Who You Callin A Homo?

"I love it when you opt for a college class to avoid stupid people that don't get the curriculum, just to be held up by them in the fucking college class."

So sayeth Chicken via text while sitting in his math class. He got a 94/100 on his first exam and I am so proud. Yay Chicken! I hope that this experience will encourage him to do very well in high school, if only to avoid attending a college that bores him to pieces. If you are wondering about his casual use of "fucking" in the text and if my colorful use of language has influenced him, well yes. I cuss a lot. I am trying to reduce my plethora of fucks, shits, and damns though because a certain smallish person is NOT allowed to cuss until he is two. Kidding! Babies are not allowed to cuss. Eighth graders may cuss, although I reserve the right to exclaim, "Stop fucking cussing! You're abusing the privilege."

Speaking of Chicken, I was having an email conversation with Jeremy the other day and realized that I wasn't quite as clear as I meant to be when I was discussing his super homoness. Chicken has officially declared himself to be interested in peen, and only peen. I asked him if it was okay to blog about and he was shocked that I hadn't already. So! I have his approval and official statement of homosexuality. His recent hairstyle change to a faux hawk was prompted by his interest in a boy(s) with that type of cut. Of course he won't divulge any names, but he has said that if I fork out $50 for his 8th grade yearbook he will point out boy(s) of interest. Damn kids and their blackmail.

Sean Hayes is on the cover of The Advocate, which is the self-proclaimed "World's Leading Gay News Source." In the interview he is outed as a gay man, but Sean claims to have never been in the closet. Commentator Frank DeCaro on Out Q radio disagrees. I listen to a lot of Out Q, partially because they have bits like "The Dildo Whisperer" (awesome!) and also because I like to learn about Teh Gays. I asked Chicken what he thought about famous gay people and whether they had an obligation to come out of the closet. He was torn on very famous people, like Oprah (allegedly!) but when it came to actors like Sean Hayes he said that they could choose to remain in the closet if that was their preference. I don't know if he will change his mind as he grows older, but I was surprised. Personally, I would like more people to come out as gay. You know, if they are gay. Not just random hetero people yelling, "I'm here and I'm queer!" because that would be lame. What do you think?

Chickens, Fact and Fiction

When I tell people that I have chickens, the reactions range in a predictable manner:

• Awesome! Chickens! Fresh eggs!
• I didn't know you lived on a farm.
• Ew. I don't like birds.
• Why the fuck do you have chickens?

We have chickens because Chicken (the boy, not the fowl)did a state report on Rhode Island in fifth grade. He learned that the state bird is the Rhode Island Red, a chicken. I'm not sure why the state bird is a chicken, but whatever! Chicken loves birds with a fiery passion. Currently he wants to either be a chef or an ornithologist. Chicken asked if we could have our own chickens, but we were renting a house at that point so I said no. I told him that when we owned our own house he could have a chicken.

Which brings us to our  chickens! fact! and fiction! One of my favorite chicken fallacies is that free range, organic chickens are vegetarians. They are only fed the finest grains! No dirty meat for our egg layers! Well my friends, chickens are omnivores in my opinion. They may not eat meat as a primary food source, but they will eat anything that moves. This includes crickets, worms, and bees if they can catch them. It's not the smartest thing to attempt to eat a bee that is buzzing by, but I will never accuse chickens of being particularly smart.

Before I had chickens, I thought brown eggs equaled more wholesome, organic type eggs. You know what brown eggs mean? Brown(ish) chickens. It's like this: brown people have brown babies. White people have white babies. It's the same deal with chickens. And yes, this is a general rule and I know that not all people have babies that are their exact color. Look at Michael Jackson's children...or maybe forget that example.

Moving on, I'd like to introduce you to Beck, a Rhode Island Red. She is named after Beck the musician. Chicken's theory is that she is a mellow, laid back bird so she should be named appropriately. Beck lays brownish eggs.

These eggs belong to Beck and Buttercup. Both of the birds were purchased from a local feed store at less than one week old for about $3.50. They begin laying eggs at four to six months old. Some breeds are known for laying many eggs (6-7 a week) almost year round, like the Rhode Island Red. Others take a break during winter. Just like dogs, some breeds are more friendly than others. I'm not a big fan of birds in general as pets because I am not fond of beaks crunching down on my flesh, but chickens are super friendly. They also warn you (like dogs) if they are going to peck. They don't do it just because they are fuckers, like some birds.

This is Buttercup. She's the biggest bird we have, but currently she is laying eggs smaller than Beck. We think her eggs might increase in size as she matures. As the youngest, Buttercup is at the bottom of the pecking order. She keeps out of Beck and Oreo's way or they will peck at her. She isn't used to her size yet, so watching her run away from them is hilarious. Think of a super gangly teenaged bird and you have Buttercup.

This is Buttercup and Oreo. If you follow me on Twitter, you might have noticed that Oreo spent a night in my shower. She was having some intestinal issues so we needed a place away from the other birds to watch her. I'm never doing that again. Oh. MY. GAWD. THE MESS! So much fun to have another thing to scrub. Like I don't deal with feces enough on a daily basis.

Chickens are easy to clean up after, Chicken (the boy) cleans their area and coop once a week and it takes him about a half an hour. He feeds and waters them daily. They are allowed to roam the whole yard on a limited basis, and spend most of their time in their fenced in area. Their eggs are much tastier than store bought eggs, and they are low maintenance pets if you have the room for them. You don't have to walk them or groom them, but you do get to hold them and pet them. I <3 chickens.

Next Monday's topic will be part II of Cloth Diapers!

Crashing For the Motherfucking WIN

When you’re an adult and you wish to take a class at your local community college you are required to have a pulse and take an assessment exam. When you’re still in high school, you have to jump through fourteen flaming hoops in order to take one fucking class. When you aren't yet in high school, you might be subjected to an interview with a dean that likes to hear himself talk and reams of paperwork. Well, more like a few forms, a letter from his counselor, and a signature from his principal. But still! Annoying! A waste of my precious time when I could better utilize it by blogging or picking my ass. And let's face it, some days it is hard to tell the difference between the two.

I don't talk about Chicken's scholastic endeavors very much on Sam's Stories. I guess it is hard for me to navigate the subject without sounding terribly boastful. Julia is one of the few people that does a really good job of talking in glowing terms about her children without making the majority of people feel stabby, and she still gets flack over it on occasion. However, (you knew there would be a however, didn't you) Chicken achieved something recently that has left me positively bursting with pride. But first, we need to go back to 7th grade. Not YOU in seventh grade, Chicken in seventh grade. Last school year, to be exact.

Chicken went to a charter school last year and we all had high hopes that he would be challenged by the curriculum. While he learned quite a few good things, his math teacher was abysmal. The teacher taught multiple levels of math in each class, and none of them very well. This isn't to say that it is a bad way to teach, just that he sucked. At all of it. I volunteered in the class when I was pregnant with Egg, and the students that I helped were fucking ecstatic that I could teach them something.

For the first part of the school year Chicken did nothing but worksheets. As in, there was no teaching. He would grab a packet of worksheets, complete them, and then go for another packet. That was it. When he couldn't understand something I helped him. Then school implemented a software program for mathematics called ALEKS, and he used ALEKS until June. From the ALEKS website, "A student who shows a high level of mastery of an ALEKS course will be successful in the actual course she is taking." But Chicken wasn't taking a course outside of ALEKS. And when he tired of Algebra I, he requested to start Algebra II. He then decided that he'd like to take Geometry instead.

The version of the story that I got was: He finished Algebra I, started Algebra II, changed his mind and then did 85% of Geometry I before the year ended. What was I doing at the time that all this changing and switching was happening?

Meet seven day old Egg. So I was a little preoccupied, and my kid ended up with an incomplete education in Algebra I. Which I found out about in November when he took the assessment test at the community college.

Holy fuck this post is getting excessively long. Should I do a part II or just slog through it? Fuck it. Let's continue! Chicken changed schools for eighth grade (the current school year) and I was in a bit of a quandary. You see, I thought he had completed Algebra I and 85% of Geometry I. The middle school math offerings did not go beyond Geometry I and I didn't want him to sit in class for a year to learn the last 15%. I decided to teach him the Geometry myself and have him take Algebra II at the local community college. After jumping through the aforementioned flaming hoops Chicken was allowed to take a class.

