What The FUCK?

This picture from Ugliest Tattoos is my way of showing you what the past few days have been like for me. You know when shit just get so fucked up and crazy that a picture of a tramp stamp that says, "Cum Slutt" just fits? Yeah, that's my life right now. You see, once upon a time, long, long ago I was BFF with someone that I met on the innernets. Our friendship ended badly. Terribly. Horribly. Eventually I found out that there were other people that had experienced something very similar to what had happened to me. One of us started a private blog, and we used it like a forum but with only one topic: the BFF. No one from the outside was invited to see this blog except for our little group. I didn't talk about it on the innernets because it was private.

It was a support group. We supported each other and as time went by others joined the group as they were burned by the BFF. And then one day the BFF googled herself and found a reference to the support group. She couldn't read it because it is private. All she could do is see some of the people involved. Under the pretense of worrying about her career and upcoming custody case, she went on the offense and started up some shit. Threatening, blackmailing, etc. etc. Now, here is what she found:

Sorry for the horrible paint work. The things I blacked out were the BFF's real name and the users that were in the group. Any person coming across this would not know what they were looking at in the least. The blog is private, so no one could get in and read. BFF had no idea what is inside, and neither would any employer, judge, ex-husband, etc. This blurb on google could in no way hurt the BFF (except for her feelings).

Have I mentioned fourteen times that the blog was private? None of my readers were invited to read. The only person in my life that knew about it was my husband. That's it. But BFF lost her shit and started threatening law suits, emailing employers, boyfriends, etc. I got this little gem: "oh I KNOW I'll make sure all three of YOUR sons' fathers get some education" as a comment on my blog. (I deleted it.) Which uh?! really?! I haven't seen my first son's father since 1994. I have no idea where he is at this time. And what would that accomplish? You can't lose custody of a child that you gave up for adoption 15 years prior. Any way, I didn't DO anything and yet I'm getting threatened. She wanted me to take down the blog, which I am not the owner of and cannot take down.

Eventually, the owner took the blog down. However! Someone that is NOT me decided to lay The Smack Down on BFF, and emailed her with strict instructions: leave everyone and their families alone. At first someone else was blamed, but then I got accused of The Smack Down. Seriously? I don't have the time or energy for a smacking. One thing that makes me sad about all of this is that I approach friendships, online and offline, differently now. Not simply because of this weekend's drama, but all of the badness that happened.

I take things slower and I'm not so inclined to go "OMGURMYBFF4EVAR" anymore. If you want to be my friend, don't take it personally if I don't put out on the first date. I hate drama. I prefer raunchy jokes and saying "fuck" too many times. I'll be glad when all of this blows over and I can get back to my miserable teething baby. Which is totally preferable to a flipped-out former BFF.

Epic Parenting Fail

Last week I got a few puzzling texts from Chicken. He wanted to know what kind of guns we had, which guns he had shot, what caliber of rifle he got for getting straight A's all year, etc. I asked him what was going on, and he replied via text that he was going shooting with his father. He texted me a list of the guns they were taking and I was very worried.

You see, we have found out through careful trial and error that Chicken enjoys shooting a .22 rifle and that is about it. He doesn't like indoor ranges at all because of the noise, and anything louder or more powerful than the .22 is upsetting to him. Even my .22 handgun he didn't like one bit. This isn't a problem at all. We can take him to an outdoor range and let him shoot targets with his rifle all day and he is a happy camper.

He communicated this to his father, who assured him that he would have fun and they would not be going to an indoor range. Until they pulled into the parking lot of the indoor range. H1 convinced Chicken to give it a try and they went into the range. The combination of the type of handguns (think .38, .44, .45 caliber) and the nearby firing of a shotgun flipped Chicken out and he ended up crying in the middle of the range. They had to leave, and Chicken felt badly because his father spent $70 which they could ill afford to waste.

His father didn't listen to him, lied to him, and Chicken ended up feeling guilty about crying and ruining the day. I was really angry, but now I'm just sad. Sad that Chicken has an asshole for a biological father. Sad that I let him down by picking a loser. Sad that he can't trust his father to keep him safe physically and mentally. But slightly happy that later Chicken stepped all over his father's dick.

Chicken's dad and step-mother smoke in the house. Every time Chicken comes home, all his clothes are freshly washed and still reek of smoke. I told Chicken that if he can think of a way to tell his step-mom or dad nicely not to bother washing his clothes to do so. I figured it would save them the trouble and the clothes extra wear and tear. Well, Chicken told his dad. *giggles* I guess twelve year-olds are lacking in tact maybe? Chicken said that his dad looked like someone had kicked him in the balls. "Hey H1, that was me. Kicking ya in the sack. That's for making my kid cry. KTHXBAI!!"

Let's Play "Where Is The Egg?"

When your husband wants his egg over easy, one might just want to cook it for him. Using the old-fashioned pan and stove technique.



Oh. Dear.

Ho.Ly.Fuck.


