Humping Like A Motherfucker

When I told Anna that I was attempting to get knocked up she told me to go to Fertility Friend and use their handy dandy software to chart my temperature and other fertility signs. Like a good friend, I did. My chart looked like a fucked up motherfucker, and according to the fabulous software behind the scenes, I did not ovulate this cycle. Also, I was probably dead. This past week my uterine area has been fairly pissed off, with weird pressure and crampiness that was not appreciated. I decided that either I was pregnant or my uterus was going to up and die on me any minute.

Instead of peeing on a stick early this weekend, I decided to head to Santa Barbara and enjoy my paid mini vacation with Teddy Bear. Of course, it is fairly hard to enjoy yourself when you are surrounded by douche bags. We stayed at the Fess Parker Doubletree (about 1 mile south of State Street and across the street from the beach, Anne). Remember the cost of the room? That was the corporate "we're spending about 100k this weekend at your establishment rate." The best rate I could find online for a normal person was $465 per night on a weekend-just to give you an idea of the type of place we were at this weekend. See the pretty room? It looks just like the room we stayed in, except for the pubic hair and clogged drain.

I'm not saying all this to be an annoying braggart, more to set the stage for the fucking imbeciles that fed me wheat on Saturday night. I expect morons when you're at a burger joint, they don't get paid enough to give a fuck about me and I understand that fact. But when you (or your husband's company) are paying out the motherfucking ASS to stay somewhere I expect to be able to EAT ME SOME FUCKING FOOD. *ahem* I don't have the energy to blog about all of it right now, I will this week I promise. The highlights contain fun times like the moment I realized that my fancy dress for the fancy dinner was at home and I was in Santa Barbara. Or the moment I realized that I had just dined on sub-par creme brulee that an asshat had added Bailey's Irish Cream to in a fit of insanity. Yes, Bailey's is a Sam no-no due to the wheaty goodness they use while making it.

The weekend was pretty much a bust, I didn't drink because I wasn't sure whether or not I was pregnant, I didn't want to pee on a stick and get all excited and have my step-mother-in-law smell it on me. (The excitement not the pee you asshole!) But now I'm home and in bed loving teh innernets in my undies, listening to my Chicken procrastinate like a fucking professional. I have one more day of student teaching left and then I am fucking enjoying my summer, people. Enjoying the fuck outta it.

Please Tell Me

Tell me that you all know that the video wasn't my [Hallmark holiday] gift, because if any of you seriously thought that my husband is that kind of a dick AND that I would put up with said dickishness I would be ashamed. Ashamed of you. However, I do not take suggestions lightly, and I believe that Teddy Bear needs Box Lunch: The Layperson's Guide to Cunnilingus written by the lovely Diana Cage. Of course it is written by a woman for two (or more if you'd like I suppose) women to enjoy, but even the most manly man could likely get something out of it. In my opinion, one can never practice the fine art of going downtown overly much.

As far as dildos go, I had one once about fifteen years ago. I loved it dearly and it served a certain purpose at the time. Since then? Meh. I don't really have any needs that aren't well served by TB or my own two hands. You're welcome for the over share.

I had someone at the house one time that observed a random Sam bra hanging out on the couch. He was rather surprised at its plain cotton blah-ness. I suppose if you talk to me at length you might think that I have a whole ball of kinky sexiness at my disposal, including HOT HOT undies. Actually I am all about comfort in my everyday wear. I love cotton. There. I said it. I fucking hate lace, itching, tight rubbing tagged misery. I have issues with skin sensitivity, not that I get rashes but that my stupid body likes to interpret normal clothing as BAD! and HORRID! and OUCH! Some days are better than others. If society wasn't so damn obsessed with my fairly perky tits and HELLO! nipples I would never ever wear a bra. It's not like the damn things move around much without one, they just do their boob thing and occasionally attract my husband's attention.