However, while Chicken tested high enough to be eligible for Freshman English Comp 101 (so proud!), he only tested into Intermediate Algebra. We were assuming he would test into College Algebra, AKA Algebra II. This is when I found out that he had not completed Algebra I. Oops. This is where I digress for two seconds: What kind of teacher allows their student to say, "I am tired of Algebra I, I'd like to take Algebra II, oh never mind how about Geometry I," and never consults the parent? Yes, I was not on the ball, but see Figure 1 above. (We're calling the picture figure one now, by the way)

Moving on, Chicken is now set to take Intermediate Algebra. Except for the fact that 9th graders have the lowest registration priority of any incoming student. They allow goldfish to register before them, for fuck's sake. So you can imagine what it is like to register an 8th grader. All the classes were full, the wait lists were full, and we were fucked. Except, I don't like being fucked out of something I worked really hard to achieve for my kid. So I picked a class that worked with Chicken's schedule and dropped him off on the first day with instructions not to give up and leave class.

Throughout the wait for the professor (he got there early) and during the break I texted with Chicken. I encouraged him to stay the course. The professor announced that all students attempting to crash would not succeed, that any students that had not paid tuition would not get into the class, and other such statements. I told Chicken to ignore him. The second class meeting was two days later, and only a handful of crashers were still attempting to take the class. The professor made another announcement about not accepting crashers and more students left the classroom.

At the beginning of break the teacher called up any wait list or crashing students left in the room. There were four including Chicken. He had them each pick a number between 1 and 1000. Chicken was closest and he got the only spot left in the class. You totally fucking rock, my son. It has been three or four weeks and he is getting an A in the class. More importantly, he is enjoying himself. He actually gets out of class excited and tells me what he learned! I am so proud of my Chicken.

*If you follow me on Twitter, you might have noticed a photo of the math we were doing today. Oh matrices, what a pain in the ass long way of solving a system of equations. (I post a lot of impromptu pics on Twitter, in case you're the curious/nosy type.)

Chicken Is Thirteen Mofo!

Chicken's party was a blast as you can see by the crazy in his eyes.


Even I got into the groove since one kid didn't show and there was an extra cake.


Yes, Jesus does come to all of our parties.

Holy Server Shit The Bed, Batman!

If you've been around a while, you have seen Sam's Stories go down a few times here and there due to server issues. Last week that server finally gave up the ghost and fucking died on me. TB's friends worked around the clock to get shit straightened out, and now my blog is on a happier server. One that will likely not shit the bed any time soon.

Chicken's big 13th birthday was Sunday. Can you believe that shit? I am a mom to a teenager. To me, thirteen is a fairly important birthday, so we did something special this year. A local lady does cake parties in your home. Depending on the age, she will help kids (or adults) decorate small cakes or cupcakes. Since Chicken is so into cooking I thought he would have a good time with his friends decorating little cakes. (She doesn't know I am linking to her, this is not a paid advertisement, etc etc.) I saw her at a local Chick-fil-a and thought, "Self, this is an awesome idea for Chicken's birthday!" I will have pics and details up later this week I hope.

Have you ever done something that took a fair amount of planning and after thought, "Self, you fucking rocked that shit out of the park, yo!" Because I certainly felt that way yesterday. There was much fun and merriment, compliments on the decor, kids enjoying themselves, etc. I was a bit nervous because the party consisted of 8 eighth graders and 1 ninth grader. They are at an age where they are so awkward and still children but they don't want to be seen as children and GAWD I hated that age. I remember John Betancourt in seventh or eighth grade coming up to me in PE and saying, "God you are SO ugly." I will never forget that, you motherfucker. Especially because he was so HAWT and every girl in the school had a crush on him. Moving on to things that I don't dwell on...HA HA HA

TB's grandparents are coming from Arkansas to visit Thursday along with TB's mom and stepdad. My goal is to finish painting all the trim (baseboards, doors, trim around doors) in the kitchen before Wedneday. Yes, it is Monday night. I know this, people. I got the baseboards and trim around the doors done last week. Now to paint the two doors in that area and I am DONE. Except for that one spot that still needs the yellow-ish color. But it doesn't count because it is not trim. Right?

Oh WAIT! A funny for you: Chicken was at the fair with one of his friends. He sent me a picture text message, the picture was him on the carousel. The caption was, "Look Mommy, I'm riding a cock!" (He was on a rooster) The next day TB was telling a coworker this story and the person asked if Chicken had a boyfriend yet. TB replied, "No, but he has a beard!" (That was funny, btw)

How does one know that they haven't blogged or read blogs in a very long time? When you go to your Google reader and see that Flotsam has 3 posts up that you haven't read yet. Sorry, peeps. I predict scattered blogging between now and January 21, 2010, then I shall redouble my efforts. After all it is not fun to lie awake and plot your posts at night and then not have the time during the day to type them out for the masses. Not fun at all. I miss teh innernets.

Yo, Muthafucka

I really wish I could do something for you all, my bloggy readers of awesomeville. I'm not too big on the hugging, but maybe I can take you out for coffee to show my appreciation? I'll have mine decaf as I'm still nursing up a motherfucking storm, but we'll chat and I'll express how much you totally fucking rule. All of you, with the ruling and such. If you have any big ideas about how I can hand out innernet hand jobs, just let me know!

I meant to get back to you all sooner, but someone decided to get sick (for reals) for the very first time. Egg is two weeks shy of nine months (how the FUCK does time fly like that?) and he has previously only a mild case of yucky nose to his name. This time, he is SICK people. The kind that you can smell when you walk into his room. His ass is en fuego. This is the first time I have looked around at the hordes of dirty cloth diapers and wished for disposable diapers. The kind that don't require the parent to relive that time when you were in the middle of a diaper change and your baby started peeing and you gasped (YAY! Pee = not dehydrated!!) and then he got upset and started to cry and the force of the cry pushed GREEN watery shit out of his butthole (which you had the privilege to watch) all over the diaper cover and beyond in a foot-long streak of green POO. So. Much. Poop.

Tuesday I took him to the doctor because 102+ fever and a shit-ton of nasty green poo had me stressed out and worried. The doctor said "Must give Pedialyte!" and told me to watch out for dehydration, nurse him as much as possible, etc. Apparently, Pedialyte is on Egg's list of Things That Make Me Hurl so now I had a baby that was shitting green, foamy, water and hurling all over me. I decided that throwing up the two drops of Pedialyte plus all the breast milk I made FROM FUCKING SCRATCH, PEOPLE was not going in the direction of dehydration avoidance. I then tried Gatorade (barf) and Sprite (vomit). No dice, yo.

Egg will take breast milk from the source and very thin rice cereal mixed with breast milk. If I make it too think, he pukes. If I give him too much, he pukes. Luckily, I have both those things, but my Lord my bewbies are tired. Did I mention the biting? And the comfort nursing, which I can do ALL DAY if need be but BITING? I've been bit THREE FOUR times today. Yesterday he left dents in my nipple, two little straight lines from his two bottom teeth. I suppose I should be happy that he hasn't drawn blood. Yet.

In the hours since I began this post, I have put Egg to bed. Ninety minutes later he woke up crying, diaper change, attempt at nursing, more diarrhea, diaper change during which he shit MORE. A successful nursing session, another bite to lefty, sound asleep and put to bed again. Two minutes later he puked, unprovoked, a full stomach of milk all over himself, the sheets, etc. Another load of laundry, another nursing session to refill the tummy. He's back in bed now, it's 10:30pm and I am torn between getting into bed and staying up later. The instant I fall asleep he'll be up again. Shit. Literally.

Hey! What an exciting post, huh? Barfing and shitting and boring OH MY. So sorry, better luck next time. Cross your fingers, I hope Egg feels better soon. And stops BITING THE BEWBIES.

