'Possum

I am fairly drunk. I am working on my alcoholism and it is progressing quite nicely. I watched Dirty Harry tonight and OMG I love Clint Eastwood. I love him. LOVE HIM. There is a funny post below that you should definately read. I wrote it while sober. Sober = better writing I believe, although I could be wrong. I dunno.

More importantly, I adopted 'Possum this weekend. He is six months old. I'll tell the full story when I'm sober. The important details are:

• He was free "to a good home" HA HA HA
• He's so damn cute
• He watches me fold laundry like it's the best thing since sex was invented
• He came with the name "Possum"
• He has balls
• Dude ignores him

Here's a mug shot:
This is him sitting on my lap, on my kitty cat blankie. He loves me lots. Look at his nose. OMG have you ever seen such a cute nose? Never. I know. And he's smiling. Because he's on my lap. You would be too. G'nite. (hiccup)

Comment Spam

Superlong said:
"Cool site on spread pussy Check out my Penis Enlargement."

So, I did. And boy, am I glad to have received the sage advice that this site has to offer. Did you know the important facts about penis girth?

"Penis girth is the measure of how thick around your penis is. This is sometimes overlooked but is very important, especially to women." (Especially to women? As opposed to sheep? Or pigs?)

The site even lists step-by-step instructions on the proper measurement techniques to determine your EXACT girth. In the case where your girth and length are inadequate, you might get a comment like the one from Gina:

"I have been dating a man who I think is wonderful. We have so much in common, and everything is great. The problem is that when we have intercourse, I can't feel his penis inside of me. There is also no contact with my clitoris. It doesn't matter how long he goes, I can't feel his cock."

Wow! I was under the impression if the hole was too big, or the penis too small, you could just do it for a longer period of time and BAM! you are satisfied. Then I was sure that fucking around the edges is the only way to compensate for penis/vagina size disparity. That is, until I read more on superlongpenis.com. I'm sure that someone, somewhere thought that this website contained serious information needed by the stunted penis masses. However, I just had a grand ole time laughing my ass off while reading about penises. I recommend this site to anyone that needs a little lift.

Speaking of super long penises, I was talking dirty to Dude (the cat) the other day like I always do, and during my propositioning H3.2 looks and me and states:

"It would be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway."

I knew that I kept him around for something.

In other random musings, I'm confused about the "Cool site on spread pussy" part of Superlong's comment for a few reasons:

• I thought about the marketability of pussy spread, which would either be a spread to put on the pussy (like butter, jam, etc) or a spread that tasted like pussy.
• Then I thought about the lack of actual genital pictures on my blog, and wondered how this site could be considered a "cool site on spread pussy"
• Therefore, I went back to thinking about the pussy spread. It sounded more intriguing.

All new pussy spread! In five different flavors you can render the most inedible pussy a taste sensation that all your friends will want to try!*

*Available in 1/2 gallon, 1 gallon and WHOA! stinky pussy (30 gallon) sizes.

Mission: The OC

I'm a native San Diegan, therefore I have certain inbred views about The OC. Mainly, Disneyland is located there. Also, it is the armpit juice spewed forth by Los Angeles for those people that could not afford to live in LA and are not smart enough to live in San Diego where the sky is not a permanent brown haze. We do not call it The OC, it is Orange County and it is not pretty.

However, there is one redeeming feature of the county that is Orange. Anna, the one who said: "Hawaii was great. Everyone I saw gave me a big pat on the back and a huge pile of thanks for not taking you. Hawaii was grateful. Can't say I blame them. AHHHHHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA." This, after I wept and begged and went fucking down on her in a vain attempt to stow away in her luggage and share the Hawaii experience. Therefore... in the month of June (when Chicken is going to be flying hither and yon with his grandmother and not with me) I shall make it my ULTIMATE GOAL to visit Queen Anna in her land and hump her leg. Twice. Just the left one.

I expect she will need to indulge in her girly Vodka during the experience while I finish off of my huge vat of tequila. It will be fun indeed. The county where the sky is Orange, you have been warned.

