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.

Pretty Is As Pretty Does

Today I injured myself while I was trying to pick my underwear out of my ass. In the crazy twisting of putting my arm behind my back and down toward my ass crack I pulled the muscles in my lower abdomen. For a moment, as I walked to the door of a neighbor's house I was doubled over in pain. From trying to pick a wedgie.

Some of you will realize that it was simply a matter of all the muscles in my pelvic region being all loosey goosey from the pregnancy. In a matter of seconds the pain was gone, but the embarrassment of seeing my neighbor and saying, "Hi. I just hurt myself picking my ass," will live on for minutes. Maybe even hours. You might be tempted to say, "But Sam there was no reason to tell your neighbor." But NAY! I am the Queen of Overshare.

In other exciting How Can I Stand Being This Cool news, I just got back from the grocery store where I purchased regular sized marshmallows for no particular reason. Other than the fact that my hormones screamed for them and I almost ripped the bag open in the store and stuffed them into my face. I am not an eating in the grocery store as I shop kind of girl.

Speaking of the type of girl I am, I was thinking lately that most of you only know the blog side of me. There are things that I don't think to talk most of the time because I'm too busy taking pictures of Dude to post for your consumption. (More Dude coming soon, including the flag I made for his tail and his shameful eating disorder!) Anyway, today I realized that I haven't worn makeup much lately. When I say "much" I mean "not at all" except for things like weddings and fancy TB work dinners. I've never worn makeup every day, and sometimes I look around me and think, "Self, there are people that dedicate time EVERY DAY to the application of makeup." And I just don't giving a flying fucking pig about it.

My mother has an hour long routine every morning involving moisturizing, shaving, plucking, powdering, and various other girly things not necessarily in that order. She does NOT just get up and leave the house. Ever. Now maybe I'm a total slacker but I like being able to say, "Well I just woke up but I can be out the door in five minutes." It is not like I don't brush my teeth or shower every day. I just want to spend my time on this planet living as opposed to primping. The fibro has only exacerbated this, because who wants to use up the day's supply of energy getting ready only to be too tired to leave the house? Exactly.

Speaking of my mother, something interesting happened today. My mother's youngest sister called me and congratulated me on my pregnancy. She was EXCITED. I did not see that coming at all. I mentioned to her that my mother did not see especially thrilled that I was pregnant, she laughed and we talked for a bit. Apparently my mother called up and said, "I have some news," in the tone of voice reserved for death, disease, and divorce. My aunt braced herself for the worst when my mother exclaimed, "My daughter is PREGNANT!!" Imagine, if you will, a pissed off mother talking about her stupid child winding up in jail. AGAIN. That's the message that was conveyed.

However, my aunt called me and did the OMGWTFBBQ!!!! YAY A BABY!!! and I was very happy. She even said, "Pretend I'm your mother," and then said it again for me. We talked a little about the crazy that is my mom, and she mentioned that when she told my mother that she was getting remarried my mother said something rude and hung up on her. I recommended that she break "good" news to my mother in the future with my godmother in attendance. She laughed and it was good. I don't trust this aunt completely because HELLO!? I'm related to her and we have some special history but it was very nice to hear someone be happy for me. YAY ME!! And to Jen who kindly offered to be excited every day for me, THANK YOU. You rock.

My Sense of Humor is BACK

Why I love Fail Blog:

see more pwn and owned pictures

Hormones and Pornography *updated*

I received an email from Thanksgiving Mom and apparently her work now blocks Sam's Stories as pornography. She was pretty excited to get home and see all the exciting PORN! and PENIS! and SEX! and BOOBIES! but alas it is mostly just my gutter mouth.

However, I didn't want to disappoint her so I searched high and low for some porn pictures to post for today. It seems that with all the hormones coursing through my body I'm a little more squeamish than normal. That means that violent, bloody, movies and pictures of Lisa Simpson doing her father are not super yummy. Although I am pretty sure that Simpsons porn would be gross all the time. Who would have thought that searching for "cartoon pornography" would return so many results that were just plain NASTY?

Enjoy the pr0n, TG Mom!