I don't know if it is the FMS that keeps me from pursuing the crazy fun with toys sex or a unhealthy dose of apathy. I know that devoting energy to figuring out the very best vibrator seems a little silly when I am struggling to get through each day. I like to tell myself that eventually I will get tired of vanilla sex with TB and want to ramp it up to something more appliance-oriented. It's just that vanilla can be awesome. Especially big ole Wookie vanilla. RAWR!

Speaking of FMS, I haven't posted much about how I have been doing lately. The short answer is shitty. Full-time student teaching, including all the preparation before and after school is more than my body can handle. Trying to "pass" is supremely difficult right now. (By "pass" I mean appear like I am not in a fuckton of pain with every muscle in my body stiff and pissed off at me.) I only taught the equivalent of one full day last week, and I don't know if this week will be any better. At this point my supervisor is in my corner and trying to get me full credit without finishing all the hours typically necessary-due to my disability. She thinks that I am a rockstar in the classroom (she is the one that observes four lessons during the eight weeks and makes sure that I am semi-competent). So cross your fingers for me. At this point I won't go back in the fall unless I get pregnant and go into full remission. I just can't do it feeling like I do. Yay fucked up body failing me!

Damn I sound whiney today, huh? I'd really love a nice, hot bath and a couple of darvocet to take the edge off but the urge for a fetus NOT addicted to pain medication is greater. Speaking of my uterus, it's cycle day 23 and I'm having trouble resisting the urge to pee on anything that remotely resembles a pee stick. Watch out Dude and Reina!

Fried Chicken

*I am not really here, just passing through, nothing to see. Except for this itty, bitty post.*

Chicken missed a few of his spelling words during a pre-test on Monday. One of the amazing, newfangled, high tech ways that Chicken's Language Arts teacher helps her students to spell new words is to make them write each word in a sentence. Gee, that sounds like something I did in 6th grade. In 1940! (Just kidding! I'm not that old.) Chicken's goal in life is to write as few sentences as possible. The following two are his handiwork:

1. I have never seen a very religious pigeon in a reference book.

2. One of my favorite pastimes is to give under-privileged people preferable occurrences, such as a nice dinner.

Why write 7 sentences when you can get the job done in 2? I'm not advocating creating fucked-up sentences to cut corners, but I do enjoy the way he kludges the sentences together. I mean, who HAS seen a religious pigeon in a reference book lately? Not me!

Worst Example

How not to teach your child good study habits:

• Worry about passing the CSET for my teaching credential
• Pay $210 ($70 per subtest)
• Procrastinate studying
• Bitch, moan and whine about studying
• Do very little studying
• Seriously consider not showing up for the exam to prevent the emotional distress caused by five hours of failing miserably
• Take it and hope for the best
• Pass all three tests because I fucking ROCK and not because it is a model of appropriate behavior
  

Pecker

Chicken is at the table working on his homework and Teddy Bear stands up and starts to take off his belt. Chicken ignores him, because for some reason in this house we just haven't gotten into that whole beating thing. Next year, I promise! So Teddy Bear says ominously, "There is a reason I'm taking my belt off." Chicken replies, "Yeah, you wanna do hot stuff with my mommy and with your belt on your pecker is all smooshed."

Now, do you correct him because:

• Teddy Bear's pecker is not strapped down by his belt
• Chicken said "pecker"
• Chicken apparently thinks that we're going to head off to the bedroom in the middle of math homework to get our nasty on...

Yeah, I have no clue. I'm tired but holding up mostly and I'd be posting a bit more often if my friends weren't falling the fuck apart left and right. Yes, you should feel guilty. Now feel my boob. Ahhh... much better.

Wish Me Luck

Today, Tuesday the 22nd of January, 2008 is the day I begin my Teaching Credential program at CSUSM. I am taking 19 units this semester. I'm a bit scared/stressed/worried and how the fuck do I think I can pull this off with my ridiculous, run-down, illegitimate body? Well, fine my parents got married before I was born, but STILL. I feel well and truly fucked.