Damn Kid

Disclaimer: Baby Z whined for approximately 11.5 hours today, with minor breaks for eating and sleeping. Therefore, after returning home and getting Chicken tucked safely in bed, I requested some Don Julio tequila from the liquor stash and proceeded to drink myself into a happy place. I am in that happy place now. Therefore, all verbage spewed forth during this post is tarnished by the joy of alcohol + tits. For an explanation of tits, see Corinna. Tits make alcohol more potent. Therefore (I shall use therefore as much as I fucking want to, dammit) I am slightly trashed RIGHT NOW. Be scared. Very scared. And I apologize in advance for any typos or general fuct (aka fucked) nature of this post. I am truly sorry. Not really.

Chicken and I were looking at my blog today (during the 10 sober minutes of my evening) when he noticed the I Peed A Little® part of my sidebar. He wanted to know how to do the ® in HTML, so I showed him the code. Then he asked me to open Microsoft Word for him, and he proceeded to show me how to do the copyright, trademark, arrows and emoticons in word using the AutoCorrect feature. What The Fuck?! I know Word. I know Excel. I know PowerPoint. I know that damn database software that sucks my ass but I know it. I'm pretty damn decent at that computer type shit. However, I had no idea you could make them thar pretty thingys in Word. How did Chicken learn this? By fucking around in computer lab after he finished his assignment early.

Where's the funny? As I sat dumb-fucking founded that my kid out-worded me, he yelled "Owned" and then did the triple snap (aka Z Snap). What the fuck. Really.

---

Also, a depressing sidenote which probably has influenced my decision to drink tonight thus proving that my status as an alcoholic is coming along quite well: My father's 64th birthday would have been today. Or is today. But he's not here. You know what I mean. Sucks. I miss him. It's been 3 months and 16 days. *sigh*

Half-Nekkid Body Art

Since Momma Z is out of town this week, I'm doing Baby Z overtime. The formula goes something like this:

3 Long-assed days with teething baby + 2 of those days PMSing + 1 day of period = rerun HNT

I'm pooped. Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday. Go see Osbasso for new, purdy pictures of hotness. Many thanks to H3.2 for the pop-ups!

You Can't Hump A Pole

Chicken and I were watching reruns of America's Next Top Model today which inspired a discussion about pin up girls and the 1950's view of beauty in America. I looked up a few pictures like the one to the left to illustrate our discussion. The Internets rock in that way. I can't tell you how many times Chicken has asked a question that the Internet has happily answered and with pictures to boot.

After discussing his dislike of pin up hairstyles he was curious about one of the judges. Thanks America's Next Top Model, I really wanted to talk about drag queens today. Really. I did. Needless to say, explaining drag queens to a fourth-grader wasn't easy. I have no personal experience with drag queens so what the hell do I know? I'd appreciate some input from any dear readers that know if drag queen behavior has any relationship to sexual orientation or is more of a dress-up thing. I'm talking about a RuPaulesque drag queen. Did you know that RuPaul was born in San Diego? That's what I'm talking about! The Internets, man. Information highway. Knarly and shit.

At bedtime, Chicken and I typically cuddle in his loft bed while he babbles about his day. Today's conversation was typically blog-worthy.

Chicken: Tristan told me to "Go hump a pole" and I was like WTF? How can you hump a pole? Are you going to go find something to drill with and drill a hole in the pole and then stick your penis in it and hump it? You'll probably end up with spiders inside the pole biting your parts. That's stupid. You can't hump a pole.

Sidenote: No names were changed in the previous story to protect the innocent because any child that tells my Chicken to "hump a pole" doesn't deserve protection from the prying eyes of the Internets.

Doody Pants

Anna is a bitch. She went to Hawaii and didn't take me. I hate her lots. She smells like poo.

That is all.

Profanity

I'm a weird mother, it is true. I pick and choose the parenting rules that I believe will lead to a happy, well-adjusted child. A child that is given guidelines and ultimately thinks for himself about what is right or wrong. My parenting style is a mish-mash of super strict and extremely lenient, depending on the situation. For example:

No caffeine. There is absolutely no reason for Chicken to become addicted to caffeine at the age of nine.

Bedtime is 8:30, even on weekends. During the summer I will usually bump it to 9:00. I can't believe how many friends Chicken has that stay up to ten or eleven. It's insane. Their school starts at 7:45am, how can they get enough sleep?

No movies beyond PG rating, and even then sometimes I will veto something if the content is too adult. No violent cartoons. No The Simpsons. No adult television.