This One Is Hard, Yo

It's interesting to me that although I've suspected that Chicken is gay since he was but a wee thing, having him start to feel comfortable enough in himself to tell others has been difficult for me. I can't even imagine how difficult it is for him. I know this is the start of so many people judging him and maybe hurting him. I don't want my baby hurt. He's the most awesome, special snowflake and I could not ask for a cooler son. I just want to wrap him up in my arms and tell everyone to fuck themselves if they have a problem with Teh Gays.

I live in the Temecula Valley area (not in Temecula proper) and I still see "Yes on 8" bumper stickers every day. I want to knock on the person's window and ask them what the fuck they are thinking. Why my son doesn't get to marry his love because they both have penises. Why their "Yes on 8" sticker is next to their NOTW sticker, and how their God would feel about cruelty toward their fellow man. It makes me sick inside.

I have noticed is that "Coming out of the closet" isn't something that happens overnight, unless you have the ability to tell everyone in your life at once. I suppose a mass email would work, but I'm pretty sure that coming out via email isn't what one does. Or wants to do. So it's slow progress, Chicken feels comfortable telling this person and that, and on we go. Many people that we are close to have known for a few years, or at least suspected. But some people are likely going to be shocked. I expect at least one person not to believe that you can know such a thing at the tender age of very close to 13.

The close friends that have commented on his age have received a stock reply: "Did you have to have sex with someone to know that you liked boys/girls? Or did you just KNOW that you were into them?" Of course we don't have to have sex to figure this out, we get crushes and are attracted to people before becoming sexually active. Most people get this when they stop to think about their own sexuality. Some people just can't understand it at all. And other people, the hateful ones? They make my stomach churn.

Chicken is a happy kid. I don't want to see the world crush him because he refuses to hide. I want to stand in front of him, protect him, and keep him from being tormented. I know that all I can do is be there for him, love him, and remind him that he's my favorite snowflake and always will be my best Chicken.

Random Bits Of Titties

After thoroughly reading all your comments on my dress code violation post I have come to one conclusion: Snapping the flaps in place might be useful, even though my bewbies really prefer the open air look.

Chicken's 13th birthday is next month, and he has been trying to convince me that his savings account would better serve his needs emptied into his pocket. I'm still thinking about it. There is only about $150.00 in there because for a long time my mother had access to the account and there was no way I was going to give her the ability to take his money, too. Speaking of my mother, she told Chicken today that he could cash his savings bond that she bought him when he was an infant. I'm fairly sure that she is overstepping a boundary or twelve here.

What do you think? I have some savings bonds that belong to Chicken, none of them are fully matured and I was going to give them to him at some point in the future. I don't believe it is my mother's place to give him a savings bond and then years later give him permission to cash it. I believe I am the parent, but what the fuck ever. I can't even wear nursing tops properly it seems.

Today Chicken and I went to the school district transportation office to purchase a ten-ride pass. He hasn't ridden the bus since 5th grade and I wanted him to test it out before plunking down $540.00 for the whole school year. Yep, you heard me. Five hundred and forty dollars to ride the fucking cheese wagon. I about died. We asked Mrs. Office Lady where the bus stop was and that is when we ran into trouble.

She said the bus stop was on the corner of Fucking Stupid Lane and Clueless Street, which is right around the corner from our house. I wanted to know which corner. I explained to Chicken that there are four possible options. Northeast, northwest, southeast, southwest. He tried to argue with me for a second and then realized that he is a dumbass and I am the Mommy of All Knowing. However, Mrs. Office Lady wasn't so willing to admit her dumbassery. When I asked her which corner, she got befuddled and the only way she was able to describe it to me was that Chicken did not have to cross Fucking Stupid Lane OR Clueless Street in order to reach his bus stop. With my superior intellect and mad GPS skills, I surmised that this meant Chicken would wait at the Northwest corner for his bus. How fucking hard is that, really?

Mrs. Office Lady then made some lame excuse about the map and not being able to tell which direction was which because of the peculiarities of this particular map. I suppose it won't be the first map without North, South, East, or West on it. I hear that sometimes second-graders don't label their maps thusly. Fucking idiots.

Back To School, Sam Style

Back to school always kicks my ass, and it is even worse when Chicken arrives back in California on a Friday night with two days to get ready before school starts. Chicken began eighth grade at a new school, and it was exciting, nerve-racking, and expensive. PE uniforms, PTSA memberships, blah blah just write the fucking check already, lady!

I try to get involved in Chicken's school. It helps to know other parents, teachers, and the administrators, especially when your kid is a damn procrastinating smarty pants. I find that volunteering to help out the PTSA in some way gets me in the door. This year I offered to help at the school's book fair. There I met the PTSA president and a few other ladies. I offered my tech services and was asked to come to a meeting the following week. (I swear this is going somewhere)

Monday I drove to San Diego to visit my friend Tobiwan. He was in town and we spent a chunk of the sweltering day together. It has been 100+ degrees for a week or more. I had to race back to Chicken's school in order to make the meeting on time. I show up and ask the front desk ladies where the restroom is, and rush in to pee. I am balancing Egg on my lap, trying not to drop him or pee on myself. I manage to get my pants back on and hobble to the sink when Chicken's principal comes into the bathroom.

"Hi! Are you going on campus or are you staying in the office area?" asks Mrs. Principal

I told her that I was going to a PTSA meeting on campus.

"Oh! Well you have to meet the dress code to go on campus," says Mrs. Principal brightly.

"..."

"I have a shirt in my office I could lend you," she cheerily informs me.

Mrs. Principal jaunts off to her office while I attempt to wash my hands without dropping Egg, while contemplating the conversation that just took place.

I just got dress-coded. At my son's middle school. DRESS-CODED. By the Principal. On the eleventh day of the school year. Me. Too mortified to be pissed off, I wander through the halls of the administrative building looking for the principal's office. I find her, and she has an extra large polo shirt for me to wear. I put the shirt on over my super-slutty top and slink to the PTSA meeting, where I announce that I am late due to being dress-coded by the principal. There is nothing like being new and singled out for a dress code infraction to impress the other mommies! Go Sam!!

In case you were wondering, I was wearing this top:

Yep. A nursing tank top. While carrying my nursling. For shame! Except I wear mine more loosely than the dummy. Apparently the problem was the straps. They must be two inches wide to be in line with the dress code. *sigh* Typically I wear a little short-sleeved sweater with it, but as it was 106 degrees outside I was FUCKING HOT and wore only the tank top. And because I'm a total whore, that's why.

Chicken At The Beach

Chicken is visiting his dad in Virginia until the middle of August. I miss him. He's coming back an eighth-grader. He'll be 13 in October. How the FUCK did that happen?

My Kid Is An Asshole

No, not the super cute smallish one. The big one. The big one with the super big attitude that goes with being twelve and on the verge of thirteen. You might say, "Oh Sam, Chicken is GREAT! He is not an asshole. How can you call your kid an asshole?! There is something terribly wrong with you!" To which I reply, "Fuck you. You know not of my pain." However, since I have a blog, I will tell you of my pain. Then you will agree that my Chicken is an asshole.

Chicken just finished seventh grade at a local charter school. During the school year he completed Algebra I and 85% of Geometry. This lead to an issue for next year, as I want him to attend the regular middle school near our house next year. This school changing is worth a whole post, so I shall not get into it today. The problem is that I don't want to make Chicken take Geometry all over next year at the pace of a traditional middle school, but I want him to have a thorough understanding of the subject. In addition, the local middle school does not offer Algebra II. TB and I spend much time and debate and phone calls and office visits to figure out a solution to this problem. MUCH TIME. AND ENERGY. MUCH!!

The solution: Chicken will not take math in eighth grade. He will be a teacher's assistant in a math class instead. He will take Algebra II at night at the local community college. I will be there with him. That way Chicken will not be bored out of his mind all year. Also, I purchased four workbooks for him to do over the summer, which will complete his Geometry I class. Today we started the first workbook. After a bit of fussing I said, "If you don't do this you will have to spend ALL YEAR taking geometry at XX middle school." Five minutes later Chicken says, "Okay. I will take Geometry next year."

WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK???!! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? After all the, "Am I going to take him to the high school every morning to take math and wait while he is in class with a baby in the car and then take him to the middle school and even when my fibro says FUUUUUCK which it likes to do in the morning? Or should he not take math or should he do this or that and after FIVE MINUTES he says WAAAAH like a big fucking baby? HELLS NO. You are going to sit the fuck there and do this or I am going to stick my foot so far up your ass that you are going to trim my toenails with your teeth."

*Thanks to Neighbor Lady for the foot up ass/toenails/teeth saying.

**Alternate title: Why I Can Never Home School Chicken Because He is a Bastard

Post Script: I retired to my office to poop and write this post. Five minutes later my legs were asleep and Chicken shows up with completed work in hand. Asshole.

Twatapotamus

My next door neighbor and I are getting along famously. The other day I texted her and called her a "twatapotamus" which is a combination of a pussy and a hippo. A really large pussy that is terribly lazy and floats around in the water eating lettuce. That's my neighbor. I also decided that I hate the word crotch.

I'm sorry that I forgot to post. I was so excited that I posted a real, live, post that I promptly got caught up in reading comments and yelling, "OMG I ARE A BLOGGER!!!1!1" and thus forgot that I promised to post again. Thanks for reminding me that I am LAME.

I watch way too much What Not To Wear. You know how people look at themselves in the secret footage and say, "OMG I didn't know I looked that bad?" Well I had a similar moment the other day when I received this photo from my MIL:
Although my thought was OMGTITS!! I was at a pool party/meet the baby thing in Visalia with my MIL, step-FIL, and various friends and family of that nature. With my titties going RAWR!! I wore the suit because it had the most coverage (HAHAHA) with boy short bottoms and tummy coverage. It only shows one tattoo on my back and is fairly modest. When one doesn't have nursing titties. Ooops.

But, ther than the awesome display of bewbies, isn't the picture so sweet? It was Egg's first time in the pool and he really liked it even though it was on the cool side. That boy really enjoys the water. *sigh* He's my favorite baby. I am trying to put together an Egg post for his blog since I haven't updated there in forever. FAIL.

Wanna see my frog vagina? I know you do!
Isn't it pretty? I have been going through this personal transformation where I am wanting BRIGHT and PRETTY and HAPPY colors around me. I guess it is a reflection of how I am feeling on the inside, huh? I wish my body felt the same way. My body is currently angry, hateful, and sucking ass. I'm trying to ignore it and focus on the good stuff, like SUMMER and TASTY BABY and BLOGGING!

NINJA!!1!

Chicken and I are going to see Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction tonight, also known as the NINJA tour I've heard. At least that's what all the cool kids (Chicken) are calling it. I'm calling it the OMGNINWTFYAY Tour. Google says that I spelled that wrong. What.Ever. Chicken has gotten into music recently in a way which amazes me. At his age I had a total of two tapes, which I received for my 12th birthday: Mr. Mister and FUCK ME I can't remember the other one right now. Oh yes, Tears For Fears. I was hardcore at 12, yo. Hard fucking core. Chicken has an iPod with a million gigs of space and listens to a million bands and spends much of his free time researching bands and tour date and whatnot. It's adorable I think.

It was Chicken's idea to see NIN and I am so stoked that I am sitting on the toilet as we speak/type/read/whatever with a nervous tummy. Speaking of my tummy, I recently found the lost Poo book and will be getting back to the reading and contest portion of your blogging experience sooner than later. Hurrah! I am also nervous because the last time I was away from Egg for more than an hour or so was on February 28th when I got mah hairs did. According to my grays it is time again, but I am hell-bent on seeing NIN instead. I know that TB is more than capable of taking care of Egg, I've pumped and froze milk enough for a whole day, and everything will be alright. Right? Right. I'm going to pump in the parking lot of the venue because too many hours without mah baybee means BEWBIE EXPLOSION and I am sure none of the cool kids want to see that shit.

Wanna hear a story? Of course you do! When I was 15 or 16 or maybe 17? I heard "Pretty Hate Machine" for the first time. I remember being in my friend's car with the CD cover (it was a CD, right?) and trying desperately to remember the name of it. I was a tiny wee bit totally fucked up you see, and knew that the next day would reveal that I could not fucking recall the name of the band or album. So I looked at the album title and thought to myself, "Bewbies!" except I probably spelled them the traditional way of "boobies" back then. So, bewbies are pretty therefore I would remember that I was thinking of pretty bewbies and that would take me logically to "pretty" and then "pretty hate machine." However, all I remembered was "bewbies" because I suck. The End.

Fucking Jinx

Remember how I was talking about being sick and back in the good ole days when bronchitis was my very best friend? I am an asshole and my lungs are making me pay for my transgressions. My OB called in antibiotics today and when TB arrived home with them I could have kissed him. Except I was too busy hacking up green shit. I know that antibiotics are not ideal when pregnant, however my asthma/pneumonia/hospitalization history dictates that I take care of my fucking lungs or they refuse to work. Supposedly, Egg needs oxygen and shit to live and when my lungs don't work, he gets all brain damagy on me. Fucking kids these days, huh?

In the State of The Uterus, my contractions are getting longer and stronger. But not closer together. I am thinking at this point that I am going to continue to dilate and efface and all that shit but not go into full-blown labor until one day I sneeze and Egg falls out of my vagina. Every time that I have the runs I think, "Maybe THIS is it! My body is clearing the way for teh bebe!" And then it turns out that my fibro/IBS hates me and likes me to spend lots of time shitting my brains out. Oh yeah, that again.

Hey? You tired of me bitching yet? Want to hear unbearable cuteness? Chicken was on my bed with Reina the Devil cat perched happily on his chest, purring away when he said, "I wish Egg was here so I could hold him instead." AWWWWWW. And then he went back to being a 12-year old asshole. Like his 34-year old asshole mother.

Baby Stuff And Douche Canoes

I suppose at this point it is obvious to even me that I am going to have a baby here in a few weeks. After waiting a decade for this event it hasn't seemed real and I have just finally started to buy things for Egg. As things arrive I've been looking at them and wondering when it all will just go POOF! into the night. Luckily I have a few good friends that have handed things down to me (like clothes, a swing, a bouncy seat, a car seat), because otherwise this kid would be naked and bored. Although I suppose there are worse things to endure than naked boredom. Like being fucking sick and hugely pregnant.

That's right, my peeps. I have a fucking cold. I blame it on myself for thinking poorly of those bloggers that have in recently been felled by one foul illness or another. You see, although I have fibro, fucked off allergies, and asthma I rarely get sick now that I don't smoke. So when I read about this blogger or that getting sick for the five thousandth time I think, "What the fuck sicky sick person?" I used to get bronchitis at least once a year and occasionally throw in pneumonia for good measure. I spent the winter months hacking my lungs up every year. Stupid fucking smoker. But now, I don't get sick very often. I FEEL sick because the fibro likes to imitate the flu, with body aches, fatigue and general but I'm not ACTUALLY sick. But now I am. Actually sick that is. And I don't like it one bit. Chicken is here, Egg is almost here, and I have shit to do, yo.

Which brings me to the purpose of this post. I think. Maybe. Or not. I'd like to talk about parenting decisions that one makes before bringing a baby into the world because I sometimes forget that you all don't live in my head. I must actually communicate through the written word my craziness or you miss out and shit. So! Let's talk about stuff Sam is planning on doing after Egg comes into the world:

I am NOT circumsizing Egg. Dear Lord please do not chop off foreskins just because other people do it. Come on now. Back away from the penis. If your son wants to be circumsized he can do it when he grows up and makes the decision for himself. If you are curious to learn more about the decision, I recommend going here and taking a look at Monkey's collection of links. By the way, Chicken is not circumsized. If you have any questions about the topic, let me know.

I am using cloth diapers. I purchased them here as recommended by several friends and I can't wait to start using cloth. I want to use cloth for both environmental and health reasons. Fewer chemicals on Egg and fewer chemicals in the landfills seem like a WIN-WIN choice to me. I will be washing them myself in my super awesome new HE washer.

