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.)

I LOVE MY CAR

Mine doesn't have the scoop in the hood or the roof rack, but it is still damn sexy. Plus! I got one with a standard transmission. The only other compact SUV that is available in a stick is the BMW x3, which is way out of my budget. The Forrester is all wheel drive standard as well. There is something about driving the same car (my '98 Honda Civic) for almost ten years that makes a person totally appreciate a brand new ride. I love my new car.

I average 21 mpg in the city through a lot of stupid stop lights and traffic, and high twenties on the highway. It is a partial zero-emissions vehicle, and in the compact SUV class. If you don't know what a compact SUV looks like, think of the Honda CRV or the Toyota Rav4. Subaru is also a very homo-friendly company, which makes me happy to be a customer. I never thought I would buy a car that wasn't a Honda, but I am enjoying the shit out of my new car. It is a nice change to not be forced to grease up Chicken and his friends so they can fit in the back of my Honda with a car seat in the middle. Do you know what a tub of Crisco goes for these days?

*This post is not paid, endorsed, or written while being sat upon by a Sumo wrestler.

Cloth Diapers FTW (for teh win!) Part I

I love using cloth diapers. I recently held down a poor pregnant couple for more than a half hour when they unfortunately mentioned that they might be using cloth diapers. I have many opinions on cloth diapering, and I am going to share all of them with you tonight! YAY diapers! The first thing in order to entice you to read further is teh cute. Cloth diapers ARE FUCKING ADORABLE, YO. Here is Egg at four months:

See the cuteness? Have you ever seen a diaper clad baby with COW print on his nethers? You have not! Think of all the joy you get out of dressing your baby boy or girl. With the wee little socks, the cutest onesies, the hair bows, etc. Dressing babies is FUN. Adding another opportunity for cute and/or matching? AWESOME. Egg at six months:

Notice how the cow diaper cover still fits and is still sparkly white? Do you have any idea how many times Egg has shit his ever-loving brains out all over that cover? Exactly. Much shitting all over. And the cover keeps on keeping on all day. Now you're intrigued, right? Teh cute has sucked you in and you want to know more about keeping your baby's ass rash-free and the landfills disposable diaper free? I know! WIN WIN!

If you have looked into cloth diapers, you might have become overwhelmed with all the choices, acronyms, washing, drying, OMGICANTDOTHIS. But! You are here and I can make this easy peasy for you. In disposable diapers there are a few types, too. You have the EXPENSIVE, the CHEAP, and the EARTH-FRIENDLY. Sometimes you have Huggies that are earth-friendly-ish and then the sensitive type and the crawling and the swaddling and isn't every baby's skin sensitive? So if you can make a decision to disposable diaper, you can figure out cloth diapering. I promise!

There are three general types of cloth diapers, ignoring the permutations of organic and not bleached cotton and blah blah blah. You can mix and match types as well as CHANGE when your baby grows. So you are not married to a particular type. The first type is Prefold + Cover. A prefold looks like this on one-month old Egg:

A prefold is a square piece of cotton that is made of layers sewn together. The layers are thicker in the middle. They come in different sizes to fit your baby. The thing holding it together is a Snappi and is much like the metal thingy that holds an ace bandage on your parts. You don't have to use pins unless you prefer them.

These are from Green Mountain Diapers. Two people I respect and admire recommended using this website to purchase prefolds. I really didn't like how 1999 the website is, but the prices and quality and reams of how-to advice are invaluable. You cannot buy the crap you find in Babies R Us. Is is like trying to use a Kleenex as a pad on a heavy flow day. That shit just won't work.

So we have a prefold, a snappi, and a cover. Covers are teh cuteness. Look:

Covers are waterproof. The prefold soaks up all the yuck, and the cover keeps the yuck from getting on you. There are designer covers, plain white covers, character covers, the sky is the limit. Now there are covers that are more adjustable, which means they last longer on your growing baby. These are Thirsties, and they kick ass. The snaps on the front allow you to adjust the rise, making it span a wider range of baby sizes.They come in a TON of cool colors and really last.

Prefolds, the cotton part that absorbs the yuck, snappis that keep the prefolds on, and covers that are a waterproof barrier between you and the yuck. If it sounds like I am repeating myself, it is because that's how you learn, stupid hooker face! Next diapering post we will talk about Pocket Diapers and All-in-ones.

Odds And Rectums

I took Reina to the vet yesterday to get her annual vaccinations. I had assumed that it would be a quickie in-and-out type of thing, other than requesting that they notate their records: DO NOT STARTLE. I'm sure I've discussed it before, somewhere around here in the last year but fuck me if I love you enough to look for it. (That's why I am starting to work on the labels in the sidebar-ease of searching for a particular topic.) So! Reina Teh Crazy, Do Not Startle. She hyper-focuses on things (I don't know what the actual term is but you get the idea) and blots out the whole world. During this period of time she is easily startled by anything. If you should happen to be dumb enough to touch her, you will bleed. She freaks the fuck out, whirls around and CLAWS EVERYWHERE. Next thing you know, there is blood and it is yours.  Hence the notation on her vet record.

Before the vet administers the vaccines, he asks if I would like to space them apart and just do one shot this visit. Really? We're doing this on animals now? Seriously? On my husband's fucked up crazy assed cat? I'm going to bring her in three times for shots because she'll....become autistic? Not feel good? Do animals have that problem? If so, I think she already is fucked up as much as she is going to get. I am not trying to make light of autism, vaccines, etc. I just can't believe people are spacing vaccines for CATS. The animals that freak the fuck out every time they have to go to the vet. It seems more humane just to do it all at once. Also, I do not like to bleed and vet trips sometimes equal Sam bloodshed.