I encourage Chicken to go to church with his grandmother every week. I believe many good values are taught in church, and I'm always here to discuss anything he doesn't understand.

On the other hand...

If I'm having a glass of wine with dinner and Chicken wants a sip, I'll let him have one. Of course, I drink wine with dinner about 4 times a year. My goal of becoming a raging alcoholic has not yet been realized. I'm working on it, really I am.

I've openly discussed topics with Chicken as I feel that he is ready. He knows about the birds and the bees, abortion and STD's. However, he knows the basics. I don't feel that he's ready to talk about eating pussy. Fuck, I'm not ready to talk about eating pussy. He knows that sometimes teenagers have sex but that I think sex is something you don't do until you're an adult. Will I change my toon when he's a teenager? Yes and no. I don't think teenagers should have sex, but I did. I'd prefer he waited but I'll be there if he doesn't.

Chicken and I have discussed rasism, religion and homosexuality. We've talked about drugs and the pros and cons of medicinal marijuana. He actually read an article in the New Yorker about that topic in the waiting room of a doctor's office.

As far as profanity goes, I have specific rules that Chicken follows or faces the consequences. He's not allowed to cuss in public. If he starts using a word frequently, I ask him to pick a different word to illustrate his opinion or feelings. I tell him that cussing all the time stunts your vocabulary and makes you sound stupid.

Do I cuss if front of him? Um, yeah. Probably too much. And his father (who has been in town for the last two weeks) cusses like a sailor. Well, shit he is a sailor so I guess he's entitled. However, I have a pretty damn broad vocabulary because I used to read books before I became addicted to reading blogs. From what I've read out in blogland, my vocabulary still kicks your vocabulary's ass nine out of ten times. That's 90% ass-kickage my friends.

Chicken has been grounded for cussing before, but only after being warned that he was abusing a word. In the case of the call dropping I heartily agree with his choice of words. This house is like a cell signal black hole and we don't have a land line. It is especially frustrating when you're trying to talk to someone who doesn't have a good signal either. And when you're trying to talk to your dad (that you rarely see) and the call drops a zillion times, you get frustrated. Hence, "the fucking call was lost."

P.S. I have never received a call/note from any of Chicken's teachers about him cussing. Ever. He's got a damn good filter, that kid.

Stop The Insanity

I occasionally do a Google image search to add some depth to my mindless twaddle. Today, as I purchased gasoline for my cute little Honda Civic I was wholly unprepared for the gas station to penetrate me anally to retreive the $31 I owed them for a tank of regular unleaded gas. Although I never saw the sneaky little bastards, I am sure as my bowl-legged walk that someone fucked me in the ass today.

During my search for Stop The Insanity I was reminded of Susan Powter and her revoluationary weight loss program. Don't eat shit and do exercise. Fucking amazing concept. I also learned something that I bet no one ever expected during Susan's total lack of hair hayday. She's a lesbian. Who 'da thunk? (I say in my best college-educated English)

I also found a picture of this cute little mushroom in my Stop The Insanity spree. I learned that my Bastardly Evil Bad Crazy Man Next Door is asking $449,876 for his 2 bedroom, 2 bath 1240 square foot condo. It features a one car garage which will fit one car and a small bag of chips, no more. The backyard consists of a spacious patio with a wood deck, with a capacity for 10 or 12 people to socialize together without becoming sardines. That is, if they are all standing an the area is not cluttered by things such as chairs or kegs.

You might ask why I chose a mushroom to represent Bastardly Evil Bad Crazy Man Next Door. My relationship with him has taken on several qualities of a bad mushroom experience. These include: Happiness, Nausea, Hopelessness, Hallucinations and Vomiting. The hallucinations were actually real in this case, I did see the aforementioned neighbor in a bathing suit. A large 80+ year-old man overly tanned in a bathing suit. I thought and prayed that I was imagining it, however when I realized I was seeing my neighbor almost naked I vomited. Where does the happiness come in? The few times Bastard Neighbor was pleasant to my Chicken. Not quite the euphoria of mushrooms, but shit this is the best analogy I can come up with, okay? I liked the damn picture and I'm tired. Deal with it.