Let's go over the egg + microwave rules:

1. Out of shell.
2. Stab yolk like it is a representation of the last person to fuck up these rules.

The Truth About Gay Marriage

Wait...I thought...oh. Really? Hmmmm. What about? So that's it? Gay people get to marry? Equal rights, tax benefits, health care, etc. for gay couples. That's what we're talking about? That's cool. Why is that illegal again?

From ace.

Fucking Whores

I fucking SWEAR that the next time I get a forwarded email about some dire emergency virus or political issue or what-the-fucking-ever that says, "Verified by Snopes.com" and includes a direct link to the page in snopes that deals with the fucking horrible OMGWTFBBQ whatever I am going to lose my shit and kick everybody's asses. EVERYONE starting with the fucking WHORE that sends it to me.

Do you know why? Because if one fucking single person would fucking READ the page in Snopes that deals with the problem they would realize that they are forwarding a hoax. Most of the time they send this forwarded email to everyone in their Inbox and that is fucking how viruses get spread, you stupid fucking twat lickers. (Not that I am against licking twat.)

It was bad enough in the days before most people knew about Snopes. But when the email has a handy link RIGHT THE FUCK THERE? And you blindly assume that just because your dear friend ASSMUNCH sent it to you that THEY read it? Nobody reads things, people. No one. But me. So stop it. It makes me fucking cranky because I feel like an asshole when I reply to a well-intentioned person that they are forwarding on a hoax. I hate being that person. But seriously? This shit has gotta stop, yo.

To make up for the FURIOUS cussing, here is a picture to make you smile:
This kid can sit up like a champ. He is king of sitting. And pooping up his back when sitting because the shit has got to go somewhere, right?

At Least I Was Wearing My Seatbelt?

We sold the convertible today, and I was in charge of delivering it to the new owner. Neighbor Lady took Egg in her NEW CAR! and I drove one last time with the top down.

Yet Another Letter

Dear Three Strangers,

Thanks so much for being assholes. When most of the free vagina-owning world is damn excited to see a new baby, you three pretty much suck my ass. I'd like to lump two of you together, because you said the exact same fucking sentiment: "Only XX days old and ALREADY OUT OF THE HOUSE?!?!?!" Well, ladies I have two words for you: "Fuck you." Because I don't remember being given rules about when my baby is ready to leave the house. Due to the fact that my baby is breastfed I cannot leave the house without him. So I either stay home until you deem it appropriate to leave or face your criticism of my parenting.

Guess what? My 12 year old needs to get to school five days a week and for some reason I won't let him drive himself. My car needed to pass a smog inspection by the end of January and the state of California could give a fuck if I was on my way to do it when I decided to take a detour to the hospital and have a baby instead. I have to leave the house to get shit done. I have to take the baby with me. So, in case you missed it the first time: "FUCK YOU."

To the lady that looked me up and down today while pausing at my abdomen and then giving me the death stare: "Fuck you, too." I have absolutely no control over the shape of my body at this point and if it pisses you off that I don't look like I had a baby almost two weeks ago I don't fucking care. Does it make you feel any better that I had to work for every pound gained during my pregnancy and I felt sick after almost every meal? Or how I stressed that I was hurting my baby because I couldn't gain enough weight? How about the metric fucking ton of nasty assed Ensure that I drank to load up on calories? You are a bitter, resentful hag and I can't believe that your emotions were so damn transparent. Get a fucking hold of yourself and stop being such a bitch.

Sincerely,

A Postpartum Woman That Feels a Bit Stabby Today Because You Suck

Award Winning Parenting

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

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

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



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

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

In Case I Wasn't Going To Hell Before...

Teddy Bear gave me the link to this, and I laughed and laughed and laughed. I felt momentarily guilty. Then I laughed some more.

You Tube Makes The World A Better Place

I'm over McCain and Palin. Stay out of my reproductive decisions. Bring our soldiers home. Let people marry whomever they want to marry, regardless of gender. Fuck off Republicans. Let me know when your values are less Christian right and more for fucking common sense.

Realtor Don'ts

Our brand new realtor (new to us, not new to the world), went on vacation and left us with Cuntilina. Cuntilina was supposed to meet us at Teddy Bear's office at 5pm. She was late. Teddy Bear called her cell phone and her work phone and got voicemail. We waited. At 5:20pm Cuntilina waltzed in the door. Teddy Bear remarked that we tried to reach her and she said, "Oh, my cell phone doesn't work up here." Up where? The upper atmosphere? Are we on a space station? Too bad we called her 15 minutes before she arrived. As we walked through the front door to our cars her purse made an odd sound. It was her cell phone ringing. "Oh, I guess cell phones do work here" she laughed. Nice one, Cuntilina.

Twat Stories

Today I finally gave in to curiosity and put the site meter back up on my blog. I missed laughing at the various search terms that lead people to Sam's Stories. Within a few short hours, my goal was realized. Recent searches include: "torture fuck stiries", "twat stories", "emailmanner", and "stories of humping". By the way, if you are looking for "stories" you might want to learn how to spell it. As I chuckled out loud about "twat stories" Chicken asked, "What does twat mean?" I cannot believe that he didn't already know that word.