*Teddy Bear sent me the "No fisting the cats" cartoon and I had to update the post*

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

---

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

---

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.

Bloody Hell

My PenisLicker of a husband needs to be hit repeatedly with a large, blunt, instrument of torture and death, preferably at or around the genitals. You see, the man sleeps like most men. I'll detail it for you:

1. Closes eyes.
2. Rolls over.
3. Falls asleep.
4. Snores lightly.

This whole process takes about twenty fucking seconds and is why, one day, I shall kill him until he is dead. Sometimes he will complain, whining endlessly that he isn't tired yet or can't fall asleep. Then I tell him to SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO TO SLEEP. And he does, in twenty seconds. I hate this about him. If you are a gentle soul and you are asking yourself, "Self, does she really tell her husband to SHUT THE FUCK UP?" please understand that I TOTALLY FUCKING DO SAY EXACTLY THAT.

It gets worse. Not only does he fall asleep quickly, easily, and wake up fresh like a freakin' bunny he has a horrible habit that he does WHILE he sleeps. He sweats like a bloody fucking pig. Even worse? He is in total denial about the reason he sweats. If he just admitted that he was a sweaty sleeper I could live with it, but FUCK NO. He blames it on the down comforter, which ends up 1/2 on my side of the bed and 1/2 on the floor. But SOME FUCKING HOW it makes him sweat.

It could be twelve degrees (Fahrenheit) in our bedroom, I could be sleeping with fucking icicles hanging out of my nostrils and he would be sweaty and still blame it on something else. Our conversations go something like this:

TB- "But you were lying next to me and I got overheated"

Sam- "I was sleeping on the couch"

TB- "But the comforter was too hot, maybe we should try one that isn't down."

Sam- "The comforter was in the washer last night"

TB- "But the fan wasn't positioned properly/on high enough"

Sam- "My pussy lips froze together it was so fucking cold you fucking asshole. JUST ADMIT THAT YOU ARE A SWEATY BEAST."

TB- "But what if..."

*Sam picks up blunt instrument and begins swinging*

I swear that he does this (the denial not the sweating) just to fucking annoy me. And lately I am easily annoyed. Right before I began to write this post I was yelling at TB to "shut the fuck up and go to sleep" and he was trying to cuddle up on me. You might say, "Awwww how cute" but I say, "Fuck off" because this is what happens:

1. He positions his wee little head on my shoulder and looks sweet.
2. He passes the fuck out (PTFO).
3. He begins to sweat.
4. I have to poke him until he wakes up enough to realize that I am tired of being sweated on and I wish him to go the fuck away.
5. He decides that cuddling more is nice.
6. I scream (quietly, so as not to wake the Chicken) for him to roll the fuck over and go to sleep.

That's not even taking into consideration the rash he likes to leave on my shoulder because his face is all scratchy and my skin is a delicate flower. He's really quite patient when I am acting like a fucking harpy but that doesn't make me any less of a cunt now, does it?

Switching Gears

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

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

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

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

*pause for laughter*

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

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

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

Newbies

For those of you that are newish to Sam's Stories, I thought I'd clear a thing or two up that I noticed in the comments. First, the miscarriage happened 13 years and two husbands ago. Yep, I get around. Second, I can't fucking remember what the second thing was...shit. I do have a complaint, however. I am pissed at Blogger for sucking huge donkey dick when it comes to uploading pictures lately. I have a post completely written, just waiting for your amusement. However, Blogger does not think that I need pictures. Fucker.

*minor pregnant bitching below*

I've been feeling crappy lately and having the most difficult time explaining the hauntingly familiar feeling. Until yesterday when I realized that I feel hung over. Not the ZOMG barf-festival, but the feeling dehydrated, wanting to drink a lot of water but having it not settle well, tired and cranky. I've been hungry but nothing sounds good and only limited quantities of food make my stomach happy. My pain level from the fibromyalgia is much better, not in the realm of "hey I'm a normal fucking person" but livable. I have done some research and apparently the hormone relaxin is increased by tenfold during pregnancy and this hormone is responsible for a host of really awesome things. Like the super cool preggo nails and hair, relaxed muscles, and better sleep.