*breathe in* *breathe out* *scream a little in silence* *kick helpless animals* *ahhhh....*

It will be okay. The diarrhea and fever and general fuckedness that I dealt with over the holiday weekend is over, with the exception of a multitude of noxious, burn your nose hairs type farts that are continuously emanating from my foul, foul ass. For those of you in WalMart late this evening behind me in check stand 11, I truly apologize. As they used to say "My bad!"

Good night and wish me well. I'll see you on the other side.

Orientation

I went to my COE (College of Education) orientation today and something amazing happened: I received useful information. Yes, I was stunned. Then I came home and purchased over $400 worth of school books. Then I realized that my student loan money was NOT coming and the grant money would cover only books and classes. Normally, that would be a W00T for free tuition and books but NO! this is bad.

I thought I was going to get a little bit of loan money as well, and after finding out that I have to dress like a professional EVERY FUCKING DAY OF FUCKING CLASSES!!! I realized that I am in the middle of a wardrobe crisis. Fuck. I don't want to buy work clothes at this weight. I'm in the stupid in between size that I never stay at and WAAHHHH!

I hereby submit this post for the lamest ever. Please send clothes!

New Year's Resolutions

I'm not the type to make resolutions and keep them, so generally I don't even bother with them. Of course, you will probably look back at my archives and find year after year of hopeful resolutions because I am a total ass and I have little to no memory. Let's not think about that, okay? Forgotten! Whee!

1. Get good and knocked up. Preferably by Teddy Bear.
2. Finish my Teaching Credential program (totally doable if my body cooperates, the program starts this month and ends mid December 2008)
3. Improve the quality and quantity of my sex life. Preferably with Teddy Bear. I am not complaining as much as recognizing that my FMS impacts my sex life in a very bad way.
4. Find some way of taming the shrew that is my FMS. Behind the scenes I have been stealthily investigating some alternative medicine that I will soon (maybe?) be discussing here.
5. Blog about the fifteen million things that are in my head that I need to get OUT, OUT OUT!! Including my infamous trip to Doolittleville, USA.
6. Lame mommy alert!! Finish journaling older scrapbooks.

That is all I have for now, I might update as I think of more things. I think I'll keep this post on top for a while just to nudge me in the right direction. Have any suggestions for additional resolutions? What are you resolving to do or not do this year?

Fuck YEAH!

Guess who got admitted to California State University, San Marcos' Multiple Subject Teaching Credential Program starting January 2008?

Quote of The Day

It's okay to cuss at video games. They are not alive and they are not insulted.

~Chicken

*Updated: After hearing a rather ribald comedy skit on Sirius radio Chicken mused out loud: "Wouldn't it be cool if women could put bullets and gunpowder up their clams and then use it to shoot people?"

I swear there was a reason he was thinking about all this nonsense. The comedian was talking about men in the military saying "Yay to pussy and gunpowder, something, something" and Chicken was wondering what the lone female on the Navy ship would have to say about THAT and then decided that she should use the pussy and the gunpowder together to KICK ASS all over those rude sexist men that should really know better plus they are probably pussies, anyway. Anyone still wondering if Chicken is really my kid?

*Update #2: Remember that damned kid that was failing two classes earlier this semester and lying, cheating and stealing? Or at least lying about homework? Well today he wanted me to teach him how to calculate his GPA to determine whether he is going to get "honors" this semester. Yep, he's at a 3.4 right now, and 3.0 qualifies him for middle school "honors" the little know-it-all shit.

Guess What?! I'm Back Home!

Chicken has problems with writing and sixth grade is forcing us to do something about it. I have met with his Language Arts teacher and her advice is "He just needs to learn how to do it, you can't graduate from high school without passing the writing exam." So helpful, that one. Because my ultimate goal for my child is to be able to write competently enough to pass a California high school written exam. The pinnacle of achievement there, huh? Chicken describes her as "mediocre" at best.