If my boobs cooperate I will be exclusively breastfeeding. When Chicken was an infant I could have fed him and the rest of the local population easily. The porker gained TWO FUCKING POUNDS between birth and his two week checkup. Yes, that is the appointment where they want to see the baby back at their birth weight. Not Chicken. He weighed 9 1/2 lbs at his first doctor appointment. My nipples were cracked and bloody for those first two weeks but dammit the kid wasn't going hungry. How long will I breastfeed? I have no clue. As long as it works for me and Egg I suppose. I'd like to go a full year and figure it out from there I suppose.

On the weight front, I'm up to 11-12 pounds gained. Food still sucks and I'm still drinking Ensure to keep up my caloric intake. I can't wait until food sounds yummy again. By the time Egg arrives I'm not going to have any body fat left. Which would be nice except for the whole breastfeeding thing which I think requires a bit of fat storage, right? Teddy Bear says that I look like an orange with straws sticking out for arms and legs. Thanks, honey. I'm really feeling the sexy now.

As far as the douche canoe goes, try visiting this link for more information. I'd go with definitions numbered 1 and 3 myself, however number 10 which says it is "a piece of feces, frozen then used as a dildo" is pretty awesome. I've never even THOUGHT of freezing shit and then using it in that manner. Obviously I am much too conservative and I need to work on dirtying myself up. One douche canoe at a time.

Fucking Douche Canoe

I went to the doctor today: No change whatsoever. Fucking over competent cervix. I haven't talked much about birthin' previous babies, but this is fairly typical for me. Chicken was induced. He came eleven damn days late. Labor was 15 hours with a shit-ton of pitocin. My first son was three days late, my water broke and then nothing so I was induced. Labor was 25 hours, ended with sky high blood pressure (mine), floundering heart rate (baby), and then an episiotomy from hell and a forceps delivery to avoid an emergency C-section. My pussy hurts just thinking about it. My cervix does not like to dilate. It is a prim flower of modesty.

I would give a more flowery birth story but right now I'm thinking that I will be pregnant forEVER. And I'm fucking tired and cranky and I want to see my kid, dammit. Also? Chicken talks more than any human being on the face of the earth. He talked to me for nine hours straight today. My brain hurts. Send reinforcements.

And The Band Played On...

I am still totally knocked up and contracting like a fucking something or other that contracts. Words are not my strong suit today. Tomorrow I get a hand up my hoo-ha to check and see if there is any more progress on the cervix front. I am currently thinking that I'll be ready in a week, (as if I have any choice in the matter). I have a few more things around the house to finish, and Chicken doesn't go back to school until January 12th. I am 37 weeks today, and my due date is January 25 if you haven't been keeping close track of my uterus at home. Don't worry, The New Girl. I will be damned if I pop out this baby without notification to the blog world. I should have a wireless Sprint card at the hospital with me, and if not I will have someone guest post my every movement. Even bowel movements, because this wouldn't be Sam's Stories without poop, right?

Chicken came home on Saturday. His luggage came home on Sunday, and I am sure glad that he was up until 1am on Friday night with his dad and step-mom washing all his clothes so that he could arrive home with clean, fresh-smelling laundry. HA HA HA. Just kidding. They were up until 1am. Chicken did log in 3 hours of sleep Friday night and showed up on Saturday totally fucking wrecked and exhausted. But his clean laundry bore the unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke. Nothing like washing your clothes only to have them smell like you just spent 8 hours hanging out in a bar. A bar NOT in California of course, because you can't smoke in a bar here anymore.

It is hard for me to imagine thinking that smoking in your home is okay when you have children. Especially when at least one of those kids (Chicken) has a family history of asthma. It makes me sad that Chicken had to spend three weeks inhaling smoke, and that his siblings live like that every day. I was a smoker for about 15 years. I get it. But I never smoked inside my house, even when I was a single adult. Inflicting your addiction on your children is just plain wrong. *sigh* At least Chicken is home, happy, and safe. Soon all his clothes will be clean and fit for use, too.

Texting and A Question or Two

On Saturday I actually left the house with a girlfriend and went to a nearby outlet mall for a tiny bit of baby shopping. I think I have to admit that previous to this trip far I had purchased one (1) outfit for Egg and nothing else. I'm 8 months along. I think I have issues. But more on that later! (la la la denial!!)I had an interesting text conversation with Chicken while shopping, the beginning of which read like this:

Chicken: Holy Fuck!
Sam: eh?
Chicken: My dad is a dick!
Sam: ...

As it turns out, Chicken was told by one of his step-sisters (she's 12ish) that his father had an affair over the summer. His wife found out via phone records and the affair was with a co-worker in an area several hours away. I didn't get all the details because the whole conversation was through texting and I was too shocked and appalled to figure out if I should call him. I haven't talked to him today, but I will tomorrow. One of the things that is banging around in my head is this: Is it appropriate to tell the children when one of the parents cheats on the other? And not just telling them that there was adultery, but the who and the how and whatever else the kids know? That bothers me a bit, and how does this effect the way the children feel about their father/step-father since the marriage is still intact? And please do not tell me that the 4 year old knows. I would vomit.

The other thing that chaps my hide is that Chicken was supposed to visit his dad over the summer but his dad couldn't get his "schedule" together in a way that would allow Chicken to visit. Was his scheduling difficulty due to the fact that he was fucking someone other than his wife? Because that really sucks ass. Of course I won't discuss this part with Chicken. He doesn't need to have that shit in his head. But he also probably doesn't need to know about his dad's affair last summer. So tell me, what would you do? What is appropriate here?

You Want Pictures? I Got Pictures!

I haven't had family portraits done since I was married to H1. Last week I finally got up the nerve and I am pretty damn happy with the results. I'd like to present The Sam Family:


I purposely uploaded low resolution versions of the portraits to make the page load faster. You're welcome.

What's My Name Again?

I have a small problem. I don't think I am feeling Egg's real-life name. For those of you that forgot, it is my dad's first name, my maiden name, Teddy Bear's last name. Originally I thought we would call him by a nickname of my dad's first name, not the same one he went by as an adult. Confused? How about this example:

• Richard-the name
• Dick-nickname my dad used as an adult
• Richie-nickname my dad used as a small child and the one I wanted to use for Egg.

But! I wasn't feeling Richie when I tried to use it on Egg. TB wasn't feeling Richie either. So TB and Chicken started to call Egg Richard instead. I just can't see calling my baby Richard (or, you know, the actual name which is not Richard). So I call him Baby. Although I am thinking that I need a better name for the birth certificate.

This is where you come into play, dear readers! I need a name. I am thinking just a first name, as I would like to use my maiden name as his middle name. My maiden name is unusual but fairly easy to pronounce. My last name might as well be Smith it is so common. I want a first name that is not used for both boys and girls (like Taylor), is not going to be mispronounced 10/10 times (like my real first name), and cannot be the following: Adam, Stan, Matthew, David, James. All those names are taken by close family members or are already ruled out for some reason. Sam cannot be used because Chicken really wants to be named Sam (??) and also it would be confusing with my nickname and blog name. Yes, my nickname really is Sam. No, my real name has nothing in common with Sam.

So! Give me options, people. If I choose something suggested by a reader, that reader will get something really cool. Like a gold star. Or the bragging rights to say, "I named Sam's baby." AND! I will post the winning name. Unless you lose and I pick a name all by myself/with help from TB and Chicken.

Speaking of Chicken, he has had his first traumatizing Redneck event in Virginia: his stepmother gave him and his older step-sister fifty bucks and set them free in a dollar store to purchase things for a party. Including centerpieces, which sent him over the edge. I'm not sure how to explain this other than to say that living inside my son's body is a 40 year old gay man with impeccable taste that does not approve of purchasing centerpieces at a dollar store. I'm just happy that thus far this is the worst thing to happen to Chicken. I can live with a little Redneck* experience to make him appreciate the good life back home.

*This in no way means that I do not totally support my dearest Redneck Diva and think that she is the greatest Redneck ever.

