfortable, make me look good/give H3.2 horny thoughts/not scar my child. What is a girl to do? Can I still call myself a "girl" at age 32? YES I CAN DAMMIT!! Plus I don't want long sleeves, I want to hide any bloat, and I want to look FABULOUS.

Example 1:

I will be cold.
My bloat will look bloaty.
She looks like she is about to get freaky with herself.




Example 2:

HAWT. However, I'm missing the rack. And I'm not so into paying for years of therapy after Chicken watches me attempt to wear this outfit. Also, see her thigh? The one without ANY meat on it. Not so sexy. You could cut yourself on that thigh.




Example 3:
I am not a lemon.
My favorite color is yellow.
I do NOT wear yellow.
The sleeves? They are long.
'Nuff said.







Example 4:
What is this?
How can you do anything in this?
Is that the point?


I give up.
Please help.
I don't want to have to visit the store.
I want to buy online, like Kat does.



So here are the rules:
Not too baggy, not too sexy. No long sleeves. No long skirtish thingy. I'm 5'3ish and wavering between 117 and 124. I have B cups. I nursed. I'm 32. I am NOT a super model. Oh, and remember that I may go to the mailbox in it and SHIT it's cold outside in San Diego during the winter. I had this hard stuff on my windshield one morning. My windshield wipers wouldn't make it go away. Oh, and not too much over 50 bucks unless it's perfect. AND... I'll HNT it for everyone.

PS Sandra Boynton ROCKS!

Brokeback Mountain

H3.2 played a small part of Brokeback Mountain for me tonight. The part that involved spit, a penis and well... you know. Wow! That's all I can say without drooling all over myself. To me, sex is erotic. It doesn't matter the sex of the partners. If they're adults and THEY'RE turned on then so am I. I can't wait to watch the whole movie. Then I'm going to nail H3.2. I think I'll nail him tonight just for good measure. Yum.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Just a little post to tide you over until I tickle your insides again....

H3.2, Chicken and I went to Baskin Robbins this evening to enable my chocolate fix. Two scoop hot fudge sundae, peanut butter n chocolate + jamoca almond fudge. Heaven. I get whipped cream, nuts and a cherry. Someone else eats my cherry, because YUCK if they aren't fresh off the ?? whatever they grow on... wait... President... chopped.. oh they must grow on a tree, huh? So I call out in the middle of Baskin Robbins, "H3.2, Chicken, which one of you wants to eat my cherry?" I chuckle inwardly like the dirty girl I am...

Later, as I am coming up for air 3