This teacher, let's call her Mrs. Pelson, okay? Great, I'm glad we're on the same page. Mrs. Pelson understands that Chicken has difficulties in the arena of writing and we (as his parents) are actively pursuing this to get him the help he needs. So when Chicken writes an answer in class that is very short and to the point and Mrs. Pelson holds it up and announces that "someone is a minimalist" in a hurtful manner I get a little bent out of shape. Chicken came home really upset that day and there is going to be some shit flying around the Chicken school fairly soon. What I didn't know was how much my kid's balls have dropped in the last month.

Chicken was assigned to write an essay on The Phantom Tollbooth by Mrs. Pelson, and received 50/50 points on the paper. The title? "Not A Minimalist" Ha ha ha ha. I love that kid. I have included the essay below as an example of what he can do when he is able to get the words in his brain down on paper. I bolded a few sentences that made me chuckle. Chicken really is my kid.

---

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Jester is both a book and a movie. It is a very unique book in the way that Milo, the main character, Tock, and other people in the plot help to convey the main idea; you will never amount to anything without a proper education. If you are one of those people who thinks that the book is always better than the movie, I would normally say, "It depends." In this case the book is 100 percent better. Now this is really saying something because the book itself makes me want to hide under my bed; the movie makes me wish that people had still been half-evolved chimps in the 1970's. Even those idiotic primates could have done it better. Sadly, it is very true.

Gladly the book is different from the movie. For example, Milo doesn't meet Officer Shrift until he reaches Dictionopolis. In addition, Tock's clock is clearly visible, not obscured by layers of fat. Another difference is that the Valley of Sound is only featured in the book. The book also doesn't make me feel a sudden urge to shove my head down a toilet bowl.

The movie was also different like how they never mention a character by the name of RAUW. One more thing is that the video has a cheesy theme song. The book, just like every other one, does not. Milo also has a friend that he talks to shortly before going to Wisdom. The original story doesn't feature that poor little boy.

Yes, there are things that they have in common. Not many, but a few. For example, Humbug told the Spelling Bee to spell "balderdash." In both stories they do mention my favorite character the Dodecahedron. A dodecahedron is a twelve-sided mathematical shape. Also, letters grow in orchards in Dictionopolis. This is unfortunately the end of this paper, because I feel that this paper already has enough commentary.

Update

Although I'm still mostly stuck in the house due to poor air quality outside and the Chicken's school is canceled until at least Monday, the fire danger seems to have passed. Thank goodness! More posting when the sun rises.

Smoky Smoke Smoking

Remember the picture I posted of the little mountain to the south of my house? Here's what it looks like now:
Notice the lack of mountain? Nice, huh? I have heard that evacuations have started in the most southern part of [redacted], however that has NOT been confirmed. The fire has not crested whatever the fuck it's name is Mountain at this point. See the sun? This picture was taken at about 4:00pm PST. It should be bright daylight outside.

My classes are canceled for the week, and Chicken's school is shut down tomorrow due to air quality. This morning the air was fairly decent, and by this afternoon it was like sitting around a campfire. I'm over this now, okay?

Fuego!

Some of you know that when I lived in San Diego, the area that I lived in was Rancho Bernardo. You might have seen it on the news today, as the area has been evacuated. My mother (who is still living there) was evacuated at 6:00am this morning with only a change of clothes, makeup, and pictures. Personally, I would have said "Fuck the makeup" but then I'm a minimalistic bird when it comes to makeup. I am safe but stuck in the house, and I will continue to blog, post pictures and video(if I can make the video work for me). My school is shut down so now that midterms are over, I've got a bit of time on my hands.

The winds here are crazy, and this video is tame compared to earlier today and last night.

Oh yay! I've got the video up. I just walked into my backyard and took a quick video of my neighbor's trees. Chicken is in the background yelling "Hello blogland" and asking why it is so cool outside and so fucking hot inside that we had to turn on the air conditioning. I tell him that it is because the house is shut up. /end video

What The Bloody Hell?