I'd like to address the bra-wearing public at large right now. If you do not wear a bra, you may skip this paragraph. Ready? Okay. A bra is an undergarment. This means that you wear it UNDER your fucking clothes. There are 3.2 million different styles of bras out there for you skinny little bony chicks that wear cute little summer shirts. Please pick a bra that works with the shirt you are CURRENTLY wearing. This means look at the shirt. Look at the straps on your bra. If the straps are clearly visable then pick another fucking bra. I don't care if it isn't the most comfortable bra you wear. Either take off the fucking bra and let your tits free or put on another shirt. Thank you.

Now, let's address my intestinal issues briefly. I know that you are tired of poop stories. Really, I know. Imagine how tired I am of living a life that contains so many poop stories. Recently I have killed the bathrooms of the following establishments:

• Wal Mart
• Local scrapbook store
• JC Penneys
• Lenscrafters

On Saturday I added my favorite nail salon to the list of dead and/or dying bathrooms. During my pedicure I had to ask the nice lady to stop TWICE while I vacationed in the bathroom for an extended period of time. These stops had to be carefully timed so that my feet weren't covered in mud/wax/etc. and I could walk, sit, and shit without fucking up the nail polish. I am happy to report that I did not shit myself. WHAT THE FUCK BODY?!

Today Chicken and I went to lunch and picked up a gallon of my favorite obsession: Chick Fil A sweet tea. Yes, I can make it at home. Yes, I am a sorry excuse for a Californian if I am drinking sweet tea by the gallon. But it is fucking tasty, people. TASTY. It is also one of the few sweet items that I can currently enjoy. After lunch I attempted to visit my favorite scrapbook store that recently downsized to a smaller suite. This is not the one that I recently killed with my ass by the way. I made it all the way to the parking space when my stomach decided that it was in the mood for killin'. I beelined it to the library instead. I prefer spacious bathrooms with multiple stalls for my dirty work and I have no idea what the new facilities at the scrapbook store are like.

At the library Chicken checked out his third Piers Anthony book. Go Chicken! I am safely at home now and near my favorite room. Dear Intestines and Other Poopy Places Inside: I am done. I give up. Please stop harassing me. Love, Sam.

Wow

I just returned from a dinner at someone's home. Want to know how it went? I'll give you the quote of the evening and you can guess how my stomach feels at this point, okay?

"There is flour in bread crumbs?" (No, I did not eat the bread crumbs, it is a long story and I don't feel like telling all of it.)

I am used to telling people that I can't eat wheat and then they reply, "But it is WHITE bread" and then I sigh and explain that white bread is made with bleached wheat flour. Or I ignore them and carry on because you can only educate people with actively functioning brains. It happens all the time. But how can you explain to someone that there is flour in bread crumbs without bashing your own head against a wall?

My name is Sam and I am intolerant to wheat. And people.

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.

From The Mouth of Chicken

Because I am a sick, twisted individual I couldn't resist watching The Baby Borrowers for a few minutes when I saw it on the dvr guide tonight. Chicken spends five minutes with his mouth hanging open (between bites of Pad Thai and playing Sorry with me) watching it before saying, "Whoever lets their children be on this show needs to be smacked."

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.

Stoner Update

Dear Police Officer,

Driving around the area where adults are smoking pot with an underage girl a few times before approaching is probably NOT the best way to catch them in the act. In fact, I bet that those two young men saw you, grabbed the bong and the weed and left. (Oh they did? Super surprised!)

Searching the ninth grade girl, questioning her, (she lied? really? super surprised) and then leaving is also not effective. Way to go cop! Show my son that calling you to protect a minor is a fabulous idea. I am sure that next time he will rush to notify me of any and all illegal activities taking place in front of him.

Love and Kisses!

Sam

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Dear Mommy at the Park,

When a few concerned pre-teen children approach you and ask for your help, telling them that you are too afraid to do anything is not effective. I understand that you had your toddler with you, but you could have left and called the police. Hey! I bet you could have given a better description and more information than my 11-year old child. But, whatever. You don't mind taking your child to the park where men are getting a young teenager stoned, right?

Love and Kisses!

Sam

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After the cop left, I picked up Chicken and his two friends (both girls) and took them for ice cream as a reward for trying to do the right thing. I hope they keep trying to do what is right and notify an adult when they need to protect their friends. By the way, the girl smoking pot is a former friend of the two girls, and she has been smoking pot since the end of sixth grade. Please don't wait until your children are already caught up in drugs before talking with them!! It is never too early to have an age appropriate discussion about sex and drugs.

Happy Day

Teddy Bear was fucking around with a disk of some sort, rather excitedly burning an album I thought. Maybe the Kate Nash CD that I kindly gave to a friend and now needed a new one? Au contraire mon frère! TB said "I got this movie for you for [ridiculous Hallmark day that is today]" and then he put it in the media center PC and I saw the following image emblazoned onto our television:


He went on to say in a dry narrators voice:

"Heather Brooke runs an amateur website I Deep Throat and is fairly well known for her talents. This is an instructional video she created."