Chicken Says

Chicken: I can't wait until Thursday when I get to leave this conservative hellhole.
Sam: ...
Chicken: Oh. I suppose a military base in Virginia is not the most gay friendly place to be, huh?

Merry Christmas

Chicken hasn't been to Virginia to visit his father, step-mom, step-sisters (12ish &14ish), and half-sister (4ish) since the summer of 2007. That was the summer that I decided I was no longer going to hold H1's hand and make all the arrangements every time Chicken visited. The visit involved lots of crying phone calls (Chicken calling me, not me calling him crying) and I was just fucking over all of it. I figured that if he wanted to see his kid, he could damn well figure out his schedule and buy a fucking plane ticket. Remember how H1 told Chicken that he had a half brother that I gave up for adoption that visit? Yeah. Good times I say.

As a result, this Friday will be the first time Chicken has flow back to Virginia in a year and a half. I'm still stunned that his father got his shit together and managed to buy a ticket for less then eleventy thousand dollars. He bought it YESTERDAY. Chicken will be in Virginia until January 3rd. What does this mean to me? Well, I'm going to throw a big fucking party that will consist of me sleeping in the morning, fucking off in the afternoon, and taking liberal naps whenever I fucking feel like it. I'm going to miss my kid, but fuck me if I don't need a break from all the TALKING. Talk talk talk talk OMG KID STOP TALKING.

The other side effect of Chicken leaving for VA this week is that it effectively cancels Christmas here in Sam's abode. Yippee! For many years, the holidays have been more about which parents/in-laws are going to be pissed because we can't spend the amount of time with them that they desire than anything else. For me, Christmas currently equals stress, traffic, stupid Christmas music, not enough money to buy everyone presents, and not much fun. The only good part is celebrating with Chicken. Now that he is 12, there isn't the joy of Santa Claus and the wonder of decorations and blah blah blah. So it isn't as much fun as it used to be, and without Chicken here I just try to ignore all of it.

This year, I plan on blaming it all on being pregnant. "Oops, sorry! Too preggo to do XYZ!" Since December 20th marks 8 months for me, I feel fairly certain that I can get away with this strategy. No one wants to fuck with someone THAT pregnant, right? Next year, Egg will be almost 1 and I'm sure I'll be excited to share in some of the simpler wonders of the season with him. This year? Fuck it. Don't bother me.

Fuckin' Chicken

On the way home from school, Chicken says to me, "Could you please make sure that I am safely in bed before giving Teddy Bear his birthday blow job?"



"Were you reading my BLOG AT SCHOOL?"

Chicken erupts with laughter.

Mother- FAIL
Child- WIN

It was just a damned good guess. Asshole. This from a kid who has yet to see or hear any sexual activity EVER from me. I'm just a fucking prude when it comes to nookie when the kid is around. Did I mention the kid is an asshole? Yeah, he is.

Labor & Delivery Visit #1

Yesterday I hit 31 weeks and had a very stressful day which led to me sitting in Teddy Bear's truck crying my fool eyes out while Teddy Bear and Chicken said their goodbyes to my extended family. I would have given my own goodbye but mine would have sounded like, "You fucking suck" which I have heard is frowned upon in polite society.

I traveled to San Diego to visit my mother, her two sisters, one of her brothers, her cousin, her aunt and various cousins. Most of them live out of town/state so it was a nice gathering. I told myself that I would not stress about the food situation and would simply run out to get something Sam friendly (wheat free and lowish carb) when the time for dinner came. Yes, my family seems unable to take my wheaty status into consideration EVER. When the dinner menu was brought up Teddy Bear and I just laughed. Sandwiches, lasagna, raviolis, pizza, kibbe, and salad. For those of you that aren't Lebanese, kibbe is essentially raw lamb, spices, and bulgur wheat. Yes, my mom's family is Lebanese. You might have wondered where my stunning ability to tan hails from, no?

Well, dear readers, the menu choices left me with salad. Fucking salad. Which my mother reiterated no less than four times throughout the afternoon when she caught Teddy Bear and I laughing over the menu. "But SALAD! Don't forget the SALAD! You can eat the SALAD!" she cried. When the time came for dinner, Teddy Bear and I popped over to a local tree-hugger store (Henry's) and found a terribly crappy selection of frozen gluten-free meals. Most of the Henry's that I visit have a much better selection, but whatever. I'm fucking pregnant and hungry. We bring the meal back, heat it up and I eat with my family.

The frozen dinner was 90% white rice and 10% chicken, which meant that I added some cheese, ate all the chicken, a few bites of rice and handed it over to TB. I figured I could eat some salad and not fuck with my blood sugar by gorging on simple carbs. Look at me being responsible! I walk over to the salad, see a box of croutons and poke around in the bowl for a moment. Can't be too careful, right? Guess what I find? CROUTONS! In the FUCKING SALAD! YAY ME! I return to the table, let Teddy Bear know what happened and try to be cool. Stay cool, Sam. Don't worry! You can eat another time! Or you can go cry in the truck!

Guess what I did? I cried and cried and it sucked. Chicken and TB came out to the truck, I cried some more and then they took me home. Or, almost home. Because at some point I started having contractions that left me dizzy, gasping, and grabbing for something to squeeze really hard. And thus we headed for L&D, where I knew that an hour's observation would lead to a complete stop of the contractions and a big ole jug of water to consume. Now I have my very own big ole jug to fill with tasty things like VODKA and TEQUILA or maybe just water.

I got to hear Egg's heartbeat thumpy thumping away, listen to him kick the shit out of the heartrate monitor and lay in an uncomfortable hospitable bed while Chicken tried to amuse me. I also learned that hospitals = very bad memories for Sam and I would like to avoid them at all costs in the future. Remember that time my dad set himself on fire (accidentally) and I spent three weeks in the burn unit with him? Oh. Maybe I forgot to tell you about that one. Next post? Deal.

Chicken's Party

Dude. I am totally knocked up, huh? More to come...

Snippet

Chicken's birthday party is this weekend. Yes, I know that his actual birthday was a month ago. However, events conspired to make the party this weekend. Shut up. I know I suck ass. Yesterday Chicken picked out the cake for his party:
It goes well with his Pretty Princess invitations, which I will photograph and post later. I'm currently at Starbucks waiting for the 100,000 PTA meeting this week and don't have access to the invite. When asked, "Why this cake, my dear, sweet son?" Chicken replies, "I've always wanted to eat Ariel." HA HA HA HA. Oh my. Now I just need to find my hand basket.

Award Winning Parenting

Remember how I let Chicken watch an episode of Weeds and I was totally mortified? Now imagine that ten times worse, in public, for an hour and a half. This is also known as the day I realized that I am too damn pregnant to hid underneath a movie theater seat.

To be fair (or to pass the blame squarely to the other parental party) Teddy Bear suggested it- he thought it would be a good idea. A movie in which the whole Sam family would giggle over bad words, sexual references, and share a bonding moment. Normally I research the shit out of any movie that is rated above PG when contemplating taking Chicken along with me. Chicken doesn't watch evening television except for a few things I record for later viewing, like Project Runway and ANTM. Our evening routine of shower, teeth brushing, and book reading starts at 8pm and ends with bedtime at 9pm-not leaving any time for evening sitcoms, dramas, or reality television at its finest.

This is my long-winded way of saying that while Chicken and I have many, many conversations which are mostly inappropriate his exposure to mainstream television and movies is limited. So when I make a fucking HUGE blunder and take him to see Zach and Miri Make a Porno I am highly mortified and cannot fucking believe that my kid is laughing his ass off while I pray for a quick death. I embedded the unrated trailer (no nudity-just language stuff) to give you a quick peek at what I experienced with my 12 year old son sitting next to me.



Now, the movie was fucking hilarious. We all loved it. But! The scene in the trailer where there is a bubble popped by a woman? She created that bubble via queef. While the audience didn't actually see the bubble being made, it was obvious what she was doing. And now my life is filled with questions about queefing. For a short while Chicken liked to call out, "CUNT BUBBLE!!" with much joy but I curtailed that habit with the swiftness. Now Chicken wants to know the answer to a queef question that I must pose to you, dear readers: "Can a transgender woman queef?" Assuming that I am using the terminology correct and we are all talking about someone born physically a man who is now physically a woman with a va-jay-jay. Now go find me the answer, mah peeps!

