Twitter

So, let's say that you finally join the ranks of fellow Twitter people after thinking about it for a long time. At some point you are talking with a certain someone in your life and they remark that they twittered for about five seconds once upon a time. Hmph. It feels kind of weird that they never told you, but whatever, right? You stew on it off and on because you're hormonal and why the fuck would they not tell you about it?

Then you are looking at Twitter and trying to find if a certain person twitters when you come across the other person in that person's twitter feed. Fuck this is becoming a pain in the ass to understand, huh. Let me spell it out clearly:

• Teddy Bear was on twitter.
• I was looking for the wife of one of TB's friends and found TB's twitter URL.
• Apparently he twittered in January, April, and May of this year.

This seems like a bit more than a five second jaunt to me. He twittered long enough to follow two people. Neither of those people were his WIFE. Now, he didn't do anything wrong, per se. Just enough to make me feel weird and unhappy. Am I being totally hormonal or should I be a little put out by this? Hmph.

Oh, I forgot! He has also started a blog before without mentioning it to me. I didn't find out until he commented on my blog under that name accidentally and I said "WTF?" He said that he wanted to determine whether he would stick with it before telling me. I don't know if he stuck with it. I don't keep tabs on things like that because I feel like he should tell me if he wants me to know. But he should want me to know, right? Being the wife and all? I'm cranky, can you tell?

Unfriendly Letter

Dear Ants,

Fuck you. I tried to be nice to you, to share the world with you, to understand your plight. When you came into my home initially I gently encouraged you to leave with kind words and gentle phrasing. I moved the cat food to a place where you would not be so tempted to steal from Dude and Reina. I moved my trash can into the backyard so that you could take what you needed and then move onto trashier homes. I then moved my recycling can to the backyard as well. Then I scrubbed the ever-loving fucking shit out of my kitchen. I moved the cat food dishes again after scrubbing them clean. Then I moved the big bag of cat food to the garage when I noticed that you were curious about it.

Then you invaded both bathrooms searching for tidbits of this and that. You found nothing but still you roamed. Then you fully invaded my kitchen, my shiny clean kitchen without so much as fucking crumb laying about the counters. You found nothing but still you persisted. Then you got into the big bag of cat food in the garage. The fucking thirty dollar bag of cat food that costs more than gold because precious fucking Reina needs special tummy food so as not to explode fecal matter all over herself and others. I bagged up all the cat food in ziploc bags because who fucking has a tupperware container that big?

You continued to storm about my home. Never concentrating on any one area because MY HOUSE IS FUCKING SPOTLESS YOU ASSHOLES. Today I lost my shit when I found that you busted into one of the ziploc bags of cat food. As you ran over my fucking feet I had to find containers to hold the cat food and keep you the fuck out of it. Have I mentioned to you that I have moved the bowl of cat food so many times I forget where the fuck it is? What about the fact that the cat food bowl is now tupperware and right after the cats eat I have to put a fucking sealed lid on that motherfucker to keep you sons of bitches out of the fucking food? Try doing this all day and night as Dude whines pitifully and Reina is too damn stupid to find the food for fuck's sake. By the way, I hate you.

Today's cat food incident really fried my ass. You know what changed me from semi-sane person to holy fucking terror? When I realized that the huge, four dollar, OPEN bag of dog food (for strays and lost puppies I find) was sitting in the garage five feet away from the cat food bag untouched. You parade around my house like you fucking own the place searching for fuck only knows, eat my cats' food and then ignore the dirty cheap dog food. It's on motherfuckers. I am killing every last one of you assholes.

Fuck you,

Sam

Bitchin' Camaro

Her Bad Mother has two blogs. A traditional blog and a blog where people come to anonymously complain about whatever ails them. For the first time ever, Catherine has engineered Betchfest, a glorious time where bloggers swap stories and blogs in a convoluted, no tracking possible manner. Or at least we all hope so! The following Bitch is from anonymous, please shower her with love and affection.

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Sam told me that she is "fairly profane on a regular basis" and so I could betch about anything I wanted to on her blog. So I'm going to betch about sex. Namely, reminding husband that a vibrator is not a fucking light saber. Nice and goddamn easy Mr. Skywalker.