He says with all the sincerity that he can muster, all the while attempting not to laugh his ass off at the OMFGWTFBBQ look on my face. Luckily for me, the video does not seem to work. Also? I do not have a huge (or medium or small or ANY) dildo to practice on so I guess he's just going to have to keep imagining deep throated blow jobs now isn't he? Fucking douche canoe.

Touch A Damn Dick

Dear Fuckers *ahem* Lovely Readers,

I spent MANY seconds updating my template and installing Twitter in order to better serve you, the non-paying customer. However, at this time TWO (2) of you have commented-stifling my ability/desire/what the fucking ever/etc. to respond to you. You suck my ass. All of you. Ass suckers. For your transgressions, I have a video for you to enjoy.


This is what happens when you ask Google to search for "suck ass".

Love,

Sam

Oh My Fucking Fuckity Fuck!

I have been trying for MINUTES!! HOURS!!! DAYS!!! to make a pre-pre-natal appointment. I want to know which medications I can continue to take without creating a three-headed baby. I have already weaned myself off of an assload of medications and reduced the amount of several others. I know that without my asthma medication I will not be able to breathe, but should I stay on Qvar or switch to something more fetus friendly? I figure that this appointment should be relatively easy to make, right? HA HA HA!

Receptionist: What kind of insurance do you have?
Sam: (Uh? Who the fuck cares if you can't answer my question? Are you going to bill me for asking if you are competent? Maybe?) I have BlahBlah which is a PPO. I'd like to make a pre-natal consultation appointment.
Receptionist: How far along are you?
Sam: I'm not pregnant, I'm taking medications and I...
Receptionist: (interrupts) Oh you're infertile!
Sam: No. I'm not infertile. I have a medical condition...
Receptionist: (interrupts) You're high risk!
Sam: NO!@!! I fucking want to talk to a doctor. About medication. To avoid a three-headed baby. BEFORE I get pregnant.
Receptionist: Oh, you want a consultation.
Sam: (OH MY FUCKWAD DIDN'T I JUST SAY THAT!!!) Yes. I want to know which medications I can and cannot take and replace medications that will not work while pregnant.
Receptionist: Well the doctor will not prescribe medication that is not approved for pregnancy.
Sam: (Fucking bloody hell...)

Seriously people. How fucking difficult is this to understand? Really? I know I should have done this BEFORE but I missed my appointment last month due to that whole school/teaching/fucking fuckwit fuckers. Now I cannot get an appointment until May 7th. That is after I called just about every place in town. I'm considering dropping all non-essential medications and stealing TB's sperm in the middle of the night when I ovulate. Anyone want to hold him down while I get the goods?

Eat Mor Chicken

Chicken has the Migo phone from Verizon Wireless and really wants to upgrade to a "big boy" phone. I won't bore you with all the lame details of the fucking clusterfuck that had to take place to make this happen, so let's just say that Teddy Bear had to battle with Verizon about making the upgrade. At one point Teddy Bear strode out to the garage and his voice began to take on the "don't fuck with me tone" that we all know and love. Chicken said:

"When Teddy Bear goes into his man cave, the guy on the other line does not come out."

True that, motherfucker.


*Picture from Blogography.com*

Bank of America Finale

I just cannot must the strength to properly finish the Bank of America post, so I will have to make do with my old friend, The Bullet and my bestest bloggy friend, The Picture. I hope you don't mind too much. Where the story left off, it was January 2, 2008 and the first stupid woman at BofA had "accidentally" hung up on me after explaining that the $1400 payment on my zero balance card was my mistake. OMG.

January 2, 2008

• I call again, and again and again. Transferred, call drops, "computers don't make mistakes ma'am"
• After 2 1/1 hours I get to a nice man that fixes most of my problem, he stays on the line while he transfers me to someone that finishes it all up
• The money should be transferred to my Washing Mutual checking account ASAP
• I will receive a letter explaining the error so WaMu doesn't charge me for the overdraft of my account.
• I go to WaMu and talk with a warm body there, she waives the fee as I do not EVER bounce checks.
  
• I rock. She rocks. Go WaMu!
  
• I am appeased, but I am still closing the credit card account.

January 7, 2008

• I receive an electronic transfer of $1400.00 into my checking account. Better late than never?
• I have not received the letter from BofA in the mail.

January 8, 2008

• I call BofA to cancel my credit card account
• I am told by the representative that I have a pending transaction for the amount of $1400.00, hence I owe them $1400
• I explain the situation
• She is stupid, I am transferred
• I am told that my bank returned the initial $1400.00
• My bank did not.
• I am told that I have to fax proof that the $1400 went through.
• I am pissed.
• I call back to talk to someone else that might be more cooperative.
• I get the same story, but this guy says I have to fax BOTH sides of my bank statement as proof of the $1400 being paid
• I inform him that I don't get bank statements in the mail (who does that anymore? Let us please think of the TREES people!)
• He is not convinced that the NSF letter will work. We part ways unsatisfied.
• I spent 1 hour on the phone. Then I write a letter, fax cover, and have TB fax it all at work.