Dude. Excessive talk about Reina. Sorry about that. I also seem to have petered out my ability to blog right now, so that's all you get. Next up, the things I missed today: Cloth diapering. Cloth napkins. Awesome care packages from Swistle. Postcrossing. And less!

ETA: Yes, there is a link with a picture of carnage. I suppose I do love you.

FUCK YOU BLOGGER Picture FAIL BOAT

I had a spot of trouble uploading the correct picture. And removing the blurry picture. And basically breathing. So here we are, awkwardly gazing at a picture of a mouse that is now deceased. And some of you are saying, "EW FUCK EW EW EW" and standing on a chair that is perched upon a table. Sorry about that, really I am. While I'm here, welcome new readers via Swistle and Blog Share 5. Where I didn't share but somehow another mother shared about her gay son and then people found me? I have no idea how it happened, but HEY! How the fuck are ya? Thanks for visiting! Next post: vaccinations and the veterinarian. Cloth diapering. Cloth napkins. Awesome care packages from Swistle. Postcrossing. And more!

PS Did you see that I am starting to add labels to my sidebar? Fuckin' A!

Flyin' High Muthafuckers

I'm not sure why motherfucker or any of its permutations have been so pervasive in my posts lately. I'm not even sure if that sentence made sense, exactly. I am sure that I am SO NERVOUS about flying to Austin tomorrow that my stomach is saying "RAWR" in a many trips to the potty way. EW. At least I'll be unlikely to shit on the plane or in the airport tomorrow, right? Because that would be fairly difficult with a 20 pound Egg strapped to my chest. Of course he didn't poop today. Or yesterday. Which means that the chances of morning poop tomorrow are good. Please oh please no morning poops! NO MORNING POOPS WORLD. YE SHALL NOT DO THAT TO ME. Please.

I was worried about flying with a baby during the great Swine flu outbreak, but recent events have me not worried one fucking bit. No, we did not get vaccinated. We got the Swine flu instead. Chicken and I were sick for almost a week, with just a head cold thing we thought. Then as I was getting better, Chicken took a turn for the worse and was sporting a fever, the rash on Egg started to worry me, and then TB got sick. All of a sudden TB and I looked at each other and started to ask Dr. Google some tough questions.

For some reason I was under the impression that H1N1 included tummy issues. Nay! It can include tummy issues, but does not have to include them. (I just used "include" way too many times. Sorry!) As I stared at the list of symptoms I realized that my FMS makes detecting the flu a tad bit difficult. You see, body aches, headaches, and lower tummy issues are just a part of life. So I assume that nose/throat/cough issues equal a head cold and go about my business. Today TB took Chicken to the doctor where he was pronounced With Flu! but on the upswing. TB discussed Egg with the doc and was pronounced, "Fighting something viral!" and fit for travel.

No one is contagious at this point, Chicken is staying out of school for a few more days just to be sure, and off we go to Texas with an immunity to H1N1 (we think). My theory is that I got a very minor case of Teh Flu and produced antibodies which Egg sucked out of mah bewbies and he ended up with a mild rash indicative of Something Going On but not full blown flu. If you have a better theory, one that involves everyone dancing topless, let me know. I'm just happy that everyone is feeling better and I get to see my SIL tomorrow! YAY ME!!

I am not taking my precious laptop to Austin, so the only ways to communicate with me are: Direct messages via Twitter (which go to my cell phone), or real, live phone calls. Which also go to my cell phone. Yes, I'm only going out of town until Saturday but What If The World Ends? Oh wait! I can text updates to Twitter if I get lonely, huh? Yes, I shall try that. Good idea, me! See you later, bloggy peeps!

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.

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.

No Words

Hey You! You might have been wondering what the fuck happened to me. Again. Again again, really. A chunk of my lame excuseness is that I have been feeling good enough to LIVE and shit. Like outdoors. Well, out of the house. It is still too fucking hot to be outdoors. And in case you think I am a big ole snatch, I figure that triple digit heat is too hot for anyone to be gallivanting outdoors with a small person and an almost as big as me person. Chicken is twenty pounds lighter than me and an inch shorter. Which means that last inch is REALLY heavy or I'm a little chunky right now.

Two things have happened in the last few weeks and they have left me like this:

...

And like this:

!!!

But never with the words and blogging. I'm not sure I can eloquently talk about either of them, so maybe just spewing one of them out and taking care of more shit in another post? Fine. First. I found my son on Facebook. Not Chicken, my first son. If you click on the "Adoption" tag (at the bottom of the linked post) there are a couple other posts on the subject. So! My kid on Facebook. Life in 2009, huh? I know where he is, I get emails from his mother with pictures, etc. But to see him on Facebook, so close. I want to talk to him, meet him, get to know him and I can't. I am stuck waiting for this mythical time where he will express an interest in me to his parents. This time that may never happen. His fifteen birthday is September 29th. His birthday is always hard for me. Fuuuuuck. I just sit here and wait. And fail to blog. And watch Egg grow and relive again the pain of "I missed all of these moments with my first son."

Questions Answered Via Stick Figure

I was having trouble explaining the previous post, so I drew some stick figures, scanned them and here we are! Characters B and F are discussing C. They just found out that she is addicted to heroin. Because A has been so dismissive of D and E, B and F are amused by the revelation and comment that she is a junkie, but with the proper accent, wouldn't that be youngkey? (The spelling is mine, phonetic so you can get the joke) Which is totally snotty and hilarious. (You must be aware of basic Spanish here, where "J" is pronounced like the "j" in jalapenos. Sort of.