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As an added extra special embarrassing treat, Jason Mewes from Jay and Silent Bob fame appears in the movie. As in, he is SHOWN in the movie. Completely. Head to er..penis..to toes. Just flappin' around with his little man dangling.

Sleep Does A Sam Good

Today I took Chicken to school, came home, internetted for a bit and then PTFO'd (passed the fuck out) until 2:30pm rolled around and it was time to pick up Chicken again. I feel better about life in general and I am ready to take on the couch/innernets/light parenting. Chicken is currently in Algebra I and I am enjoying the shit out of helping him with his homework. I love basic Algebra. It makes my geeky heart go pitter-patter.

Speaking of geek, I have a website that I want to share with you. It is authored by a good friend of Teddy Bear and it follows the geek news blog style. It is called Geek-tastic and I command thee to go, read a post, and comment. Want to weigh in about the virtues of fast versus slow zombies? Here is the post for you. Tell him I sent you. Or no more chicken pics for you!

I updated Egg's blog over here, and I updated my sidebar with NEW! EXCITING! LINKS! of DANGER! with the exception of the danger because who the fuck am I kidding? I am lame and boring without any danger at all. Unless it is the ever-present danger of shitting mah pants. If you should be on my sidebar and I'm an asshole and forgot you, leave a comment. Or just pout in silence. Whatevers.

As far as my test failure goes, my doctor does not want to make me take the 3-hour glucose test and considers me "pre-diabetic" and put me on a fucking diet. I suppose I can take the test if I wish but I really don't feel the burning desire to take it. I have been ordered to cut out simple carbs, eat every two hours, and avoid big meals. HA HA HA HA HA. I mean, "Yes sir!" Because I haven't had any trouble with my appetite in the last six months, right? And I don't already have the no wheat in my diet issue, right? I'm going to do my best and talk to him again in two weeks at my next appointment. Don't tell anyone but I was on the verge of tears through most of the appointment. And I'm not a teary pregnant chick at all. Fuuuuck.

Mr. Sunshine Doctor also talked to me about my hips of fuckedness and indicated that he expected me to be totally fucked and horizontal fullish time by the end of my pregnancy. What? You wanted to be pregnant and WALK, TOO? HA HA HA HA. I'm having TB look into renting me a wheelchair so I can at least participate in weekend activities that require walking. You know, like grocery shopping?

For those of you that were pissed, outraged, and generally wanting to fucking kill my Chiro because he told me that another baby was not a great idea I wanted to clarify myself. Or yourself. Whatever. His point was that putting myself through another highly painful and debilitating pregnancy was not a splendid idea-and I totally agree. I assumed (HA HA HA I am a total asshole for that) that this pregnancy would be similar to the first two and I would potentially have the added benefit of my fibro going into remission. (Insert more insane laughter here) At this point I am thankful that I can have this baby and will cherish him to pieces with no expectations of ever doing this again. It is just a risk that I do not want to take, and I do not want to put my family through this again. Make sense? Okay, moving on to better things...

Remember how you were saying that I wasn't a true geek? You were doubting my geek cred? Look at this shit, yo:
This door mat comes from ThinkGeek and happily greets visitors to my humble abode. I love it. Anther thing I love? Being able to show Chicken what it looks like when you are high as fuck* and trying to function in public. Great job, Joaquin Phoenix and thanks for the teachable moment.

*This is no way is meant to construe that I am anti-drug. It is merely to convey that too much of anything is really fucking stupid.

Nekkidness

This afternoon I was finishing my shower, drying off and trying not to fall on my ass in the process when Chicken bolted into my room with something VERY IMPORTANT to tell me. As I attempted to cross my legs/stand sideways/hide the vestiges of my dignity Chicken babbled about chickens and neighbors with a lot of OH.MY.GOD. and YOU WON'T BELIEVE. Meanwhile, I am attempting to convince him to get the hell out of my room because I AM NEKKID DAMMIT. Finally, he walks out the door and mutters over his shoulder, "By the way, you need to shave." NICE. Like I can even see that part of my body at this point. Fucking kids.

Preggo My Eggo

Yes, I am going to bitch. Live with it and I shall reward you at the end with a picture from the pumpkin patch yesterday.

Yesterday I hit a new milestone: The Dreaded and yet Highly Anticipated Third Trimester. According to one website, the honeymoon phase of my pregnancy is over. To which I reply: HA HA HA HA HA and FUCK YOU. This shit sucks and I am so glad that I have waited a decade for this pregnancy. Otherwise I'd be royally pissed off at myself and TB for his part in the whole mess. The Egg is doing splendidly, and technically my health is peachy-keen. I do object, however, to the never-ending fucked-up pain in my hips that requires me to ride the electric carts at retail shops many days because fuck me if I'm going to walk around Home Depot or Lowes for an hour or ten minutes. The rash on my face that arrived at month two or three? Still grimly hanging on and ugly as voting Yes on Prop. 8.

My appetite still sucks donkey balls and prevents me from enjoying things like chocolate and caffeine free Coke. I'm on the cusp of gaining a whopping total of TEN pounds, people. WHAT THE FUCK?! Anyone remember how I gained 13 pounds in October of 2006 simply by eating wheat? And now I'm just a tad over 6 months months pregnant and I have yet to hit the ten pound mark. I would LOVE to sit and eat like a fucking goat but NO the body says. (And I just ended a week and a half of wheat binging in a futile attempt to gain more weight. Guess what? I just feel like MOAR SHIT.) You know what else the body says? Let's see how much fun hypersensitive skin can be!! YAY! When I touch things (like my CAT or GRASS or AIR) I itch and if I don't wash it immediately I end up with little bitty itchy as FUCKALL rashy bumpies on me. Thanks skin! Because the disfiguring facial rash isn't enough, right? SIGH.

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Since Corinna punched me, I have to do this damn meme thing. Plus! I have a website to tell you about. And an awesome Etsy site or two. Later today or tomorrow, I promise. And no, these aren't sites that paid me or give me free shit. Just things I think you ought to know about because I care or some shit. And because I totally care about my readers, I shall leave you with the number one sign that you are too fucking old to ride in a wheelbarrow at the pumpkin patch:

Teddy Bear runs him around the patch at top speed while he screams with joy. It's my favorite part of fall.

Happy 12th Birthday

When Chicken was in 5th grade he authored a state report on Rhode Island. Part of his research was investigating the state bird, the Rhode Island Red. It's a chicken, people. The state bird is a friggin' chicken. An adorable, social, good egg-layer, but nevertheless a chicken. Chicken fell in love and decided that one day, he would own a Rhode Island Red of his very own. I promised him that he could have a chicken when we owned our own home. Guess what we picked up for his birthday? A chicken! Actually, three chickens were adopted today. The feed store got three different breeds in today and we picked one of each so they would be a happy and diverse chicken family. Two of them are Chicken's, and one is mine.
The reddish one is Beck. She is a Rhode Island Red hen and the calmest of the three so Chicken named her Beck after the singer's cool tunes. The middle one is a black Jersey Giant hen, I named George. (Bonus points if you can tell me why I named her George.) The one on the right is a Silver Laced Wyandotte hen named Pecker, or Peck for short. She's the most fiesty.

Could George be any cuter? I think not.

Housekeeping

Hi peeps! I am blogging from my lovely new master bathroom. I have a dedicated shitter in the bathroom with a door to keep out the strays and I am loving it. TB wants to install a laptop shelf in here for me because he is awesome. I have some news and announcements on the private blog front for you all. First, there are a few of you that have requested invites and then not responded to the invitation. Those peeps would be: Peg, EB72, Anne, and Corinna. If you have a better email address for me, drop me a line at samsstories at gmail dot com. I've sent the invite to Peg and EB72 twice at this point. Several of you have requested an invite in the comments without giving me an email address. I have to email the invite to you, so without an email address I am stuck.