What is the moral of this story, dear readers? Shit is expensive here. I think it's time for a change. Oh, and the Susan Powter book? You can purchase it used on Amazon.com for as little as a penny. That's gotta hurt. A penny. Ouch.

HNT For Tobiwan

You asked for it. I'm too damn lazy to take a new pic, so here's a repeat with a short story.

I got this tat about twelve years ago. I thought about it for almost a year before I got inked, and I'm about to get it touched up. I'll never cover it with another tattoo, and I'll never get it removed. It's a reminder to myself and a warning to others. I was hurt by a guy, so badly that in the end I could have died. I wanted to die. It sucked ass. The tattoo reminds me to never let myself get hurt like that again. The warning part is simple. Don't fuck with me. I may be little but I'll fuck you up.

Lamest thing I hear about it (over and over and over again): "Uh..are you a scorpio?" "No, dickwad. I'm a Pisces."

The coolest thing I've ever heard (from one of H3.2's friends): "Are you going to get a tatto of White Snake next to it?" Rock on 80's hair bands. Rock on my friends.

Isn't that a pleasant post for HNT? It's Tobiwan's fault, go bitch at him! When you're through go see more fun and exciting flesh at Osbasso's place.

Nice

My mother is a Partylite freak, and when I say freak I mean a constant barrage of parties. I love Partylite as much as the next girl, but I don't need to attend a party every couple of weeks. H3.2 was somehow drugged into taking a look at a catalog and he found a candle holder that he liked. I mentioned that I owned that candle holder, I just needed more candles for it. Specifically, five pillar candles. (This story is going somewhere, I swear)

My mother learned that I wanted the pillar candles and dropped off a current catalog. I couldn't decide between two new scents so she got her candle lady to give her samples, which I smelled until there was no smell left. I selected the preferable scent and told my mom that I would get the candles at a later date, as I wasn't in the mood to spend about $50+ bucks on candles at the moment.

Today, my mom informed me that my candles are in and she is dropping them off at my house. WTF? I responded that I didn't order the candles. She replied with a smug "I know" and we ended the conversation shortly thereafter. Upon arriving home, I see the candles in a pretty gift bag on my front porch. Attached to the top was a sticky note from my mom. It read:

S-
You owe me $55.
Love,
Mom

Okay. What the fuck? Really. Does that make sense in any other universe other than my own?

Lost Calls

How to describe the cell signal in my house in one shocking sentence that left me stunned but in total agreement?

"The fucking call was lost." -Chicken

Part III

Read the previous two posts if you want this to make complete and total sense. Otherwise, it will make .23 sense. Which is still enough, if you ask me.

H2,

I had an idea. If you wanted to claim alimony, I wouldn't mind you
paying me alimony this year and using it to help with taxes. That way,
next April isn't so painful for you. :)

Sam

His reply:

Sam,

That is so thoughtful of you. I'll consider that.

H2

P.S. H3.2 has said multiple times that the idea of emailing H2 with the offer to pay alimony this year was his idea. And it was. I admit that, okay? I'm not really funny in any way. It's all H3.2. Really.

Me So Horny

Or more aptly titled: "Me so stupid."

The last second to last paragraph on the previous post should have read H2 not H1. H2 is the taxes, money, alimony whiner. I think the only person that caught the error was Virginia Belle, as she was rather confused...

H1, H2 and more

First, a further explanation:
Many of you suggested searching records in the state where my grandfather was born/died/etc. The problem with that is I have no idea where that is...

A weird thing happened last week and is continuing... H1 is in town. I haven't seen him in about 4 years, and although Chicken sees him about twice a year and I talk to him on the phone regularly, it was strange seeing him again. Chicken was able to spend Easter weekend alone with him, which was great because when Chicken visits he has to share his dad's attention with step-sisters and a toddler half-sister and occasionally a step-brother. Chicken is milking the opportunity for all it's worth, and comes home with treats and tales of zoo visits, bowling, and missed bed times. He's a happy camper. I wish his dad lived closer than the east coast!