See how awkward this simple explanation is? I was thinking that the response to the previous post would look like this:

"HA HA HA I watched Weeds last night too OMG FUNNAY."
"I totally love Weeds"
"Can you believe she's a junkie?"
"Sam you are my idol. May I hump your leg?"

But instead I got this:

"..."
"..."

I believe the fault is mine. Apologies for being lame, I hope the stick figure penises make up for it.

Neighborhood Peeping Tom

My neighborhood has a Peeping Tom. His name is Rex Roofer. He looks like this:



Sometimes he bites my leg when his owner is out of town. Other times he purrs nicely when I scratch him. But every day he peeps in my motherfucking window. It's my special kitty cat window. And he peeps in it. It pisses off Reina.



Reina and Dude enjoy sitting on Chicken's old chair in front of the window and surveying their lands. Rex Roofer likes to watch Reina. She wigs the fuck out and claws at the window. Sometimes, Reina gets so into her rage that she gets startled easily. When Reina gets startled, she turns into a deadly barrage of sharpened claws.



And I bleed.

Friends Don't Leave Friends Hanging In The Middle Of a Birth Story

Except I'm not a friend. Or am I? In between the birthday party last Thursday that I helped my real-life friend throw for her 1 year old, driving to central California on Friday to visit family and Saturday's meet-up with a bloggy friend I had some time to think. Oh, and another bloggy friend was supposed to be there, but got sick. Of course, at this point, all friends mentioned thus far included myself are sick. That fucking sucks. Maybe the intarwebs are getting us sick?

Back to the thinking. What makes someone a friend? My friend from Thursday lives about an hour away from me, and yet she just met Egg for the first time. I've only met her son twice and he is a year old. But, we talk online regularly and have known each other for almost ten years. We met the old-fashioned way, through spouses and work. Are we friends just because some of that time has been in person or because we knew each other before we had blogs?

My friend from Saturday I've never met before but we have talked online, on the phone (a little bit, I hate the fucking phone), and exchanged gifts over the years of our friendship. I know what is going on in her life more than most of my "real" friends. When does a person go from being "a friend inside the computer" to just a friend? When we have their phone number? When they know our names? When we meet them face to face and assure ourselves that they are not a twelve year old boy? What do you think? I'd like to know...

Mad (Wo)Men

TB sent me this cool thing from MadMenYourself that allows you to create a version of yourself in the framework of the show Mad Men. If you haven't seen the show, you're missing out on some pretty good television. I started watching it while I was pregnant with Egg. I had to stop watching it, because I was pregnant with Egg. You see, I am a die-hard smoker. I haven't smoked in four years, but I am a smoker at heart. For some reason, being pregnant made me crave a cigarette terribly. Watching everyone smoke throughout the whole show was too much for me to handle, so I stopped watching.

I could probably handle it now that I am free of the crazy pregnancy hormones and simply subjected to regular old crazy female hormones. Where was I? Oh yes, the site. In the image above, I'm the one in yellow. You can tell it's me because I have a cigarette in my mouth and one in my hand. You can never have too many cigarettes, I've found. It's like having too much money. Impossible!

You can pick your hair, face, eyes, mouth, accessories, etc. I was at a loss when confronted with the hair color choices. Do I pick the color my hair currently is or the natural color? Where is the option for "gray and brown but dyed black then faded and slightly grown out and now dark brown?" I selected the middle body type because I have bewbies currently. Speaking of bewbies, I was at the pediatrician's office today when the nurse asked me if I had a pacifier. I said brightly, "No! But I have a bewbie!" I am nothing if not helpful.

"What?" She looks confused.

"A breast. I have breasts," I enunciate clearly and speak slowly for the hearing impaired and the poor middle-aged male doctor that is standing there still.

"Oh." She is not as thrilled as I am.

She has this little trick that she does with a pacifier and the rotovirus vaccine. The baby sucks on the pacifier, she swaps it with the oral vaccine, finishes with the pacifier. I can just imagine this using a real, live, nipple. Egg sucks on my nipple, takes the vaccine while my milk lets down, and sprays all over the exam room. No worky. Oh well. He didn't mind the oral vaccine this time. He was pissed off about the shots, but a quick nursing session and flirting with the nurses and receptionists fixed his demeanor and I took my NINETEEN pound baby home.

Dinner Time Motherfuckers!

I really enjoy cooking and baking. Stop laughing. Please. Those of you that know me are well aware of the amount I cook and bake. Which is almost never. But I have a very good excuse. At the end of the day, the amount of energy I tend to have (zero) plus the amount of pain I am in (much) means that standing in the kitchen is not on my list of fun things to do. Before the fibro kicked in I used to cook EVERY day. Like a real housewife. Now TB is the cook 95% of the time, Chicken and I share the remaining 5%. I hate it, because cooking can be so much fun! I would bake goodies more often, as it doesn't require as much standing and stirring but then I would eat it all and become very fat.

This is all a very long-winded way of saying that I cooked dinner tonight and I want to share in the goodness with you. I have been inspired by a few bloggers that have recently posted recipes, namely Swistle, Calliope, and The New Girl. Matthew brought home this recipe from Rachel Ray's cooking magazine and made it for us last week before he flew off to Virginia. It is from the $10 Spot section, where you can make dinner for a family of four for ten dollars or less. My version cost $15 because I made a few changes.