January 10, 2008

• TB walks to the mailbox and brings home the mail. I am puzzled by this, because he never used to get the mail. He's been doing it a lot lately. Hmmm....
• This is in the mail:

• What the FUCK?! Seriously? They mailed me a check AND put the $1400 in my checking account and DUH?!
• I call BofA when I can see clearly through the haze of PISSED THE FUCK OFF
• By the way, I am totally nice on the phone to these people whether they deserve it or not
• The manager I speak with actually understands what I am saying
• I tell her to cancel the check because I am not getting off my ass to send it back
• She apologizes for the fuck ups
• I ask WTF happened and WHY and WTF?
• She has no answer, but says she will send me a $50 gift card of my choice...I pick Amazon.com
• She reports that everything will clear out in five business day and then I may call and cancel my card
• I hang up, wondering if the letter and the gift card will end up in the same place-in my dreams

I spent approximately 4 hours on the phone, plus time writing/faxing/stressing for a bank error that should have been fixed properly the first time. I will not be doing any business with Bank of America again. This was not a matter of one person doing a bad job. This was fucking from one hole to another and then back again. Isn't there some sort of etiquette rule about that? Anyway, stay away from Bank of America if you value your time and peace of mind.

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• My driver's license says "Blue"
• Teddy Bear says that my eyes are more blue than the picture shows, but they are not true blue
• I think they should be called hazel
• I blame the eye color randomness on my mother
• She said I was "blonde" as a child, too
• I guess "hazel" and "brown" don't sound as cool
  
• I am not blogging right now, I am studying for my CSET

Pause

Well, Teddy Bear and I are alone on a rainy Sunday afternoon and we decide to watch a movie together. TB has recently procured a few films and we started to watch Iwo Jima. I am a huge Clint Eastwood fan, TB got the movie specifically for me, and I was excited to watch the film. About an hour into the film I started to feel a little...bad. You see, normally I can deal with graphic violence on television but lately I have been processing a little bit of FUN! and GAMES! from my past. (See post below or just take my word for it.) Letters from Iwo Jima was not the best pick for me, personally. I got to the point where the Japanese soldiers begin to blow themselves to shit with hand grenades to give "glory to the Emperor" and I had to call a stop to the entertainment. TB put in the next movie, which I wisely pulled up on Imdb and looked up the parental guide information. I'm not in the mood for blood and gore today, and I'd like to give an old-fashioned "shout out" to Imdb for saving me some grief.

Teddy Bear's next four picks were on the Top 10 list of blah blah and he thought we would enjoy them. Let's see what they were, shall we? I have included part of the violence description from Imdb and links to the parental guides.

3:10 To Yuma: A wounded man is covered in blood, and a doctor inserts a pliers-like instrument into the patient's chest and brings out a bullet while the patient groans (blood spills down the patient's shirtfront and the scene ends).

Eastern Promises: Infrequent, but incredibly graphic violence. During the fight, he puts a curved dagger behind and mans head and slams his head back against it, the man screams and convolts as the dagger enters his brain. Another man is stabbed in the chest, but he is still alive and the nude man has to finish him off by stabbing him in the eye (a pool of blood quickly forms under his head.) In the film's first five minutes a mobster has his throat sawed through with a razor. Two men cut the throat of a young man while he is urinating, you cannot see what happened until the man removes his scarf, revealing a large gash and blood pours out like a fountain.

The Kingdom: The film opens with a suicide bombing of innocent civilians. There is frequent, often graphic scenes of violence throughout the film. There is brutal beatings(a man getting dragged around and punched repeatedly, marks of blood are seen on his face and neck later and a man is seen getting tortured early in the film.), plus people being shot in several different ways(head, chest, stomach, etc.).

Atonement: There are a scenes containing images of war victims and wounds, some soldiers have eyes missing, some are missing arms or legs, and there is a man with a visible hole in his head, showing the damaged flesh and matted blood.

That last sentence left me in almost tears with the WTF?! factor. TB and I were laughing our asses off because at the end of the day, what else can you do? I will finish up my Bank of America and Andre posts soon and hopefully get both of the topics out of my brain.

Bank of America Part I

This morning I was sleeping soundly in my happy little bed with my new electric blanket and dreaming of glad tidings and a new year full to the brim of puppies and snowflakes. Or something like that. I was awakened by the shrill irritation that is my new land line. I didn't ask for a home phone, I didn't want a home phone (okay maybe a little bit but shhh!) and now it had the fucking gall to RING. I detest the sound of ringing phones. It is horrid and dreadful and usually means that someone wants something or needs to say something or I have to (God forbid) DO something. So I keep my phone on vibrate and encourage the practice in others. Few people even know I have a home phone, and of course I have to go and tell the whole fucking Internets. *sigh* This has nothing, whatsoever to do with this post, except for the fact that I received a phone call this morning that woke me from my pleasant slumber.