H2 called me today about his 2005 taxes. Did it surprise me that he was filing his taxes on the last damn day? Fuck no. He wanted my Social Security number to claim the alimony that he paid me last year. Except...um... he didn't pay me alimony, the fucker. The back story is long and boring, the Reader's Digest version involves:

• One paralegal (mine)
  
• One attorney (his)
  
• One visit to the courthouse
• One $1500 payment which was stipulated by the attorney (and documented) as NOT claimable as alimony at tax time by H1
• One car paid off (there wasn't much owed on it)
  
• One car title transferred to me (it was my car dammit)
  

H1 H2 complained to me that he couldn't take advantage of higher education credits this year, or interest paid on student loans. He complained about the amount of taxes he is paying, and about the money he gave me. He complained about the amount of taxes he guesses that I paid last year. Oh, did I mention that he makes six figures? Did I mention that he lives in corporate housing which means his monthly expenses are negligible? Did I mention that I live on 1/4 of what he makes while supporting a child? I think he's complaining to the wrong fucking person. Really. How sad the poor little guy doesn't qualify for tax breaks meant for people that don't make a shitload of money. Days like today remind me why I filed for divorce. He's the same person that claimed his Hispanic heritage to help get into a better college. He's 1/4 hispanic, born and raised with a golden spoon in his mouth and no more hispanic heritage than Dude. Dumb ass.

I sent him an email tonight, letting him know that I'd be happy to let him start paying me alimony this year so he can claim it on his taxes. Think he'll go for it?

Searching...

Not your typical Sam post. I'm looking for someone. My paternal grandfather died around 1943 in a training accident here in the States while in the Army. When the soldier came to my grandmother's door, she found out that the last name her husband had given her was not his true last name. My father was about 1 1/2 years old. My grandmother then changed my dad's last name and her own to reflect this new information. My grandfather was an only child as far as I know. I do not know anyone from this side of the family. I have some old pictures and a name.

My father was an only child. I did not know anyone from his mom's side of the family, however I have some stories and more pictures. My paternal grandmother died when I was 3 months old. In an attempt to find my paternal grandfather's family I found a second cousin of mine from my grandmother's side. It took one website, one email to the webmaster and the next thing I know I have an email from my dad's cousin (on the maternal side). Wow! There is someone out there that grew up with my father, and he even remembers meeting me when I was 2 years old. However, when it come to the paternal side, I find nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. You get the point.

Searching online under my grandfather's last name has produced nothing but a zillion hits for my dad. My dad had a very popular website, and his first and last name are the same as my grandfather. So I search under "John Smith" and I find my dad everywhere. I use the middle initial and find nothing. Argh!

So, my dear readers... What is the best way to find information about someone that died during World War II? I'd like to know where he was buried and if there is anyone else out there... I want to know why he gave my grandma a fake name, it sounds like an interesting story.

Sorry for the non-funny disjointed post... more Sam's Stories to come.

Happy Birthday, Osbasso!

From the Cake Fairy a very special cake (picture) for you!You didn't think I'd forget, did you?

Chicken quip of the week:

"Mommy's idea of heaven is chocolate Xanax."

Yep. That's about right. One thing I just learned (while researching for this post) is that a low dosage of Xanax can be used to help with fibromyalgia. I didn't know that, I wonder if my shrink does? Nah, he probably doesn't. The website I was reading said that Xanax shouldn't be used for more than 8 months. So how does that reconcile with use for fibro? I also found that Xanax comes in a 1mg dosage. Holy fuck! I'd be comatose. Hmmm...

Since I'm already boring the shit out of you...I find it interesting that with my current suck-ass $750 annual prescription deductible my Advair is $212 per month. I thought once I quit smoking I could give up the Advair. Nope. I either A) give up breathing or B) pay for the fucking Advair or possibly C) give up Dude. Which I can never, ever do. Yes, this means my cat is costing me $212 per month in asthma medication because I'm allergic to him. Which would seem highly retarded, except for the fact that I thought the SMOKING was killing me. Seems both smoking and cats kill my lungs equally. Just one leads to emphysema and death, the other just leads to an expensive drug habit.

Why am I discussing my Advair cost? Because my Xanax costs nine dollars per month. NINE. WTF? That whole generic thing is amazing. I can't wait for generic Advair. While I'm waiting for that, I'd also like to see generic Lunesta. If I haven't said it before, Lunesta is the best thing since sex or chocolate. I've tried other sleeping medications before, and the 3mg Lunesta does the trick. A full night of sleep with no hangover in the morning. Sleep is a beautiful thing.

Goodnight!