I brought this toy into the marital session because one of the side effects of antidepressants is that you shower. The other side effect is that even though your lady bits smell clean as a whistle you have no desire to use them. So out comes that hot pink, hard plastic vibrator you bought from the mall's gag gift store. (Because if you actually brought out the one that you plugged in husband's nuts would retract.) And you start getting down to business time again.

At first husband's all suspicious of the plastic. Then he realizes that you can now have an orgasm every time that the two of you get it on. Look out. And as time goes by the line between the trembling plastic goodness and his skill as a lover gets blurred. He forgets that it's actually the $14.99 vibe that you got there, and just remembers that you did it. While he was in the bed with you.

Which is awesome. He feels great. You feel great. Everybody feels great. And the neighbors are totally weirded out by the fact that every Friday and Wednesday night this strange vvvvvvvv-va-vvvvvvvvvvvvvv sound emanates from your bedroom window. But then husband's got to get all artsy with the damn thing. Dude. It buzzes. You place it on the spot. Wait a couple of minutes and ba-da-boom. You don't need to twist, jam or rub the thing against my crotch like you're trying to start a fire.

And do you understand how a see saw works? If you press one side down, the other side goes up. So when you see me approaching my wifely moment, throwing your body down on top of me causes the vibrator to lift off of the magic spot. Killing the moment, and making us start over. Then you do it again. So on the third go round I have to pretend like I'm not about to blow when the moment approaches so you don't bruise my crotch bone and stop the fun.

And lastly, additional hands, mouth and so on are more than welcome. I'll bake a cake just to let you know how welcome they all are. But sword fighting the vibrator with your dick is beyond frustrating. I can tell the difference between the vibe and your wiener. Primarily, because as lovely as your cock is, it doesn't vibrate. So trying to pull the old switcheroo midway through isn't going to work. Kay?

This is anonymous right? If you figure out who the author of this sex small talk is, pretty please keep it to yourself. Husband reads email, and reads comments on my blog. If he finds out about this I fear our household will suddenly run out of all AA batteries.

Thanks, and keep on keeping on.

Going To Hell Any Minute Now

I joined Facebook. I'm pretty sure I said I would never join even if my very soul depended upon it. Fuuuuuck I'm doomed. Now I have a problem...if I invite the blog world to be my Facebook friend that means that the tiny shred of anonymity I have cultivated here is gone. I'd also hate for one or two real life people to find me on Facebook and then end up at my blog. How do I go about doing this Oh Great Readers of Mine? I need assvice please n thank you.

Random Fuck Factor or RFF

I tend to wander around the house wearing only undies when Lefty isn't going overboard with early milky production. Eventually I find clothing but I'm not very concerned about it unless I need to leave the house. Today I realized why I should keep Lefty and (damn I forgot the right one's name) contained more often. Teddy Bear walked up to me, grabbed Lefty, hoisted it in the proper direction and used my fucking TIT as a laser to shoot the cats. This display of maturity included the mandatory laser sounds. Obviously, Chicken thought it was hilarious and mused that some day soon I would likely be able to shoot the cats with milk and OH THE JOY of having another boy, right?

Teddy Bear left town to go to a geek festival with a friend. I am slightly worried that he will come back on Monday afraid of me and teh pussy. All that geekiness flowing around cannot be good for a full-grown man, right? Oh, yeah. I forgot that he's one that used my tit as a laser. Never mind.

In case you are a crazy stalker person I should warn you that TB gave me explicit instructions to follow during his vacation:

1. No strange penis is allowed
2. As an afterthought he added no familiar penis, either.

He did not, however, forbid pussy either strange or familiar. WOOT! I also should say that I am heavily armed and somewhat dangerous given the fact that I am crazy. TB looked at me wrong yesterday and I FUCKING CRIED. Like a little girl. Did I ever mention that when my father died he left me a shit-ton of gun and gun related paraphenalia? And I just spelled paraphenalia correctly on the first try without spell check because I rock. TB has finally started poking through all my father's gun stuff and I think I might have facilitated the creation of a monster. One that joins gun forums and reloads his own ammo. Chicken is not into the actual shooting of guns at this point but is enjoying the task of reloading with TB. Whatever it takes for that boy to get the fuck out of my vagina is good in my book.