My sleeping has gone from bad to worse, partially a result of removing sleeping pills from my diet and also general preggo stuff. If I wasn't pregnant the lack of sleep would have ramped up my pain levels to the point where I wouldn't be getting out a bed at all. So, you win some, you lose some. According to the innernets, relaxin has been used to treat fibromyalgia. I'm going to ask my specialist when I see him this week because that would rock.

As soon as Blogger allows me to upload pictures I will publish the post in which I get my ass kicked by a Toyota Camry in The (speedy little convertible with a new door handle) Car.

PS My word for the week is PenisLicker. I use it in lieu of someone's given name. Gender or orientation does not matter when one is a PenisLicker. For example, "Hey PenisLicker, whatcha doin?"

Discussion

How the man interprets my directions to locate a perfectly ripe avocado at the grocery store when he doesn't eat them:

"Firm yet squishy-OH! you mean find an avocado that feels like titties."

Exactly, honey. Like titties. Except not my titties, because you are not fucking touching them until the HOLY SHIT soreness goes away.

The Dress

Recently Teddy Bear and I spent the weekend in Santa Barbara for a fancy work retreat. I would be meeting many people in TB's company for the first time, as well as some old family friends that I had not yet met. It was important for the two of us to make a good impression. TB wants to continue to do well at his company and follow his father's footsteps as a Big Boss. Yes, this post is really fucking dull but it will get better soon. I promise. Just remember-weekend important.

To get ready for the weekend, I hogtied TB and drug him to Nordstrom to get a nice jacket, shirt, tie, slacks, belt, shoes, etc. We also got haircuts (& color for me), and I got my eyebrows ripped off/waxed. I also found an awesome dress on sale for less than thirty bucks. THIRTY BUCKS!! While at the hotel I had my fingers and toes painted by the nicest girl. We were ready rock out with our cocks out, people. Or, jamming with my clam out. I do not own a cock. You know what I mean.

I returned to the hotel room at 5:30pm. The social hour began at six, followed by dinner at seven. At five minutes before six, with my hair, make-up, special undies, shoes, blah blah blah all ready I reached for my dress hanging in the closet. Except the dress was hiding from me. So I looked a little harder. I had TB look for the dress. And guess fucking what? IT WAS NOT THERE. I had left the dress at home. WHAT THE FUCK?!

I was torn between sitting naked on the bed crying, wearing something totally inappropriate or running around naked screaming. Normally the crying would not be a viable option, however the next day I found out I was pregnant. Duh! Stupid hormones and being a girl. After some whirlwind deliberate I ran to The Nail Girl (in my heels and yes I did throw a shirt and jeans on) and begged her for help. Sweaty, panting and distraught. Her first question was, "Do you want me to run home and get you a dress?" Uh, no crazy chick. Do I look like I feel that entitled? Okay, I guess I look like a nut job.

I wanted a place to find a dress and NOW. Her friend said the magic words, "Oh, there is a Nordstrom on State Street" and I almost went down on her. Well, in retrospect yes, but at the time I was a bit stressed and she wasn't very cute. I hopped in the car with shaky directions and a general idea of where I needed to go. Downtown Santa Barbara on a beautiful Saturday at 6pm. I was fucked.

Did I ever mention how much I hate parking garages? When my dad was in the burn unit in Salt Lake City for several weeks I had to deal with a parking garage every fucking day. I got less nervous about it with the much-needed practice but now instead of making me anxious it reminded me of a very crappy time in my life. Remember the new (to us) car? I haven't driven a manual transmission full time since 1999. Now add the two together, throw in a little OHMYFUCK, a pair of heels and you have Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

I parked, ran up stairs, down stairs, and down a city block. In a heatwave. Luckily I have an amazing sense of direction even though my short-term memory sucks due to the fibro. Don't even ask me how I managed to physically get through it, it must have been the adrenaline. I showed up in the proper department of Nordstrom and found a very nice sales lady who helped me find a dress and purchase it in less than ten minutes. Not just any dress, it was exactly what I was looking for AND it wasn't a fuckton of money AND it fit. I was so damn happy I could have hugged the sales lady. But of course I didn't because I don't like people enough to TOUCH them.