The recipe is Pasta with Roasted Cauliflower and Ham. I'm not going to post the recipe because you can operate the innernets, right? Okay then. You can click on any of the images to get a super-size version. Because I love you.

Changes:
I used three small heads of cauliflower, almost a pound of ham, almost double the sage, and gluten free pasta. The sage I used is organic, but that is only because that is all I found at Henry's. Unless I want to go to multiple stores (not when it is 100 degrees outside I don't) I have to go to a specialty store to get the gluten free pasta.






The finished product:Super yummy and maybe good for you?

Greetings From Vail, Colorado!

In July of 2007 Teddy Bear and I buried my dad in Grand Junction, Colorado while Chicken was visiting his father in Virginia. We decided then that we would travel back to Grand Junction with Chicken at some point in the future so he could see his grandfather's resting place. After I got pregnant, Teddy Bear thought that Chicken's spring break of 2009 (happening right now) would be a great time to visit Gramps. Egg would be two-ish months old (perfect for a road trip! HA HA HA) and the weather would be nice (HARDY HAR HAR) and several other ridiculous reasons that I currently can't think of in my pain stupor. HELLO FIBROMYALGIA!!! I totally fucking missed you SO MUCH.

I may possibly sound bitter but actually this trip has worked out marvelously. When we told TB's father that we wanted to visit Grand Junction, he said that there might be a way we could use a week of a time share that he owned. The time share is one of those time-banking, various places type so he searched around and found that Vail was available during Chicken's spring break. (I really want to capitalize Spring Break. Why?) Although we don't ski at all for any reason, we ended up with a week in Vail, Colorado at no cost. SWEET!!

Funny story about Vail. Chicken and I were in a sporting goods store buying a snowy-type jacket for him. The cashier asked where we were going and we replied, "Vail." She looked confused and asked, "Vail Lake?" Which is located in Southern California. Not in the mountains. Not anywhere that a reasonable person would wear a big thick snow jacket ever. Fucking dumbass.

Back to our trip. Although we are currently in Vail, our first stop to eat was in St. George, Utah. Where Chicken left his cell phone in a Denney's, and then we saw a billboard offering help to those trapped in polygamy. We also saw a billboard in Utah stating that "Don't hit pedestrians, it can change your life." Uh? Really? In Salt Lake Valley we visited a few of TB's relatives so they could meet Egg. We even had breakfast with Bad Grandma. I must post about her next. She is awesomely BAAAAAD. Hence the title.

An aside: you know how packages that are sealed get all bloaty and threaten to explode when you bring them up to high elevation? Do boobs count as sealed packages? Because mine are all ARGH and UMPH and POOF!!! and make a big fucking mess all over the bed and in Walmart and my shirt is drenched. My supply was happily calmed and normal and it is back to being all fucked off again. At least Egg is old enough now to take the extra flowage in stride.

During the first leg of our trip to Salt Lake I somehow mentioned Rim Jobs to Chicken and then refused to explain them to him. So he was forced by his middle schooler's brain to ask over and over again "What's a rim job? Huh? Huh? A rim job? What is it?" It was all kinds of awesome in the car and now Chicken is just a little smarter than he was before this adventure began.

We stopped at a gas station that advertised a Waterfall Urinal. Seriously. TB even took pictures to prove it. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a urinal. A waterfall urinal. The women's bathroom had nothing so cool.In the second picture you can even see his stream. He took a picture OF HIS STREAM.

Then we stopped in the middle of the desert to soothe and feed Egg when my bladder decided it was uncomfortably full. I haven't peed in the great outdoors in years and it was AWESOME. Chicken was so impressed by the pee spot that he took a picture of it.

(I was peeing outside his car door and he had NO IDEA what I was doing until I was done. It was an added bonus. HA HA I'm outside your door peeing on the ground!) The cool wind blowing on my Lady Bits felt so damn good I think I may take up peeing in my backyard. But only when Crazy Neighbor Lady is looking over the fence. She needs more inappropriate Sam peeing in her life. I just realized that I posted pictures of my pee AND TB's pee. For all the Innernets to see. Just another day at Sam's Stories, huh?

Last short story and then I must leave you until my hands aren't screaming in pain from the typing. We all were in a Super! Walmart when my boobies exploded and I purchased some disposable nursing pads while Chicken, Egg, and TB shopped for supplies. When I returned to the cart containing a sleeping Egg, TB and Chicken were in an aisle and not within eyeshot of Egg. As in TEDDY BEAR WAS NOT WATCHING THE BABY. IN FUCKING WALMART. BABY LEFT UNATTENDED BEEP BEEP BEEP HOLY FUCK ME OMG. So I did what any reason mother would do: I stole the baby. About a minute later I received a phone call from TB where he pretended valiently not to be FREAKING THE FUCK OUT ABOUT LOSING TEH BABY!!!11!! He is never doing that again. WIN!

Next post: Bad Grandma talks about her va-jay-jay at breakfast and I shit my brains out at the cemetary and try to use the word awesome fewer times. Maybe.

Lickin' Mah Ass

Yesterday I shaved my legs for the second time since Egg was born. Just in case you think that I am neglecting you but accomplishing everything else. Ho ho! I am not. On the up side, I have only missed one shower thus far in new parenthood, if you calculate the necessary amount as one shower per day. I usually prefer more, but I'm not greedy. Much. Do you know how much I missed you? I just paused Private Practice to write this post. I am giving up a chance to watch television without a small person grousing at me just to update you-my bloggy peeps. Le sigh.