Great Idea

Chicken: Mommy, if Dooce is so popular and everything why doesn't she use her blog to make money? She could put ads on it and make money from it.

Sam: She already does, baby. That's her job now, even her husband stays home.

Chicken: I think I'm going to start blogging again. That way, by the time I'm done with college I will have been blogging for years and I'll be really popular and if I can't get a job right after college I can use my blog to make money.

On the surface, one may think "That's a pretty smart 4th grader." Which is totally true. However, I had a couple of other thoughts. The first was his grasp of the Internet and advertising as a way to make money. The second was how our world has changed, where a child of nine knows that even a college degree doesn't guarantee a decent job. Remember when a high school education was enough to buy the American dream?

Season 2 Episode 19

At the conclusion of episode 19, I said to H3.2 "Play that song again funky white boy." He looks at me with his patented Sam is off her meds again look and refuses to replay the episode. Which, by the way is a fucking hard word to type. E-P-I-S-O-D-E. Totally sucks. What I meant was to play the next episode, which he understood but he hates me so he decided to play dumb. Then he drops the fucking bomb. Episode (which I still had to type twice this time) 19 is the current one, as in from this week. My binge on Lost is over... gone and done. Now I have to wait for the show like all you other lame-assed tv-watching people that have to watch television shows when they air. Live or something. That sucks.

Therefore, I'm back. Blog on, man. Blog on...

Half-Nekkid Pitters

I call feet, toes, hands, fingers, ears and eyeballs "pitters" because I'm weird like that. To make up for last weeks HNT which was obviously not well-received (except for the foot fetish gentlemen) here is a better shot of my pitters.Freshly pedicured (I give a mean pedicure) and ready for springtime shoes. Happy HNT! Go see Osbasso for more stimulating nekkidness.

The Ostruck

Since I'm too busy watching Lost to write anything for my dear readers (yeah, I'm a bitch like that), I figured I would post Chicken's paper on the Ostruck. The Ostruck is a fictional animal that Chicken made up for his animal adaptations report. He had to draw a picture to accompany the paper, and he gives a speech tomorrow. I think it looks angry. Like "why the fuck do I have a poodle tail, yo?" Ozzie also says "For the love of all things holy, please cut my bangs. Please."

---

There I was in the desert plains of Africa. Even though it was hard to hide in the baking heat and little rain, I was looking for a new species. Suddenly a large figure came speeding right through my base camp. At the time I was sitting in my tent reading my book but I still heard something outside. So I jumped in my jeep and sped off. All of a sudden there it was, the new species I was looking for. It was about 5’ tall.

It had dragon wings, a poodle’s tail, ostrich’s legs, feet, and eyes, a ducks head, an umbrella bird’s umbrella, a quail’s call, and peacock feathers coming from the poodle tail. Luckily I was able to capture and study it and quickly found it could easily soar the skies.

The umbrella had two stripes on it and had hundreds of hairs with bristles on them to stick leaves. What they would do was make the hairs touch leaves and with their long beaks, eat the leaves that are stuck to the hairs. The leaves mainly come from acacia trees. Even though no animal dares attack it, ostrucks still have a plain diet of acacia leaves.

Amazingly the natives locally had already known about them! So they gave me a male well trained enough to ride! Then I realized then that my first one was a girl so I put them together and they had 5 eggs. I also found it lives by its self, during the day, and out in the open. During the winter it continues its normal life because it never gets cold in the winter.

Well, that is all I have discovered about the ostrucks and I hope I am able to learn more about this wonderful bird.

---

This is how Dude feels about Lost and having the camera stuck right in his face when he is trying to nap on me. What he really wants is some Gus Greeper.

Episode 8

I just finished episode eight, and I have no idea why everyone hates Jack and Kate so much because at this point I'd like to shove a sharpened stick up Anna Lucia's ass until it tickles the back of her throat. She's cunterific, which is a bad thing to be indeed. Wish me luck!

Season Two

As of Sunday night, I have finished episode 3 of season 2 of Lost. I worked over ten hours today, and I'm exhausted. No fun blogging today. I'll be back...