My Teddy Bear just walked up to me and said, "I just crapped out 1.4 pounds of unhappiness," which is not exactly why I finally bought a bathroom scale today.

---

Some time ago, Chicken and I were doing an overhaul of his room during a time when his room was upstairs and everything else was downstairs. I was sweaty, exhausted and in some serious pain. I asked Chicken to bring me my bottle of Vicodin and a glass of ice water, heavy on the ice. He brought back the Vicodin, sitting neatly on a glass full of ice and said, "Here's your Vicodin on the rocks, ma'am."

---

I survived Chicken's birthday, and thank you for all the birthday comments and the birthday card. Jeremy sent Chicken an Ecard to my email address (samsstories@gmail.com) and I forwarded it to my boy. Without opening it first. Either I am totally trusting of Jeremy's noble intentions because he is a great guy or I am the worst mother ever. Either way, what doesn't kill him makes him stronger, right?

For the day of Chicken's birth we had a small party at the house with cake and ice cream. I wanted to do something simple that the grandparents could enjoy while not having a completely crazy overdone affair. Anyone can deal with six middle school boys for an hour, right? Ohmyfuckinggawd. How Redneck Diva did it ALL night I have no idea but the boys had so much fun there was blood involved. They were playing tag in the backyard and one boy ate the rose bush with his back. Ouch. I truly believe that having all the boys over for a slumber party would have been the death of me.

On Saturday one of Chicken's friends from San Diego came up and the four of us went to Magic Mountain aka King's Dominion for my East Coast/Midwest friends. The kids had a blast, and we made it through the day alive. Returning home, the two monsters played until we pulled them apart and sent one to the living room to sleep. Did I mention the friend is a girl? Yep, Chicken and his friend that is a girl had a sleepover. I slept in the living room in a sleeping bag as well, just to be prudent. Although Chicken doesn't like girls yet I'm not a total moron. Just a partial moron.

Cue the cats racing around the living room like the fucking possessed fucking freaks that they are. As I normally sleep in my bed (located in my bedroom, duh!) I have no idea if the cats always do this or just when I sleep on the floor in the middle of the living room. I fucking hated those cats. And then I shut them both in the master bedroom with Teddy Bear. HA!

So, I'm alive, Chicken is 11 and midterms are over at last. I shall begin posting more frequently. Maybe. I also have pictures from all the festivities and will try to post them in the next few days.

---

Depending on the extent of the local fires, you may or may not see the news coverage in your area. At this point, I am far enough away from all of the fires in Southern California to be safe from actual flames, but not so far away that I am safe from the smoke. I am holed up inside with everything shut and the hepa filter thingy going full blast while sucking on my inhaler and hoping I don't end up in frickin' urgent care. Stupid smoke.

Teacher

I've been observing and helping out in a local second grade classroom lately, and I absolutely LOVE it. The second day I spent in the class one of the students came up to me and asked: "Are you going to try to be a teacher again today?"

Asshole

Chicken gets a lot of shit at school for the long hair + cutesy looks thing. I keep telling him to just grow a fucking beard for fucks sake but he won't listen. Damn kids. One of his schoolmates (a 7th-grader) calls him a girl. Chicken disagrees vehemently, so the 7th-grader retorts:

"Looks like a girl, talks like a girl, acts like a girl, so must be a girl!"

Chicken counters with:

"Looks like an asshole, talks like an asshole, acts like an asshole, so I guess that makes you an asshole, huh?"

The 7th-grader shuts the fuck up. Yeah, that's my boy.

---

On another, more somber note...what the fuck is up with the comments, people? Or should I say, lack of comments? Because I feel like I'm playing with myself here, and if I'm playing with myself, why do I feel bad when I neglect you guys? I'm not sure what my point is, I'll post whether or not there are comments, but sometimes, a little love would be nice. Just a little.