Teddy Bear was on the line, stressed and stressing. It seems that my checking account was overdrawn by a tidy sum due to an error by Bank of America. What? Which bank was that? Oh, that is right, Bank of America. Please note this for your future banking needs. Stay away from B of A. Far, far away. Let's begin with a little back story, okay?

Over the past three months I paid off my Bank of America credit card. I had carried a balance for far too long and we (Teddy Bear) worked diligently to get out (my) ass out of debt. I paid the bulk of it, found that there was a stupid interest charge, paid it, and then another interest charge on the interest charge. The last payment was $2.05. I paid all the payments (as I always do) online, and then entered them into Quicken. I have a thing for Quicken. It makes my heart a flutter and my knees weak. Every transaction goes into Quicken. Pack of gum? Check! House payment? Check! So imagine my surprise when Teddy Bear wakes me up at the fuckall time of 9am to tell me that Bank of America had withdrawn $1400.00 from my checking account. (I must say, in my overdrawn defense that I only keep a bit of spending money in my checking account at any given time, and some day I shall post more on the crazy money ways of the TB and myself.)

Back to 9am this morning. Checking account: negative. Chicken: making Mommy a pot of decaf coffee. Mommy: on hold with Bank of America on two separate lines. Because on one line I had called ABC phone number and on the other XYZ phone number and I was waiting to see which would pick up first. At the same time TB is calling my bank (the holder of my checking account and NOT B of A) and I was online checking my Bank of America account. Which had a -$1400.00 balance because DUH they had just taken +$1400 and added it to my zero balance credit card and that equals negative fourteen hundred in the credit card world. (Um, Eliza, please skip this whole thing if you haven't already puked from the cornucopia of numbers.)

Where was I? Oh yes. On hold. For 24 minutes. Yesterday being a holiday and all, everyone needed to call Bank of America. If you are getting tired of reading "Bank of America" please understand that I am trying to put this thought into your brain: stay the fuck away from them. So... I talk to a woman from B of A and she tells me that I must have made a mistake, no problem, everyone makes mistakes, and they can wire me the money. It will arrive by mail in 10-14 business days. I pick my jaw up off the floor and attempt to explain to her FUCKING STUPID ASS that "wiring money" does not mean printing a paper check and putting it in the mail. THE MAIL. I requested that she put someone else on the phone, someone that can help me because I was not going to limp away. Figuratively or literally. She informed me that no one can help, it was not their mistake and that I could be transferred to Online Banking because it was an online transaction. I submitted to the transfer and then "CLICK" the bitch dropped the call.

To Be Continued...

Seriously, What The Fuck

"Just a drunk Indian from New Mexico!" hollers a...um...drunk Indian from New Mexico, I suppose. He has been wandering around the terminal in Phoenix, batshit crazy enough that I report him to airline officials when he threatens to "Beat the fuck out of him, " referring to a man waiting for his luggage. He really needs to be arrested. Now it's been 1/2 hour and he is still yelling and I am fucking pissed that security has just shown up after several of us (including myself) complain to airport personnel again. I'm amazed that I have to take off my shoes to get through security but it is acceptable to threaten people, scream and yell obscenities in the same airport. Fabulous.

Santa Claus

Chicken and I were in The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf the other day when a holiday song started to play. It was "Santa Baby" sung by the Pussycat Dolls if my Googling fingers are correct. If you do not know the song, it is a rather suggestive song that sounds as if the Pussycat Dolls are greatly interested in sitting on Santa's lap and talking about what pops up. This fact was not lost on my eleven year-old, and an outraged tirade quickly spewed forth from his filthy, nasty lips:

"Oh. My. God. You do NOT fuck Santa. Santa is a nice old man that brings you presents. You are NOT supposed to FUCK him. He climbs down your chimney, not into your fucking vagina you stupid slut. Oh. My. God. No one fucks Santa. No one."

And yes, I tolerate occasional outbursts from the Chicken. Even ones that contains very bad words, because I firmly believe that words only hold the power that you give them. Also, his ass is totally grounded if he cusses around his grandparents, his teachers, church, etc. He must filter that mouth before he kisses his mother with it.

Anyway, doesn't he have a point there? Santa is jolly and bowl full of jelly in the songs that I remember as a child. Santa definitely does not have a penis. Or balls. Nope, not my Santa.

And furthermore, don't remind me that the song is a remake of a song that was originally aired well before my time. I don't care. Santa = nice. Santa (where's the symbol for not equal when you need it?) DOES NOT = horny pervert. Don't fuck up my Santa like that for goodness sake.

Pissing In The Wind

I have several posts coming up the pipeline, and since I am fucking tired as all hell I am going to post the easy cut-n-paste one first. A few people (online and IRL) have asked me what the fuck happened with Specialist Douchebag #2 and I did not want to dreg up the horrible badness ever again. However, I needed to write a letter to aforementioned douchebag and his clinic so here it is, edited only to give me a small amount of privacy.