I'm Lost

Just a quick note to let everyone know that I have not:

1. Died
2. Given up on blogging
3. Sold my soul to the Devil

Okay, strike that. I might have accidentally done #3. I borrowed Season 1 DVDs for Lost. I've never seen the show and thought I'd give it a try. Oh My Gawd. I'm hooked. I'll be back when I've caught up on Season 2, or when my eyeballs fall out from watching too many consecutive hours of television. I just finished Season 1. Wish me luck.

Package

Chicken and I were in the car today when I saw a UPS truck. I commented to Chicken about the insanity of driving around town without a door on your vehicle, and how I'd be afraid of falling out. Chicken says, "Ahhh....I lost my package" and both of us erupted into laughter. We're like Beavis and Butthead. I can't wait until he's old enough to watch that with me. We'll laugh and laugh and laugh some more. "Good times," as Mister LD2 would say. Good times.

Soul

For you, Feetman78 and all the other foot fetish people out there. I don't care for the bottom of my feet, but I'm sure someone will appreciate this picture! Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday. Go see Osbasso for more HNT Madness.

My Name Is Sam

My name is Sam and I am a total dumbass. I was excited to come home and read all your comments when I noticed it said Monday for the post date. I was awfully confused, especially since I was eager to put up my HNT this evening. That's when it dawned on me: Today is Tuesday. Today is NOT Wednesday. Tomorrow is not Thursday. Holy fucknut. I have an excuse, a mighty and wonderful excuse.

Shortest Backstory Ever: I quit smoking on June 11, 2005. I used the nicotine patch to help me stop smoking. I'm pretty sure that I have broken the world record of the longest usage of the nicotine patch without lapsing back into smoking.

Just over three weeks ago I was taking a nap while Baby Z was taking a nap. He woke up, which in turn woke me up. I stumbled into his room, grabbed him and plopped his cute little bod onto the changing table. I then realized that I was light-headed, dizzy and very interested in either vomiting or shitting my brains out. Quite possibly both at the same time. I managed to outfit Baby Z in a clean, dry, happy, happy diaper and get both of us safely onto the floor. The floor was a nice place to be as it kept me from feeling like I was going to fall down and Baby Z could not possibly fall while laying on the floor.

I waited about 45 minutes before I called Momma Z and told her that my child caretaking skills were gravely stunted and she needed to return home. As a precaution, I removed my 14mg nicotine patch because I thought it might exacerbate the problem. H3.2 picked me up in the Bat Mobile and told me that I looked like Hell.

Five hours later I felt fairly close to human, except for the nicotine withdrawal. Ever a cautious gal I donned a 7mg patch and sighed as the nicotine flowed through my veins. Until 15 minutes later when I began to feel dizzy and shitty and vomity (new word) again. Apparently my body, without prior permission/approval/consent/fuckall decided that 16 years of nicotine is the limit and no more shall be tolerated.

I resorted to applying a 7mg patch for a few minutes several times a day until I broke down and spent the thirty bucks to buy nicotine gum. I was able to chew three pieces a day for a few minutes and accomplish both:

A) Relief from withdrawal
B) Minimal nausea and dizziness

As I prepared for my scrapbooking weekend my typical routine of bringing enough nicotine patches to supply a high school was disrupted by the disuse of said patches. Therefore, in my excitement and fuckup of routine I only had ONE piece of nicotine gum (2mg) to last from 6pm Friday until 12pm Sunday. H3.2 was waiting for the news of a XYZ Mountain Massacre all weekend. I chewed 1/2 piece Saturday around noon and another 1/2 about midnight. I had two pieces on Sunday and two on Monday.

My last piece was 5:00pm on Monday, March 27. I have not killed or injured any human during the past days of withdrawal. I have thought about killing/injuring Dude during this period of time, however the fucker has it coming.

What does all of this mean? I'm officially a quitter. I did it. I might have enabled Chicken to celebrate his 32nd year of life without watching me die, as my dad watched his mom die, as I watched my dad die. Maybe I quit in time to break the cycle. I hope I did.

So there's my excuse. I have no idea what day it is, I can't write worth a shit and I think I lost my vagina. But I'm clean, dammit.