Let's start with a fun topic, shall we? Depression!! Wheeee! I'm pretty sure that I was depressed during my pregnancy. If you've been depressed, you know what I'm talking about when I say that looking back I am thinking to myself, "Self-what the fuckity fuck?" It is like looking down into a deep black hole and wondering how the fuck I got in there and very thankful that I got out. The reason that I am thinking this is that life is feeling very fabulous right now. Showers? Great! Food? AWESOME! Life? Fan-fucking-tastic!! Chocolate? I could fucking eat my weight in chocolate within hours of popping Egg out of my cooterus. I cannot believe how much better I am feeling.

How's the fibro? Pretty much wonderful compared to the last few years. I don't know how long this goodness will last but I am going to milk it for all it is fucking worth. I have energy, I am sleeping great (three hours at a time) and my pain is manageble. Go me!

Breastfeeding. Ug. And YAY! And ug. So far the journey looks like this:

• Tired baby leads to poor latch initially
• Leads to cracked and fucked up nipples
• Leads to breast infection in righty
• Prescribed antibiotics
• Leads to yeast in nipples and Egg's mouth
• Leads to OMFG ouch
• Leads to much interaction with vinegar, nystatin, diflucan, etc.
• Kills yeast (knock on wood)

Things are going well on the latch/infection/yeast front at the moment. Yippee! Except! Now I am battling serious oversupply. Here's what oversupply looks like (with a bonus of nursing in public and being judged):

1. Baby grouses due to hunger
2. I put Egg to my breast
3. Egg nurses
4. Milk lets down like a fucking fire hose
5. Egg coughs, sputters, swallows air
6. We are both coated in milk
7. Egg hollers because he is drownding in milk
8. Egg hollers because he is still hungry
9. Egg hollers because he needs to burp up the air he swallowed and he HATES it
10. My milk stops flowing finally
11. I'm sad
12. Egg is crying
13. People are thinking, "WTF is she doing with her titty to that baby?"
14. I feel like a failure and want to hide under my bed
15. Egg is pissed and hates the titty

I've done some research and we are working on the oversupply issue. I'm nursing on one side for 6-8 hours at a time to tell my body to STOP FUCKING MAKING SO MUCH DAMN MILK ALREADY. At home I nurse on my side in bed whenever possible. I pull Egg off during the initial let down to keep him from being overwhelmed. We're working on it. But FUCK ME I really want this nursing thing to be easier. Please?

On the funny (in my mind) side, one of my mother's friends made a comment to me about nursing the other day. "If you keep nursing you'll lose all the baby weight!" Um...yeah. I already lost all the baby weight. Any other real or imagined extra weight is all mine. Thanks, though.

Last but not least, we took care of the excess cock situation. TB posted an ad on Craig's List and a lady responded. She had two egg-laying hens that she was willing to trade for Peck and George. She is going to breed Peck to some Wyandotte hens that she already owns. George is going to be the main man for her mixed breed hens-he gets to use his cock, too! I don't have pictures of the new hens yet, but they do have names: Oreo and Maynard. Oreo named for her black, white, black coloring and Maynard after the lead singer of Tool. Chicken named them both, and I am very amused.

I have learned something valuable about chickens: roosters crow and hens lay eggs! Amazing, huh? Oreo and Maynard are teaching Beck about making nests and laying eggs, all the womanly arts of henhood. The three are getting along famously although the new girls ignored Beck initially. Beck walked into the house a few days ago like she lived here, and then when TB noticed her she hopped up onto the bar. What the fuck, chicken?

So, that's all the energy I have right now. I am reading a few posts a day, but I usually don't have two hands to type comments. I'm around, I'll be here and there and will post more often as Egg allows. Take care of yourselves!

I Big Fluffy Heart Drugs

I've been given my night meds in an attempt to allow me to sleep through the night. I received fentanyl and demerol for pain, and ambien for sleep. The fentanyl and demerol were delivered via a needle in the meat of my ass cheek. I barely even registered the pain on that one. I am now totally high but lovin' it to pieces. Drugs are my BFF. My goal is to chill all night, snore like a fucking goat, and be ready to rock n roll in the AM. Does this post make any more sense to you than it does to me? Probably not. I'll be reporting in the morning unless something FUN and EXCITING happens, then you'll hear from The Diva of the Redneck. Or me because I'm having fun being loaded and want to share it will all of my peeps.

Did I mention that I LOVE being high? Is so awesome. You must try it sometime. AND!! I am seriously overjoyed that I brought pads to the hospital because I am rockin' my very own undies with my very own favorite pads. WIN.

I am loving my husband very much, and actually the whole wide world right now. You peeps make my high heart happy. I'll check in later if there are any changes or if I'm feeling lucid enough to type. Right now I am having some serious issues typing and getting correct words and shit to come out. GAH! Kids-don't do drugs. They are wasted on you. I want them all for ME ME ME.

Jacking Off

I'm on the toilet. Teddy Bear is in the laundry room. The two areas share a wall. I am listening to my husband jack up the washer and the dryer. With a jack. It even sounds a bit dirty. Like maybe he is fucking the shit out of some object in the laundry room. Where the chickens are sleeping. I am a little disturbed by this thought. And the sound.