By the way, if you live within driving distance of a Nordstrom and have not experienced the joy of shopping there-you must try it. It is not cheap, but if you are a total dumb ass and cannot pick out clothes to save your life it is worth it. You can show up and say, "I am looking for such and such for this occasion" and they will find it. And then alter it free of charge (if you pay full price,with sale items you have to pay extra), and steam it if applicable. If I could afford to only shop there all the time I would. By the way, the dress was only $138. Not bad for a "oh fuck I need something NOW" dress and much cheaper than a boutique would have been.

I bought the dress, took off the heels and ran back to the car. I didn't get stuck on any one way streets, only broke the speed limit a little bit, and ran one light that was pink, I swear. No, there were no other cars in the area, I wasn't trying to kill anyone. I made it to the dinner about five minutes after seven, looking fantastic, cool, calm, and collected. I was a rockstar.

Of course, Teddy Bear decided that telling a person or twelve that I wasn't at the social hour becuase I was off buying a dress to replace the one I forgot wasn't the most awesome idea. Those people decided it was a good idea to tell other people about the fiasco. Can you imagine walking into a room of two hundred plus people and having a large percentage of them staring at you and checking out your dress? And then commenting on it during any conversation with you for the rest of the night? I was a wee bit mortified. At least I wasn't running around naked and screaming.

Super Awesome

more graph humor and song chart memes

Overheard in My Bed Just Now

"La, la, la, fancy pants."

No, it was not me. I do not know where the la la came from in Teddy Bear's brain and I am a little scared. Hold me.

I Can Haz Urine?

Since blogger fucking hates me and refused to upload the picture I created, I went to I Can Has Cheezburger and created my masterpiece there. Yes, that is my pee stick. I wasn't planning on announcing in such a bold way, but since only two of you (Anna and Jenn) commented that you clicked on the link in the previous post and figured out what I was trying to say in a subtle fashion, well here you fucking go.

ZOMG

We're in Santa Barbara at an undisclosed location which is likely a hotel but I'm not telling. This place is supposedly very nice, and after we called and got the drain in the tub working to my satisfaction and the linens on the bed changed (hello PUBIC HAIR on my sheets!) it seemed just fine. I cannot abide standing water of any flavor, even if it has only touched my pristine body. I don't think I need to justify the pubic hair, do I? The room rate for the two night stay is $275.00 and in my world that is a LOT of money. Happily, the tab is being picked up by the company but HOLY FUCK! that's $550.00 for two nights BEFORE Teddy Bear started in on the mini bar. The room, complete with sitting area and balcony is about as big as HALF of my house, which either means that it is a huge-assed room or my house is really small. I think a bit of both. Tomorrow I shall have breakfast in bed (they better fucking not let bread touch my food) and then lounge by the ocean (across the street). Teddy Bear has meetings and such and I won't see him until the afternoon, when he will probably appear with the escort he has hired for the evening. Kidding! Not! Kidding!

Annaland

I called Anna this morning stressing about my temperature chart and she was having a bit of trouble talking me down off the ledge of my insanity. This resulted in today's quote of goodness:

"Let go and Let God, Sam," quoth Anna.

And then I laughed and laughed and laughed and it was all better.

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.

Two Six Hundred

This is my 600th post. I am not a huge celebrator of anniversaries or numbers or quite frankly, any fucking thing. But six hundred is a fuckton of writing. I can't believe that my blog is almost three years old. Although my blogging has waned at times, I have never once (to my spotty recollection) considered throwing in the towel. Either than means I'm too stubborn or too lazy to quit. Whatever. I have learned to make sentences out of single words. I have learned just how much skin I am willing to show off to the world, and how little I care that I am spewing my personal business for all the innernets to see.