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Arthritis Center of Riverside
4000 14th Street suite 511
Riverside, CA 92501

October 28, 2007

To Whom It May Concern,

I have been a patient of this medical establishment since April 2007. Last month I met Dr. Franco for the first time. Although he appeared to be an intelligent man, I was thoroughly unhappy with his care. For the sake of brevity, I have composed a bulleted list of my concerns:

• He berated me multiple times for not visiting the clinic frequently enough, even though I attempted to explain that I was merely following the schedule suggested by Dr. Lallande.
• I was kept waiting for more than 2 hours for my scheduled appointment and was told that this was commonplace in Dr. Franco’s practice. As someone who drives an hour each way to reach the office and suffers physical pain from sitting in a chair for an extended period of time I found this to be unacceptable.
• Dr. Franco had obviously never looked at my file before and wasted more of my time attempting to read it as I was (still) sitting there in front of him.
• Dr. Franco accused me of lying when I said that I had been taking medication for my Fibromyalgia continuously since it was prescribed by Dr. Lallande.
• Dr. Franco stated that the medication that I had been purchasing locally was low quality without knowing what I purchased and where, when fact one of the medications that I had purchased locally was the EXACT medication that had been recommended by Dr. Lallande.
• Dr. Franco appeared to be more interested in hearing himself speak than to listen to my concerns. I had to repeat myself several times and in the end I did not feel heard.
• Dr. Franco repeatedly asked me questions that were in my medical file in front of him. I attempted to explain that exact dates were difficult due to “brain fog” caused by the Fibromyalgia and he did not appear to listen.
• Dr. Franco asked me to pull up my shirt so he and the male P.A. that was with him could see my naval piercing. I felt that this request was not appropriate and it made me feel uncomfortable.
• Dr. Franco told me that he was going to prescribe me an antibiotic for a low-level infection and yet forgot to write the prescription.
• I requested that Dr. Franco write a prescription for Celexa (40mg) so that I could continue taking the medication under the supervision of his office. He stated that he would but did not like prescribing this type of medication for someone that he “did not know.” Celexa is not a commonly abused drug, is not a narcotic and is frequently used to help treat Fibromyalgia symptoms.
• While reviewing my file, Dr. Franco noted that the steroid shots I had been receiving were not an appropriate method to treat my condition, even though I had explained that the shot were for a hip problem not related to the Fibromyalgia.
• Dr. Franco forgot to review my open prescriptions and renew the necessary ones. I had to call in & ask when I ran out the next week.
• I requested an overall pain medication that doesn’t keep me awake, and instead was prescribed Lidoderm patches. I tried to explain to him that fibromyalgia means you feel pain EVERYWHERE and not in one specific spot, but he did not listen.
• Dr. Franco eliminated me from possible treatment options without asking if I would be willing to go through them. He assumed that I would not want to come up weekly for shots, even after telling us how fantastic they can be for some people & our interest in the subject.
• When it came time to review my x-rays, it was again obvious that he had never reviewed them. He whizzed through them faster than the nurse could put them up on the board which made me feel uncomfortable and unimportant. I don’t want to come to a specialist just to feel ignored.
• I attempted to get a prescription for a migraine medication as the one previously prescribed by your office (Imitrex) was having unwanted side effects. I tried to explain the type of headache/migraine that I had been suffering from and he was dismissive, saying that without “auras” my headaches were not migraines and that I should consult a neurologist. Auras only occur in 20-30 percent of migraine headaches and are not the sole defining symptom.
• I again tried to discuss the headaches with him and he indicated that the pain caused by not having adequate medication would surely make me go to a neurologist sooner rather than later.
• Overall, this experience was horrid. I had greatly appreciated the skill and demeanor of Dr. Lallande and his staff, while Dr. Franco’s behavior and demeanor were unacceptable. I felt belittled and not listened too. My husband sat in on my appointment, he is a very direct and assertive man, yet felt ignored as well, even though he was constantly asking Dr. Franco questions and trying to redirect the conversation towards my treatment and away from such segues as my naval piercing. I have no interest in seeing Dr. Franco again. If it is necessary to see Dr. Franco to remain a patient at this clinic then I will find another practice.

Sincerely,

Sam I Am, Muthafucker!

Endings

When I buried my father's ashes in Colorado over the summer, I requested that a picture be sent to me when the headstone finally arrived. I received this in my inbox today.

Sorry for the shoddy MS Paint work, I didn't feel like putting a whole lot of time into it.

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On a lighter note, I saw a big truck today on the freeway with a sign in the rear window that read:

No Fat Bitch's

This guy PAID to have someone put fucked-off grammar on his truck. He was really proud of himself when he noticed Ewe Girl and I trying to take a picture and laughing. He didn't realize we were laughing at his dumb ass.

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.

Blah, Blah Fishpaste*

Yes, I'm still awake and very merry at 4 fucking 57 am in the morning. Yes, that was redundant. No, I shall not be needlessly or at all redundant during my essay exams on Saturday. See previous post please for clarification. I could not be fucked to link to the previous post. My Gawd, people! Why must you do that? The linking of the post that is just RIGHT THERE beneath your nose? I suppose those people love their bloggy readers more than I love you. Much, much more.