You see, we got a new washer and dryer when we bought this house. The washer is a fancy new front loader which I love except it is getting increasingly hard to load and unload it with a baby in my uterus. Instead of paying seventy hundred million dollars for one of those fancy "make your appliances higher" things my husband put the hated coffee table under the washer and dryer. Awesome fix and I no longer have to worry about seeing the coffee table in a place like my living room. Except it is apparently sagging a bit in the middle and the spin cycle of the washer is very noisy now. I've been listening to it all day and living with the misery but one fucking measly load of laundry this evening and the husband is in the laundry room jacking. With a jack. Most ghetto fix ever FTW. I now have in my laundry room:

• A washer and dryer
• 3 chickens
• 1 mouse (don't ask) in a cage
• A coffee table
• A jack
  

Sidenote: I just heard TB fart in the laundry room. With the washer on spin cycle. Which means that the washer is quieter, his ass is loud, and our walls are thinner than a standard sheet of paper.

All Chickens All The Time

My readers have spoken! In a contest between the following topics the chickens have won wings down:

• Me bitching about how suck ass I feel
• Me bitching about the dumb ass things Teddy Bear sometimes does
• Me bragging about Egg's package
• Me posting pics of the chickens along with exciting chickeny stories

The chickens have transitioned to their NEW and SHINY coop outside during the daytime and they are loving the extra room. They also get more time to be "free range" chickens, which means running in an excited flock around the backyard while Reina looks on from afar while drooling a bit and Dude steadfastly ignores them. When the temperature drops into the fifties we bring them inside to spend the night in their little nesting box. Although they have a heat lamp in the closed end of the coop it only increases the temperature about 10 degrees. Until they have a complete set of feathers it is too cold for them to spend the night outdoors when it has been dropping down into the forties. Of course, I live in Southern California where it was fucking 88.7 degrees during the day today. I am so over summer, but the birds love it.

Tonight we tried to feed The Girls a little fruit. They stopped, cocked their heads and STARED at the fruit. Then they went back to whatever chicken philosophies they were contemplating. Teddy Bear gave me a small piece of bacon and I reached out to them with it in my hand. I drew back a bloody stump. Well, I was uninjured but HOLY FUCK they loved that bacon. The piece was fought over, stolen out of beaks, and generally was the funniest damn thing I have seen all day. Especially when The Girls are so much bigger and there isn't enough room in the nesting box to run around effectively. They LOVE bacon. It is their new best friend.

George and Pecker are big fans of bacon. Beck wasn't smart enough to eat any, but she did see a speck on the wall that she tried to peck.

This is as close as Reina will get to them, and is only this bold because they aren't looking at her with murder in their eyes.

George's legs are fucking HUGE. I am hoping to get a good comparison shot soon.

Beck is still the sweetest, prettiest, and dumbest.

Pecker is going to be a beautiful bird someday. This look is "Did you just say bacon?"

Remember the last post with the three of them perched together? I think this is what parents of triplets that can crawl or walk deal with, because these damn birds would not sit and pose for the camera.

I'll have pictures of the outdoor coop along with "free range" pictures soon!

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.

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.

---

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.

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.

House Hunting Tips 101-599

1. Bring a pregnant woman with you when viewing a house that is not brand new. She will be able to smell piss (human, cat, and dog varieties) in the carpet from a mile away. This goes for dog smell, too.

2. If you are the seller, make sure your overweight elderly neighbor doesn't sit on his front porch half naked and stare at prospective buyers with his cranky old wife at his side.

3. If you are the seller, make sure your twenty-something neighbor doesn't spend the whole time a prospective buyer is at the home riding his tiny dirt bike in front of the house, doing wheelies and general douchebaggery without a helmet.

4. If you are house hunting in a foreclosure market, be prepared for some crazy ass shit. For example:

A) Viewing a house that is lacking any appliances, door knobs, light switches, A/C controls, ceiling fans, doorbells, mirrors, etc. They fucking took the door knobs. In every door. Who the fuck takes the door knobs?

B) Viewing a house that has a doggie door cut into a closet through the wall to the outside under a shelf in a corner. I wish I had a camera for that one.

C) Viewing a house that "needs some paint" when a demolition crew is more applicable.

D) Walking out of a house and wondering if the neighbors knew how fucked up the previous homeowners were.

We've seen a lot of random shit this week. The housing market has tanked and many people bought houses beyond their means on shaky mortgages. This means a shit-ton of foreclosures, low prices, and a lot of sifting through the debris for a golden ticket. The "cash for keys" options has resulted in some of the houses being left in good condition. This is where the homeowners are offered a perk in order to leave the house peacefully and in good order. It is hard for me to understand the fucking disaster some of these homeowners left behind, showing long term neglect and just plain nasty living.

I noticed something while viewing houses. A few houses were in decent condition and yet gave me such a bad feeling that I could not possibly live in them. Chicken described it as a claustrophobic feeling, he said the houses seemed to close in on him. One was bad enough that even Teddy Bear left the house feeling unsettled. It makes me wonder what happened in these houses to leave such an imprint. On the other hand one house felt like home, while another one felt completely neutral. It was strange.

Have you ever been in a place where you felt like something bad wrong went down? Or like there was something hanging out there that you couldn't see? I've been in a few places like that, but this week was the most strong I've felt in a long time. Maybe it is the hormones, or maybe the houses were especially fucked up because the foreclosure tore the family apart. I don't know. It gives me the creeps.

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.

Pictures, Because I Care

I'm not in the mood for writing right now, however I know that you miss me terribly. TERRIBLY. Therefore, I bring to you pictures! Of stuff! To prove how stupid I can be and also things like: My face is going to fall the fuck off and people need to work harder at random acts of what the fuck.
First, we have Freakshow from Harold and Kumar 2 Something Something. I'm too lazy to link, that's what Google was invented for, right? Now, imagine a totally cute medium brown bob on ole Freakshow to the left. That is what my face feels like right now, with the exception of the fierce stubble. Hormonal changes are FUCKING with my skin. I'm embarrassed to see people at this point, and I am sure that 75% of the unhappiness is in my head. The other 25% is ON my head. What the fuck, people? Your face should not be so broken out it HURTS.