I've also realized that I censor some things, while other things just fall the fuck out of my brain and I plain forget to post them. Like the new car. We bought a car a week or two ago, new to us not brand new. And I never posted about it. I'm not posting about it now, although I plan on taking a picture of the missing door handle and posting about that in short order. Teddy Bear is quite well known for breaking shit. There is a technical term for it (help me out here Eliza) but I like to call it "Bull in a china shop" syndrome. Where Teddy Bear is the Bull and the china shop is the world. Shit, the car is probably parked in the driveway and I could take a picture of it and post it right now. Except for the fact that I am horizontal and clad only in my skull and crossbones with a Santa hat undies, tucked warmly into bed and I am NOT moving for your entertainment people.

Back to the door handle. TB was attempting to open the driver's side car door and he ripped off the handle. This was the fucking FOURTH handle that he has removed accidentally in his very short lifetime. Luckily for him, he has never done it to my car, but he has done it to friends vehicles. The new handle has been procured and will be installed by us this weekend, but WTF, man! Sometimes, I think about the possibility of TB handling a newborn baby and then the world goes all black and HEY! he wouldn't break a baby would he?

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

Verbal Diarrhea

Dear Reader(s),

Thanks to your fabulous advice and tasty comments (along with a small helping of brains on my part) I have concocted a master plan which is subject to change without notice. Here's the scoop 'o poop:

1. The soonest appointment I was able to make with an ob/gyn was May 7th. According to my complicated calculations involving my fingers and a little cervical mucus (totally kidding!!) I will be WAY past ovulation by then, making this cycle a bust before I even got to enjoy a round of thoroughly deep dicking. And that sucks.

2. The soonest I was able to make an appointment with MY ob/gyn was the end of May. Which meant that by the time I am able to switch medications allegedly given to me on that day I will be past the fertile time of my NEXT cycle. Please remember (for fuck's sake) that this ob/gyn I have only seen once anyway because I moved from San Diego a year ago. My old one was only good for my annual visit and not much else. I fucking hated her a little bit. Another post. Remind me sometime okay?

3. Certain RAD and AWESOME readers mentioned that I probably would not get the drugs I wanted from an ob/gyn even if I went down on him/her and my best bet would be to visit my regular doctor, which of course I left in San Diego. I really need some new doctors, huh? My San Diego doctor (not pussy doctor, just general practice doctor) was also very highly demanded and getting appointments was a pain in the ass which would lead me back to numbers 1 and 2.

4. I have gone to the local Urgent Care a few times since moving to *redacted* and noticed that there was a "normal" doctor in the same office. Meaning EASY! and CLOSE! and in my network so CHEAP! I couldn't remember the name of the place and couldn't be bothered to attempt to find paperwork to get a phone number so I just drove the 1/2 mile to Urgent Care and made an appointment for Monday afternoon. WOOT!!

5. I have two Rx for my asthma, Albuterol and Qvar. My fibro specialist does not feel comfortable refilling them. Although he'll gladly hand over Rx for vicodin and darvocet like they are yummy for my tummy. I am on the last refill of my Qvar and I will end up in Urgent Care without it. The only solution is to find a regular doctor or a pulmonologist. I try to avoid doctors with specialties. It creeps me out. I'M NOT SPECIAL DAMMIT!!

6. I looked up the medications I really want to keep taking on Safe Fetus (thanks Amanda!) and HOLY FUCK with the extra digits and cleft palate and I just couldn't keep reading any more. Everything there IS scary.

So! I may save this cycle and create a fetus playmate for my knocked up friends. Yay for me. While you are giving me input, I have a specific pregnancy/medication advice request: I want to switch my anti-depressant/anxiety medication to one more baby friendly. I would like to have some information in hand when I go to my appointment on Monday so I can say, "Well my friends inside the computer said..." My current prescription is for 60mg per day of Cymbalta, however I am taking 30mg at this time due to ramping down medications for impending fertilization (please and thank you oh gods of babydom).