Wanna Be Your Girlfriend

Last Thursday, Chicken approached me in private with a crazy gleam in his eye. He swore me to secrecy and then spilled the goods. Kristina, a fellow band member and a 7th grader (!) asked him to be her boyfriend through a complicated series of notes passed during band. My sweet boy wanted permission to have his first girlfriend. Then the conversation quickly turned on its ass.

Sam: Uh...do you know that she's a girl?

Chicken: (rolls eyes and sighs) Yes, mommy.

Sam: Uh...what exactly do you do with a girlfriend when you're ten years old?

Chicken: Don't worry mommy. I will use a condom and she'll probably be on the pill.

Sam: (chokes) Uh...(chokes) that's great. So, uh (chokes) will you guys hold hands at school and stuff?

Chicken: Ew! Gross!

Sam: (passes out from relief)

Motherfucker

First off, I must say that moving right now wasn't so much my idea as much as it was a gentle suggestion from the in-laws. Gentle suggestion. Motherfucker. That's all I can muster right now, because moving + newish marriage + new middle-schooler + new back-to-schooler + what the fuck APA formatting? = my new favorite word, Motherfucker. I am so god damned tired that I cannot even begin to blog coherently. And yes, Aughra, I moved in March (temporary stay with in-laws, see "gentle suggestion") and now I am moving again. I will not move again until we are buying a house/having a baby. Without one of those very good reasons you will have to pry my cold, dead corpse out of this adorable house. I suppose "dead" and "corpse" together seem rather redundant, huh? I guess it is better than "reanimated" and "corpse" because that would be a whole 'nother motherfucking story.

Teach Me

The discussion board in one of my classes is going to drive me bat shit crazy(er). Although I readily admit that my spelling and grammar skills are not perfect, there are a few things that I do know. One of those things is that the following sentence contains an error.

"I am a mom and a very active PTA and school volunteer which put’s me in the elementary school setting a lot."

Now, Google's spell check tells me that there are at LEAST two things wrong on this post thus far. One, the use of crazy(er) to convey the message that I am already crazy and this board is going to make me even more insane is not proper form. However, this is a blog. A personal, informal blog and not a graded part of my college education in pursuit of a teaching credential. The second blinding error which helps the crazies (used here as a adjective and not a noun) is the use of the word put's. Now, is put's a possessive or contraction or abbreviation? Let's explore the possibilities:

1. Put is a person that owns "me" in the sentence.
2. It is a contraction of the words "put" and "has"
3. It is a contraction of the words "put" and "is"
4. It is an abbreviation standing for "put me out of my fucking misery because what the fuck kind of word is put's?"

Holy fuck I am in for a fantastic semester.

10 Years Younger

Have you ever seen the show Ten Years Younger? They take a person that is in dire need of some renovation, do a teeth whitening, facial peel, hair cut and color, makeup, wardrobe and BAM! they look ten years younger. Well, ladies and gentlemen, today that happened to me. Except I just showed up to school and commented to a fellow student that I graduated from school five years ago and she said "oh, high school?" and I said "uh.......... (cue internal monologue)

*Oh my GAWD does she think I'm 23? 'Cause that's what age graduating from high school five years ago would make me. What the fuck? Do I want to look THAT young? I don't know if that's a good thing or not. That would make me a person that was fucking (literally) at eleven or twelve to have a baby at just shy of thirteen and holy fuck that's kind of gross. I don't think I like this at all.*

So that's what happened on my first day of school. Oh, and don't forget that my school is nicknamed "CSU Stair Master" as opposed to the official CSU San Marcos due to the fuckall lot of stairs. I parked in a parking lot located in a different hemisphere and then had to walk up and down so many flights of stairs that my thighs felt like Jello at the end of the day. Did you know that "jello" is incorrect according to the powers that be behind Google spell check? Hmph.