The next item of business is my brain. My new cell phone doesn't like to be used for an alarm clock, so I had to steal Chicken's. My only problem was that I occasionally (over and over again) hit the "sleep" button and the radio would turn on instead of the "alarm" button to set the alarm. The radio would blare and I would end up turning the volume down all the way in order to make it stop and then? No alarm. I touched every fucking button on that shit-assed alarm and could not get it to shut the fuck up. Then one day I found the "snooze/sleep off" button. Uh...duh.

I've also left the offending phone, my hands-free bluetooth thingy (it's the LAW in California, people!!), my favorite chapstick, one lone ear plug that TB's cat hasn't eaten and a pen from the MIL in the picture for your viewing pleasure. Welcome to the space next to my bed. Super exciting, no?

Lastly, we have a bit of art on my car windows that I found this morning on the way to a morning IMAX showing of The Dark Knight with my TB and Chicken. By the way, it was awesome but there was a character that was too much for poor Chicken. If you have seen it you can probably guess which one. Back to my car. It has four doors. The windows on all four doors were covered with nifty sayings. Like this one: "Hey girl let get your number" Now, I understand what the person is TRYING to say, however the way they went about it is all wrong. The other windows said: "Soo nice!!!" which is true. I am sooooo nice, right? Then we had: "I love you baby" and the kicker: "You make me sooo horney" While I appreciate the sentiment, and I understand that with a face like Freakshow I likely make many people SOOO horny I'd like to point out that horny does not contain an "E" anywhere at all. No E. None. Nada. And you can't have my number.

Inappropriate and Involving Poop (Again!)

Alternate title: What happens when Sam attempts to be sensitive regarding IVF.

Today Chicken and I went to the local mall to acquire a new prescription and pair of glasses for me. I had an appointment time of 12:20pm, I was there the requested ten minutes early and everything was going to be just fine. As I wandered through Lenscrafters I started to feel a little weird, nothing specific but just a little not good. I made it through the paperwork section of the appointment and began the technician lead initial eye tests when my stomach decided to let me know that a bathroom was required. I waited, started to sweat and cramp and then pocketed my pride. I asked to use the bathroom, citing unhappy pregnancy tummy. In other words, I totally fucking lied.

The bathroom was an employee only room, and the technician waited OUTSIDE the door for me. My stomach rolled and rebelled but did not cooperate. I gave up, told her that I needed to reschedule and thought that I might make it to the public restrooms where I could crap anonymously. Uh, not so much. I had to request the restroom a second time and although I met with more success I am slightly embarrassed with the manner in which the paint fucking peeled off the walls as I shit my ever-loving brains out. After five (or six) flushes I opened the door and realized that I was standing in the break room where an employee was just sitting down to lunch less than ten feet away from the scene of the crime. Oops.

I rescheduled my appointment and fled to the bathrooms of JC Penneys, where I spent much time trapped on the toilet texting poor Chicken. Apparently he was warning innocents as they approached the bathroom, but to no avail. I cannot count how many people decided to park themselves in the stalls on either side of me, but if you were one of those poor people I offer my condolences.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and Chicken and I eventually ate lunch and returned to the scene of the original crime. This is where I proved that I not only kill bathrooms with reckless disregard for lunch time or human life, but say the most ridiculous things. I am still a bit embarrassed to talk about being pregnant in front of strangers, but it is relevant at an eye exam so I mustered up the courage. When the technician asked if I had a recent physical I indicated that I had, and mumbled something about getting pregnant. She asked, "Oh, did you do IVF?" and then my brain came to a full stop.

I stammered out a "no" but I was not content there, no sir. I attempted to explain that we had not utilized any sort of medical help/intervention/etc. but it just wouldn't come out properly. I was worried about saying that we did it "naturally" because I didn't want to offend or imply that anything was unnatural. I blurted out "we did the whole penis in vagina thing" and then wished for instant death.

The technician looked at poor Chicken sitting there and my boy did not bat an eye. Go Chicken! Then she muttered something about him already having sex education to which I heartily agreed and then we went on with the exam. Five minutes later I exclaimed, "Gee I suppose I could have said that we did it the old-fashioned way and it would have been a bit more appropriate." The technician seemed to agree.

Later, much later, I realized that maybe asking if we used IVF wasn't a little more information than was necessary and likely none of her business. I suppose that my "penis in vagina" comment may have helped her along the path of minding her own fucking business. In the mean time I amused and embarrassed myself all at the same time.

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

Update: Trevor brought it to my attention that Part Two is out. Enjoy!

I haven't felt like writing lately, however today I bring to you something of ultimate goodness! If you happen to enjoy the zany antics of Joss Whedon, please go here and watch part one of his three part singing video blog starring Neil Patrick Harris, Firefly's Nathan Fillion and The Guild's Felicia Day. For more information, see Wired Magazine's article, featuring an interview of Joss.

I Love The Innernets...

...and hate the real world. Yesterday I saw a father watching his daughter play on the escalator in the mall. She was about three steps down and was attempting to go UP the DOWN escalator. I am guessing that she was about five or six years old. As she struggled to hop up the wrong way her father had the older brother (about eight or nine years old) go onto the escalator THE WRONG WAY and attempt to pull her to the top. While the father watched from a vantage point where he had no physical access to either child. The two children made it safely to the top of the DOWN escalator and I held back the urge to kick the living shit of the father.