Speaking of Chicken and my vagina, OMFUCK how needy can an 11 year old boy be? I know the changes with school and house buying and baby coming are to blame but sometimes I worry that I will wake up and he will be dangling out of my body. He has always gone through phases where he is more needy and then more self-sufficient but I cannot wait for school to start. Homeschooling is terribly fucked up in this household and I applaud any parent that can do it without resorting to violence.

Next week "real" school starts and we are done with homeschooling and I cannot believe that in a week and a half of homeschooling I want to die and crawl under my bed. Chicken pushes and pushes and FUCKING PUSHES every step of the way with whining and excuses and cat petting and pencil sharpening and OH FUCK JUST DO IT ALREADY AND BE DONE WITH IT. He is somewhat better with chores, but basically this is how he is when he doesn't want to do something. He takes all damn day to do a few simple tasks and then is surprised when he doesn't have any time to play. I have no idea how to fix this without inserting myself up his ass every second of the day to ensure that he does stuff in a timely manner. Bribing doesn't work at all. I could promise him the world and at the end of the day he is upset because time ran out due to his fucking around. AHHHHHHHH! He's lucky he is cute.

Nookie

Last night there was fabulous nookie in the Sam household. Normally, I do not speak of such things in blogland due to modesty and good taste. However, there was bloggability in the aftermath of the nookie and I always bow to the funny for the betterment of my readers. For reasons that I shall not disclose, a jimmy hat was utilized in the nookie last night. By the way, the picture I linked to explaining jimmy hat is worth clicking on even if you have a fairly good idea what a jimmy hat is already. I am a giver.

There was nookie, and then there was a condom wrapper left on Teddy Bear's bedside table. This morning, Chicken climbed into bed with me upon awakening as usual and proceeded to read for an hour before pestering the shit out of me and forcing me to do that whole parenting thing. This has been our ritual for a good part of this summer, the early morning cuddle/snooze festival. After I was awake and semi-functional I was chided by the boy for not ensuring that TB had thrown away the condom wrapper that he of course noticed. For a moment I was apologetic and then I told Chicken that mommys and daddys have sex and he is freaking old enough to get the fuck over it already.

Later at dinner the condom wrapper was brought up (we're classy like that) and TB stated that he left it there on purpose for Chicken to see. Apparently, Chicken had been leaving a pile of dirty tissues on TB's bedside table from his morning reading time. TB didn't appreciate the pile of trash and the wrapper was his way of saying THROW YOUR SHIT AWAY DUDE AND I WILL TOO. Excellent parenting I must say.

There was a lull in the dinner table conversation as we all stuffed our faces with tacos and then TB mentioned that even though I hated him, he bought me flowers last night and then GOT LAID. *ahem* We're still at the dinner table with Chicken and here is where I get a bit flustered and maybe even embarrassed because for fuck's sake one should not hear one's step-father brag about getting LAID. Stating for the record that sex between consenting adults is one thing, bragging is another. No one likes a braggart, Teddy Bear.

For the record, I don't hate Teddy Bear. I am simply a little less tolerant of people burping full sentences and killing entire acres of good, clean air with one's asshole right now.

Boobage

After I posted a letter to Lefty, there was instant cooperation for about a week. Then she began again, with renewed vigor. Monkey told me that wearing a sports bra might help and holy fuck it worked. The only flaw in the plan is that when in the wee hours of the morning you get tired of wearing a damn bra and throw it to the floor it is less effective. The sports bra has to actually be worn on the body and not just in the general vicinity of the boobage to curb leaking.