Also, two of my classes (the only two I have attended thus far) have an online component that involves a discussion group. It is very similar to a big ole blog, but you have to use your grammar skills and shit. Without saying "shit" and other slang terms. You're actually EXPECTED to comment and I so dearly want to say the following things:

• Honey, alot is TWO WORDS
• Use spell check
• Read what you just wrote.
  
• Now read it again.
• Yes, it sucks. Check for errors please.

I'm not sure how these people have progressed through at least 2 years of college and some of them have Bachelor's degrees and some will be teaching your children. YOUR children. No wonder our education system is shit.

In another school setting, Chicken is promoted to Advanced Band. This is good and bad. Good, because he will likely have to work to keep up with his 7th and 8th grade classmates and I believe at least one class should challenge him. Bad, because he started out the year in Beginning Band (Monday) and was switched yesterday (Wednesday). He was switched because his teacher asked if anyone had previous experience with their instrument. He raised his hand and POOF! he was switched. Well...what happened to the letter I sent to his band teacher at the end of 5th grade? The one that indicated that Chicken had school and private tutoring experience. The one I took the time to write because I didn't want my son to have only ONE class with his best friend and then have that taken away on his third day of middle school. Yeah, that's the one, fuckwad. In addition to the aforementioned bitch slaps, you don't need to call any of your students "sweetie" or "sweetheart", especially when one of those students is my SON. Just because he looks like me and has longish hair and everyone mistakes him for a girl doesn't mean you can switch his class to a 7th and 8th grade dominated setting and then CALL HIM SWEETIE YOU ASSHOLE.

Back to teaching from the perspective of a parent that is going to school to teach...one of my classmates posted an introduction that included things like:

• Technology is scary
• I don't understand how to use my I-pod

Well little lady, lemme tell ya a thing or two! It's iPod and it is supposedly one of the most user-friendly pieces of technology that you will have the opportunity to hold in your hand. Also, you're in a technology AND teaching class. Might want to partially master English or technology or sumtin. Maybe.

Total off the subject rant but still partially on the subject of school: If you partied so hard the night before the first day of school that the person standing next to you in the elevator can smell the booze oozing from your pores, you might want to sit down and think a bit about school. And your brain. And how I'm old and cranky and too tired to party the night before school starts.

Back To School

For those of you that I know in real life, I am so sorry for the scattered brain and lack of interaction. For you peeps living in my computer, ditto. The last few weeks have been chaotic in extreme. The Chicken has returned to the coop, the in-laws have decided that I would be happier living someplace that is not with them, I applied to graduate school and have been accepted, I've stopped working at Big Retail establishment and The Chicken has started middle school. Oh, and back-to-school shopping has been started and completed.

I cannot really go into detail with the moving out stuff, other than to say that the in-laws are helping us a bit and we should be self-sufficient and debt-free by the first of the year. The way everything went down was less than ideal and involved copious amounts of Sam crying and drinking during daytime hours and not for pleasure...but everything happens for a reason, no? Or, I am fine now and I am so excited about living on my own that the means and ends and you know what I mean. I'm mostly fine and VERY excited about moving.

As far as school is concerned, I am taking three classes this semester in order to enroll in a teaching credential program that begins in January. I cannot fucking believe that I applied last week, the semester starts on Thursday and I was accepted. My statement of purpose, normally a well thought out essay on why I want to go back to school, how rad I am and what I can bring to CSUSM consisted of three sentences. It went something like this:

I want to take my prerequisites for a credential program. I want to teach elementary school. Pick me!

I am assuming that they reviewed my undergraduate work, completed at the same school and realized that I fucking rock and they want my money. So, off to school I go! I am so excited I cannot adequately explain it without taking my clothes off and dancing on a table top. I love school.

For those of you that are thinking: "Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over again and expecting a different outcome?" you're totally right. I am insane, and my undergraduate degree didn't do shit for me in my opinion other than give me an inflated sense of total coolness and delusions about my ability to get a job. "Fuck it" I say. I like school. It's fun. I'm good at it. It's good for my self-esteem because HEY! I'm smart and I love fucking grading curves all to hell. Oh, and I want to teach little snot-nosed kids some day just to piss of Anna of Annaland.