Whack-It Wednesday Chicken

*some pictures removed*

For the first time ever, I present Chicken and Whack-It Wednesday:

Chicken learned the hard way that tuna cans are sharp. It was one of those life lessons where no matter how many times I told him the edges were sharp, he had to figure it out on his own. Much blood and a trip to Urgent Care later, he was excited to do his own Whack-It Wednesday. I believe he was muttering something about fucking up the fucking tuna fucker can, but in nicer language. Not much nicer language, but slightly nicer. The only positive thing about the situation was Chicken looking forward to smashing the shit out of that can, and then posting it for all the Internets to see. That was in January. I'm pretty sure that it is now April. We've been keeping the damn tuna can for THREE months just to do a Whack-It Wednesday. Finally, H3.2 said: "Whack-It or I'm tossing it!" So we Whacked-It!

The offending finger. The bandage was supposed to last 3 days. I think someone forgot to tell Chicken not to play hand ball the day after he hurt himself. Luckily I took this picture right after the Urgent Care visit. One would think they had to re-attach the finger with the amount of useless bandaging they utilized. The wound didn't even require stiches, just butterfly tape and kisses.

Chicken ready to kick some tuna can ass with the trusty Sam Sledgehammer.

The can after a bit of tossing around, before the REAL carnage begins.

Chicken pummels the can with the sledgehammer, then slams it into the wall and continues to wail on it.

Fuck you tuna can. You shall no longer hold tuna within your razor-sharp depths.

For the mad genius with the hot body behind Whack-It Wednesday, go visit Erin and tell her that Sam sent ya!

Sidenote: Jennster- you ARE the father. Oops. I mean, you are a noreply-comment@blogger.com blogger. Too much Maury Povich. For other bloggers, if I don't respond to your comments via email EVER then you are a noreply-comment@blogger.com blogger, too. You can always email me at samsstories@gmail.com and ask me if your status is in doubt.

Chicken's First Formal Email

Chicken's class has just started to use Gaggle.net, a free email that promises to scan for offending material and deliver pristine messages to the student. Emails that resemble my blog are sent to the student's teacher. The problem is the 1.2 million ads that come with the free version. Oh, and the fact that Chicken is not excited about learning to email. Duh, he already knows how to use a fucking computer.

He was instructed to reply to his teacher's email in a formal email manner. Her email contained a joke, and the children were supposed to respond back with the answer if they knew it. The joke was "What goes ha, ha, ha, plop?" We didn't know the answer, so we Goggled it. Ha Ha HA. FUCK YOU STUPID TEACHER. Can you tell I don't like his teacher? She tells her students that math is hard for her. Fucktard, it's FOURTH GRADE MATH. *sighs* Here's the email he sent (and he even sent an attachment because he rocks like that).

Dear Ms. T,
Hello and thanks for your E-Mail. I sincerely
enjoyed the joke and the answer is (drum roll please):
Someone laughing their head off!

Thanks again for your good joke and see you later!

Your Student,
Chicken

P.S. The picture is of my cat getting his teeth brushed! ;)

Isn't that cute? The use of ;) cracked me up, as well as the drum roll please bit. Can you tell I love my kid? He's the coolest.

Clots of a Different Sort

The disclaimer that came with the previous post may also hold true with this post. You be the judge.

Remember when I posted about the shower drain not performing its duty in a timely fashion? The sink in H3.2's bathroom was even worse. To compound the problem, H3.2 needed to brush his teeth/shave/wash his hands with the faucet on full blast. The result was a sink full of water, which is one of my OCD freak-0ut initiators (I think I made that word up). The sound of him slopping around in a basin full of backed-up water was enough to make me dry heave. I'd be lying in bed, waiting for him to finish, and imagining the nastiness that was stuck in the drain. I suggested he moderate his water usage so as to avoid the total filling of the sink to no avail.

Every day that passed the urge to throw up/kill him increased. Finally, he decided to tackle the drain. It was horrible. It was foul. It was disgusting beyond all disgustingness that there ever was with the exception of my blood clot stuck between my toes. The drain was clogged with long hair and paint. The paint was mine, as I had twice painted the upstairs room. However, the hair was NOT mine. Whomever had lived in the room upstairs prior to me renting the house had clogged this drain with her hair. This unknown person that most likely carried a sundry of nasty diseases left great globs of hair in the drain, and in this mess H3.2 slopped around as he brushed his teeth. Fucking gross. So disgusting we took pictures to share with you all. Because we blove you. We really do.
This is the offending sink, which was sparkling clean before the excavation began.
A close-up of the offending clot.