This morning I got up and Lefty felt a bit damp. I pulled back the covers and took a peak. Sure enough, a great big drop of milkishness was sitting there just daring me to move. Until this point I had yet to see any leakage directly from the source. Lefty preferred to leak on the sly, dampening shirts and sheets but never getting caught in the act. I stared in amazement and then the drop rolled onto the Great White Expanse that is my breast, immediately followed by another drop appearing on the horizon. Panicking (what? I just woke up from not very many hours of craptastic sleep!) I asked Teddy Bear to get me something to staunch the flow.

He returned with tissue, dried off my breast and then put the tissue over my nipple with thumb and forefinger as if he was blowing a nose. He looked at me expectantly until I made the appropriate nose-blowing sound and then he was satisfied. If it helps the visualization of me blowing my nipple, I have provided this picture (NOT my nipple) to illustrate the fact that my nipple was in fact erect at the time. I am sure this lent itself to the nipple-blowing process.

Now I have a dumb question: What, exactly is Lefty leaking? Would it be considered colostrum or milk or something else entirely? Maybe unleaded gas? Because that would rock.

Random Snippet

Sam: I am going to work on a project.
TB: A project? What kind of project is that?
Sam: The kind where I pull down my pants and try to push poo out of my butthole.

Overloaded

My brain is done and my hateful allergies stuffing up my head are only serving to further fry the few remaining operable brain cells. Fuuuuuck. There is so much going on right now that I really need to take a xanax, smoke a bowl, drink a beer, or fuck my brains out to let out a little of the pressure. However, my current condition means that the first three are prohibited and the last one just doesn't sound like very much fun. I'll have to make due with blogging for the moment I suppose. Dammit.

First of all, Chicken is attending a new school this year. The middle school he was attending failed miserably in a number of areas in my opinion and I was not sending him back to that place. I found a new charter school locally that seems to fit perfectly with my wants and Chicken's needs. Maximum enrollment is 150 students 6th-8th grade and class size is less than or equal to 25 students. The interior of the building is not completed, therefore yesterday class began at a local park. The students took a field trip to the library, parents and students had a potluck lunch, and everyone got acquainted with each other. Not a big deal if you are a normal human being and like other people. For me, it was a stretch but I am proud to say that I socialized all day and mostly did not make an ass out of myself. Chicken had a blast and is looking forward to the first real day of school on September 2nd. He has an independent study contract to work on until then and is not appreciating the workload. I think it is good for him.

Next, we are buying a house. We've completed negotiations and are waiting for the underwriters to find new and unusual ways to ass fuck us. We are expecting to close escrow by mid September. In the meantime, we have a few home improvement projects to worry about. Namely, the issue of doorknobs. Oh, and carpet and paint and grass. Maybe bushes? Epoxy the garage floor. Replace a door and closet doors. Find a gas dryer as ours is electric. Perhaps a microwave? GAH. The list manageable but daunting, and my concerns are petty but pressing. For example: how do I choose a color to paint my bedroom when in the near future we are buying a bigger bed and therefore a new duvet cover? I don't want to be completely neutral and boring but I don't want to repaint in a year or less. How does one figure this out?

Then comes the carpet and the hard floors. We want carpet in the bedrooms and hard flooring in the living room. The dining, kitchen, and baths are all nicely tiled. I have no clue about flooring. None. Not a fucking clue if you paid me to find one. I don't know what is good, bad, or indifferent. I am hoping that Teddy Bear can field this one and I can play the girl part and say, "Oh that's pretty or ugly or blah."

Then I started looking at paint for Egg's room. Chicken can pick his own paint, but I am fairly sure the baby is screwed out of an opinion at this point. I drew a complete fucking blank. The colors started to swirl and I just wanted to wait until much later to even think about the decision. Teddy Bear filled my arms with brochures and samples and I staggered to the car. Guess what I found?
How fucking cute is that? Now, I'm not married to Baby Einstein or Pooh Bear but the butter yellow, soft blue, and brown have me swooning. The picture isn't the best so you'll just have to imagine the gloriousness of it all. Please tell me everything will fall into place as easily as this. Please? Because being knocked up, a new school for Chicken, buying a house, moving, and putting a fuckton of work into the new house seems like a lot of work. Can't I just bake cookies naked and call it a day?

First Belly Shot

17 weeks 2 days