Speaking of Anna, she called me today and gave me the BEST NEWS EVER. The Old Spaghetti Factory now serves gluten-free pasta. Which means I can eat there and enjoy the awesomeness that is spaghetti in a restaurant. I heart her SO much for thinking of me. She's the best when she isn't too busy remodeling her house to be my friend. *sob*

Speaking of Suck Ass things, I'm not sure what the status of my job is at the moment. I turned in an official doctor's note and I am trying to get my hours cut down (they wanted me to work as much as possible because I rock so hard) and to not have quite as much physically intensive duties. Basically, I want to become a slacker and just bring in a little extra money for things like books and parking at school. Guess how much parking is per semester? Nope, not even fucking close. It is two hundred and forty eight dollars. Per semester. And no, it does not include a happy ending. Fuckers. I guess that means I need to start giving happy endings if I want a place to park at school!

Holy Shit I'm Happy!

We're moving, we're moving hurray we're moving! I am so frickin' excited I can barely contain myself. We found an adorable two bedroom house less than a mile from where we are currently living and I just love it. I can't wait to have my own place. Sharing a house with another family (that happens to be your in-laws) isn't the most fun in the best of conditions. As much as I hate moving, this is going to be the first house TB and I have chosen together and I AM SO FREAKING EXCITED I WANT TO START PACKING NOW! We'll be moving around the first of September, and since most of are belongings are packed and in a storage unit, the move should be quite easy. Two bedrooms to pack up, one storage unit to empty and we're in our own home.

We plan on being there for 1-3 years, dependent on two things: When we buy a house and when I pop out a brand new munchkin for everyone to enjoy. The house is in super good condition, near Chicken's middle school (which starts tomorrow) and near all his friends from the neighborhood. The landlord couldn't be more friendly and the previous tenants kept the house immaculate. I love it!!!

Wish my Chicken luck tomorrow, as he enters the horror that is middle school. My poor baby. I wish I could go and kick the asses of everyone that bugs him. Or at least kick them in their little, snotty ankles. Bastards.

More later,

Sam The Nervous Mom The Night Before School Starts

Argh!

Happy International Talk Like A Pirate Day! This is my Ewe Girl* pirate picture. I love it long time. In honor of this day, I give you some rules that remind me of pirating of the unwanted anal kind. Today I received the handbook for Chicken's school, which included rules for the playground. Now, when I was a wee lass I played on the playground. I fell. I got hurt. I got up, brushed myself off and played some more. Today, in beautiful southern California, playgrounds involve more litigation than... well fuck. Than something that requires a lot of litigation. Hence, the RULES:

Note: I'm only posting a few of the rules to keep readers from popping their eyeballs out with rusty forks.

Swings
Sit on swings, hands on chains. No jumping out of chains, (my favorite elementary school pasttime!) standing, kicking off shoes, (a deadly habit, think of all the students maimed by flying shoes) no twisting [...] Count 30 swings before your turn. Do not count if there is an open swing. Count backs (wtf are count backs?) are not allowed [...]

Jump Rope Rules
The jump rope is used for jumping only. (as opposed to whipping whiney students?) Hold jump rope ends (not the middle! oh no! never the middle!) with both hands. You may jump rope with one foot or with two feet. ( one OR two? two many decisions, too much freedom!) No tuging of the rope with another student. Jump rope only in the designated area of the playground. Students waiting will count to 60 ( NOT 59!!!) on a student before it is their turn.

You see what I mean? What. The. Fuck. Really.

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Treespotter: This is a TOTALLY NEW post. Written while tired and fussy and slightly buzzed. More old, drunken posts to come. See below for one of the posts I was talking about. BELOW! ARGH!

*picture removed