People in Walmart make me crazy, too. I was attempting to look at something in a particular aisle where this woman, her cart, and her three children were milling about. I patiently parked my cart out of the way of everyone else in the aisle and waited. And then waited some more. Eventually she looked up and said, "Oh, do you want to get by?" I smiled and nodded and was perfectly pleasant as I pushed my cart down the aisle. At this point in my life (minimal medication and maximum hormones) I am very non-confrontational in public. I am afraid that if I open my mouth I am going to fucking lose my collective shit. Er, lose my shit more I suppose would be more accurate.

Are you familiar with people that need anti-anxiety medication (or any brain meds) and they go on it and feel great and then think to themselves, "Self, I am perfectly fine. I do not need medication." So they go off the medication and are stunned when they are totally fucking anxious? Yeah, that's not me so much. I like feeling like a normal person. However, I had forgotten some of the more fun and exciting parts of anxiety. Which, by the way is a super great gift from the fibromyalgia gods. Thanks! Recently I was reminded of how not fun it is to drive while anxious. No, I'm not putting myself or others in danger. Sheesh! I just have some reservations about parking in a spot to my right. I second guess myself and my inner anxious monologue sounds something like this, "Is there enough room? Are you sure? A huge truck just pulled out but are you SURE the little Honda will fit in that spot? Maybe the truck can bend space and time and fit but I don't know if you can do it. How about a bigger spot? Like the one two miles away in your driveway?"

This is where I have to (again) weigh the costs and benefits of taking my measly amount of Celexa every other day. I'm still able to DO things, I just prefer to be able to park like a person that has been driving for almost twenty years. Is my discomfort worth any possible risks? What about how my discomfort impacts Adrienne Stephanie? GAH! No wonder I hate people. My tolerance for interaction is currently at a very low level. Which brings me back to lovin' the innernets. You all rock my world. Thank you for giving me a little piece of sanity in this world.

PS. ANNA IT IS NOT A FUCKING WIG. DON'T MAKE ME DEDICATE A POST TO THE BEAUTY OF YOUR CURLY HAIR. I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN.

Switching Gears

When I was a very little girl, my dad used to spend a lot of time on the race track circuit kicking ass and taking names. My mom and I would travel with him, rooting him on and probably inhaling all kinds of wonderful things. Yay asthma! According to family legend, the first time I went to the races I was six weeks old. When the light turned green my body would levitate from all the noise. Because bringing a tiny baby to the race track is a super neato idea, right? I can't believe I am not deaf. However, I managed to survive and drink up a love of fast cars, burning tire smell, and OMG the smell of a greasy garage does something for me. No, that isn't twisted at all. Really.

When my father passed away I inherited a shitload of tools. When Teddy Bear moved in with me I found someone that shared my passion for going fast AND someone with the know-how to mess with cars. So hot! I am sure that with my tool collection I had Teddy Bear in the bag. Old chick? Check. Kid? Check. Baggage? Check. Tools? OH YEAH. Damn, where was the point? Oh, yeah. Remember the door handle that TB ripped off The Car? I promised a post about The Car. This post! How exciting! Let's do a pee-pee dance, shall we?

Thursday night I took a trip down to San Diego in The Car to hang out with LD2 and the cantelope that she apparently swallowed. This picture is an approximation of The Car, so you know kind of what I am talking about without skeeving me out too much. It's a convertible, it goes fast, and it is gray. I thought that the whole hauling ass with the wind in my hair thing would do my irritable mood some good. We had a great time and I had a little bit of frisky left upon arriving back in my home city. Fuck I hate calling this place home.

Somehow I managed to encourage not one but two cars to race me down the southern main strip of my city. Without even giving anyone the "hey baby, wanna race?" look. Not the "I'm going as fast as I can because I want a ticket or to cause death and dismemberment"type of race but the "light turns green punch it through a couple gears and then slow down upon hitting the speed limit" race. And I got schooled by a fucking Toyota Camry.

*pause for laughter*

I did try more than once. It was late, there was very little traffic and we caught several red lights in a row. It was close, but I lost. I know part of the problem is that I am still trying to dance the fine line between slamming the car into first, having all the weight shift to the rear and impotently spinning the front tires for a while OR starting too slowly and losing my ass. But a FUCKING CAMRY? A four-door sedan? What the fuckity fuck? I went home and moped to TB about my loss and he had the exact same reaction. Then we asked the innernets what the fuck was up with the 2008 Camry.

The four-door 2008 Toyota Camry with the bigger V6 has an automatic transmission and 270 horsepower. STOCK. The Car has 205hp stock but we guesstimate that it is about 250ish now. But can you fucking believe that shit? A CAMRY!!! TB talked to a good friend that has driven one and he says it fucking hauls off the line. I feel vindicated, however I still gave TB the pouty girl look and requested that The Car at least be equipped to kick a Camry's ass. Pu-lease!

Sidenote: I still own my super wimpy almost ten-years old Japanese four-door sedan. It is my daily driver. The Car is our summer fling and we're driving to Santa Barbara with the top down so WHEEEE!! car. Also, The Car gets similar gas mileage to the sedan, so I'm not killing the earth when I drive it around in a more sedate fashion. The only sucky part is that I am under strict orders to only fill up with super-duper gas. Do you have any idea how fucking expensive 91 octane gas in Southern California is these days?