I JUST NOW realized that the word "segue" is pronounced segway. Or, to be more precise, that I was saying segue but in my mind it was spelled segway. Is it more embarrassing to fuck up the spelling or pronunciation of a word? I suppose the context is king in this one, huh? I shall go on with my prescribed paragraph without further ado.

Ah, shit I forgot a part. Which involved the word that sounds like segway but is really not one of those nifty machines but a segue. In which case I meant to say that children are known for their utter lack of segues. From one subject to the next without those bastards of writing we call transitional sentences. Chicken, like other, normal children lacks the ability or the patience (ability) to construct conversations in such a way that there are segues. Shit literally flies out of his mouth in such a way that sometimes (usually) I have no possible way to discern what the fuck he is saying. I do know how to say and spell "discern" by the way.

Did you know that this post had a specific purpose, a message to convey? Why, sure you did. I meant to say that I went to a new Chiropractor today. I was unsatisfied with the old one because my lower back/hip thing is NO BETTER than it was in April. Also I kind of hate the man for various reasons that shall be discussed another day.

The NEW, improved and very shiny Chiropractor examined me, took two x-rays, studied and marked the x-rays and gathered me close for an explanation. You see, the reason for ALL THE FUCKING HIP PAIN SINCE APRIL and the minor pain prior to was due to one small thing that I overlooked in these past 33 years. Are you ready for it? You sure? Okay!

My bloody fucking shitassed left leg is 10mm longer than my right leg. Hence, the problems with the pain and misery and fuckall. Bloody Hell.

Yes, I am going to call my specialist on Monday to ask if they have completely reviewed my recent x-rays and whether they happen to notice a little congenital defect of my fucking leg. This all can be fixed with a 10mm insert that will be placed into my shoe after much casting of the foot and so on....

A happy, happy joy, joy note for Anna The Stupid Twat: I shall have to say goodbye to my beloved Gladiator Shoes. So LOL to you.

*The title is stolen completely from Tertia because who could resist it? Really, it is quite lovely.

OMFG

My dearest Anne pointed me to a website so great, so fantastic that I had to share it with the masses (three) of you that read this blog. Remember my post with the picture of the Duggar family? Vagina. It's not a clown car. Well it seems that Anne was so fascinated by their super sex life (16 children and counting!) that she perused their website until she came up with this:

These are swimsuits. For only $79 (or order in September and receive 20% off- wait, it's November. Uh, update your site, people). Where was I? Oh, for only $79 your daughter can don this two-layer swimmer that "gives a stylish modest look" with "an undergarment with bright colors at the neck and shoulders to draw the eye to the face". The ladies sizes are only $10 more! And available in a "slimming" style for those modest, plump types. There is more: "Next season we will once again offer a Slimming Swimmer suit that extends to the midarm (between the elbow and the wrist) and covers down to the lower leg (between the knee and the ankle)".

Holy fuck. Ladies, if we all buy these suits, no more worrying about bikini season. Or bikini lines. Or shaving anything, for that matter. We can roll our fat asses to the beach and no one would know that underneath we were trying out for the bride of Sasquatch. Who's with me? A round of farmer's tans for all of us? I can't wait for summer!

Okay, I must add something. I totally freak out when I see little girls in tiny bikinis. I don't think it is necessary or functional. Little girls aren't small women. This picture (in my esteemed opinion) is a fair representation of what a prepubescent girl should be wearing. I suppose you could add some pink and ruffles and bows and shit, but you get the picture. It covers the parts and pieces while allowing comfortable swimming and no worries about losing one's top or bottom. Am I totally conservative about this? Maybe. But who wants their little girl to be paraded around like a sex object? Not me.

Half-Nekkid Tubby Pic*

Okay, so technically I'm totally nekkid in this picture. However, you only get to see my purdy mug so that's only half-nekkid. I rarely take baths but this day my body was fucking killing me and a bath actually sounded like a great idea. By the way, this is my first facial without any makeup at all. Totally nekkid!

The "tubby" part has a double meaning. I recently went to the doctors because those fuckers will only refill my meds if I visit once a year. The nurse calculated my BMI and congratulated me on my weight. What the FUCK bitch? I've gained TWELVE pounds. A dozen. What does she say in response to this? "But you've quit smoking and that's soooo great!" Stupid cunt.

Yes, some of you are saying "But Sam, you showed your ass last week and WOW you look great." Yeah, I know. Except for one, small thing. My stomach is a greedy bitch and loves to steal all the weight-gaining glory for herself. Here's the breakdown:

12 pounds gained
8 pounds to stomach
1 pound to breasts
1 pound to thighs
2 pounds that travel around aimlessly waiting to go to the stomach

Again, many of you are sighing and wanting to bitch slap me. Go ahead. I get it. But before you kick me in the clam (thanks Anna!) you should know this:

I weighed ONE pound more when I delivered Chicken into this world. ONE POUND. Oh, and the clothes? Don't fit. My lovely newish suit? Nope. My jeans? Nope. My shorts and skirts and fuckall everything? Nope. Please send one (1) money tree so I can buy clothes that will fit my stomach. /sigh

*picture removed