Then there are a few of you that want invites and I don't know who you are. Almost every person that comments on this blog more than once or twice gets a visit from me on their blog. I like to know who is reading and to read what they have to say. Even if you were a reader from way back (hi Stuck in Houston!) I will remember you (or search my comment archives in Gmail) and will give you an invite. But! If you are a lurker I don't "know" you, I can't be sure that you aren't a not nice person posing as a reader. Got it?

Sigh. If you are a lurker, don't worry that you are missing out on awesome Sam content. It isn't particularly interesting or exciting and definitely not funny on the private blog. If you haven't received an invite and you are saying, "Duh! I know you! What the hell is wrong with you, Sam?!" then shoot me an email. In all likelihood, I will only post one or two more times there and then pull the plug on the whole thing.

The reason things have been so quiet here is that I moved on October 4th and my new house is a mess of boxes and random crap. ARGH! I would post new pics for you all, but at this point all you would see are boxes and more boxes. You might catch a sleeping cat if you're lucky. I'm trying to rest more at this point because my body did not appreciate all the painting and crap that I did to prepare the house. I worked my ass off every day and now I am taking a break. This requires a lot of really crappy television, much pooping, and being horizontal for most of the day.

In baby news, I am 25 weeks today. How the fuck did that happen? I'll be six months officially on the 20th of October. Chicken turns FUCKING TWELVE YEARS OLD on the 18th of October...and now my brain is fried by the insanity of having a new baby and a 12-year old at the same time. I am nuts. Please send help or hot pool boys/girls. I'm not picky.

Chicken's You Tube Pick

Chicken has the day off of school today. What excitement do we have planned? Watching this:

Chicken Writes

Chicken does not like to write, so when he actually manages to put his personality down on paper I really enjoy it. Mostly. Sometimes it hits a little too close to home.

---

"Squirrel is My Name"

If I was a squirrel my name would be Fluffy. I would live in a park and steal anxiety medication from a crazy lady that comes to the park. Because of the meds, I am a very calm squirrel. My luxury condo would be hidden in an oak tree, with a large attic for my acorns. Yum yum!! Every day, I would get up, go to the "pharmacy" and then steal some old lady's sandwich for brunch. Then I would spend the day peacefully collecting acorns for my attic, then not-so-peacefully terrorizing the park visitors. Sometimes, in my spare time, I take potshots at children with my acorn surplus.

By Chicken

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.

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?

Chicken Says

"When two people love each other very much..."

and then he hands me this:

How I Utterly Failed As A Parent

Tonight I let Chicken watch the most recent episode of Weeds. The show typically contains the activities of a housewife turned pot dealer and some rather interesting humor but overall nothing terrible. No sex, no nudity, and mostly just raunchy conversation. Although I rarely let Chicken watch adult television I was feeling generous and I knew the show would amuse him.

Holy fuck, people. Let's do a recap of the things that were featured on Weeds this week, shall we? Obviously, this post contains spoilers. Go watch the episode and I'll see you in 1/2 hour, okay? Tonight, in Sam's living room Weeds contained:

• A naked rear view of a man within the first 5 seconds.
• A 17 year old boy fucking and going down on a neighbor lady that has a 10 year old child. Naked rear view of man/boy while eating pussy. No pussy or boobies were visible. In fact, there wasn't even a female ass completely naked. Hmph.
  
• A woman in black lace panties being spanked by a man. Both parties enjoyed the spanking. Later, the woman displays her red/bruised bottom with a grin on her face.
  
• Two children (aged 13 ish, a boy and a girl) looking at nude pictures of the boy's mother (the pictures are 20 years old approx).
• The 13 year old girl is a lesbian and really enjoys the pictures of the boy's mother and leers at the mother the next time she sees her in person.
  
• Later, the 13ish year old boy views the pictures of his mother while in bed and then it is insinuated that he starts to masturbate.
• Two men in bed making out, a king-sized bottle of lube at the bedside (TB says it was king-sized, I had no feeling on the matter).

I am not including the offers of sex, talk of sex, or other nonspecific sexual innuendo. Please note that I am happy that there were non-hetero sex acts/thoughts/etc. going on during the episode. If I had watched it without Chicken my only objection would have been the boy jerking it to the pictures of his mother because that is out of my personal realm of sexual comfort. That being said, HOLY FUCK PEOPLE!! I should also mention that I have no issues with pot and would love to see it legalized in the United States. If I wanted a prescription for medicinal marijuana in California I could obtain one due to my fibromyalgia - according to my rheumatologist.

At the end of the day, I kept watching Weeds with Chicken thinking that it simply could not get worse and wow I was wrong. Today, I failed as a parent. There is always tomorrow to fuck it up equally as well.

Sniff And Switch

Guess what I did today? No WAY! You totally guessed it! Aren't I totally cute with my boobies and my belly? Yes, I am feeling full of myself today. Nice change, huh? Virginia Belle recently commented about my awesome boobies, saying something to the effect of, "Haven't you always had boobs?" Why yes, VB I have! However, there is a difference between 34B and 36C. (The 36C boobs are illustrated to the left) I know they don't look like much, but imagine me with a flat tummy and BAM! there they are, all happy and boob-like.

For those of you that know me well, you might be saying, "Self, why the fuck is Sam wearing a Lake Elsinore Storms baseball cap? She is neither a fan of Lake Elsinore nor baseball." The answer is simple, actually. Every year TB's office has a baseball day where everyone and their brother are invited to a Storms game and there are hot dogs, hamburgers, and games for the kids. Free. This year it was free hat night. Whee! Now I have a beach hat and I am very happy and cute in my hat.

I swear there is a greater reason for this post other than HAT!! and BOOBS!!! although I believe that those two things are awesome in their own right. Chicken and I had a great afternoon at the beach. We went to Tamarack beach in Carlsbad, my stomping grounds about twenty years ago. Fuck I am old. On the way there Chicken and I saw a van advertising a plumbing company that was open "23 1/4 hours a day" with a local phone number. Well what the fuck does that mean? Which forty-five minutes of the day should I not call this particular company? Is it in the middle of the night, when an emergency plumber is needed RIGHT THEN? Or is it at two in the afternoon? I needed to know.

I had Chicken call the company as we were driving behind the van. Apparently, (according to the lady that answered the phone and not any official spokesperson) the 23 1/4 hours is a marketing gimmick. They are open 24 hours a day like any other emergency plumbing service. It was hilarious listening to Chicken trying to explain his question to the befuddled woman on the other end of the phone, though. "But which 45 minutes are you closed?" "I don't understand the question." "Just in case I have an emergency I need to know which 45 minutes in the day you are closed." "I'm not sure what you mean, sir." "You have a van, it says..." and so on went the conversation until she said marketing blah blah and he said, "Isn't that false advertising if you are actually open 24 hours a day?" and she was nonplussed. I was very amused.

I learned a bit about peeing at the beach today. If you are standing in ankle-deep water, not yet very wet and get startled, you might pee a little in your dry bathing suit. If you are fully in the water and it is waist deep and you have to pee like the dickens you will not be able to squeeze out one fucking drop. You will be forced to walk a great distance to a very dirty bathroom instead.

I don't know about all beaches in this world, or even in this state. I do know San Diego beaches pretty fucking well after living half my life close to the beach. Currently there are areas for surfing and areas for swimming. The two are not combined, which I think is great for surfers and swimmers alike. The next step is to have separate showers. Today Chicken was rinsing off at the outdoor shower thingy (similar to the one pictured but with four sides) and a surfer dude lost his grip on his surfboard that he was rinsing. The board tipped and landed nose first on Chicken's chest, causing Chicken to panic, run for me and hit the ground at my feet. I recognized the look on his face and actions as classic "oh my fuck I just got the wind knocked out of me and I think I am going to die" and held him until he could breathe. After that he wouldn't go near the shower until there were no surfers around, the poor boy.

On the way home I decided that I needed to live closer to the beach. This desert crap is for pussies, and not the good type, either. The green, lumpy, rotten, discharge spewing kind and the kind that won't put out. I have been away far too long and I am holding my breathe until TB figures out a way to make it work. Or until I need to breathe again.