The reason for this particular drug is that the fibro pain can be alleviated by the Cymbalta AND I tend to be anxious due in large part to the fibro. Thanks fibro!! I never found the pain relief side to work, however I might have needed to take more than that dosage according to my fibro specialist (one specialist is enough, thank you). Um, where was I? Oh yes. Need drug for anxiety. I have taken: Effexor (FUCK NO!), Celexa (have 3 month supply sitting in drawer), Lexapro, and Wellbutrin (to quit smoking) in the past. The Wellbutrin was horrible - don't give the anxious chick uppers! Any suggestions? Bueller?

The Evils of Television

How to tell when you are a wee bit fucked up:

You are watching How I Met Your Mother and think to yourself "I totally need to crimp my hair."

Cycle Day Uh What?

I was expecting Aunt Flo to visit on Friday, which would make it cycle day (CD) 1. However, she sort of popped by and then left again, returning for a cup of tea on Saturday and then nothing. Finally, today she returned with a vengeance so YAY! But? Was Friday CD 1 or is it today? ARGGH!!! It is totally fucking with my master plan. Now I'm going to have to engage in LOTS MORE intercourse with TB just to be sure. *sigh* Any helpful words of wisdom out there in blogland?

Peeing The Bed

"Being British, middle class and whiter than a snowman with a bukake fetish..."

from: Zero Punctuation

Teddy Bear loves this guy. He reviews video games. You may have to do the following things to understand the video:

1. Be a total fucking geek.
2. Be a gamer. (see above)
3. Be a total fucking geek's wife and mildly inebriated at the same time. Never individually.

View at your own risk of laughter with a bit of tinkle or stunned silence. Either way. Whatever.

*go to link above-I removed the video*

Direct Quote

"People get out of the closet, it's getting full!"

~Chicken

Pharmacy

I was at the pharmacy earlier today and I needed to talk to the pharmacist about cutting Lunesta in half. I am weaning myself of most of my medications and Lunesta is one that I have saved until the last friggin' minute. I love sleeping and my FMS sucks my ass when it comes to the ability to sleep. *sob* Oh Lunesta. I big fluffy heart you!

Where was I? I was talking to the pharmacist and my phone vibrated in my pocket. Normally I would ignore it but I was in possession of three sixth-grade boys and I always answer my phone when I am talking care of someone else's monster adorable child. I go to grab my phone and the pharmacist says:

"Oh, it is Teddy Bear calling for you!"

And it was. The pharmacist knows my name and my husband's name on sight. I think I might spend too much time at the pharmacy.

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!

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story

It is like a train wreck with clowns and full-frontal male nudity.

More Sex Ed

"So, we learned about wet dreams today," says Chicken upon arriving at home this glorious afternoon. "They are also called nocturnal....what is the other word? Like a car, oh yeah, emissions. Nocturnal emissions!" exclaims Chicken.

Sex Education

Today Chicken started his sex ed class at school. The boys (they separate the sexes) were provided with a box to put anonymous questions into and Chicken shared his question with me:

"How do you seduce a woman?"

Hanker For A Hunk

If you have no fucking clue where this public service announcement (PSA) came from, you're either too young (like Teddy Bear) or too old (like Anna? *pokes the bear*). I found this on There's Weenie Juice on my Cookie today and I couldn't resist sharing.

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*

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.

Stella Sucks

Dear Stella,

You know that I consider you one of my favorite bloggy peeps, right? So I can say the following without you hating me for forever I hope?! Maybe? Okay. You, Stella, totally suck. When I write a post that states:

"Today I started watching the show Weeds with my dear Teddy Bear who procured seasons one and two for me."

This means that I have not yet watched any of season three. Therefore, the fact that Nancy and Conrad GET IT ON was unknown to me. You fucking spoiled it you bitch! (And I mean this in the most loving way possible I promise!) So! Until I say "I am caught up on the show" please do not comment with spoilers OKAY PEOPLE!!!

Thanks,

Sam The Perturbed and Slightly Crazy

You Totally Suck

Dear Innernets,

Today I started watching the show Weeds with my dear Teddy Bear who procured seasons one and two for me. I would just like to say Fuck you! innernets for not telling me about this show. If you were my friend, you would have said, "Sam, there is this show that you would undoubtedly love. It is called Weeds. You can see it on Showtime." I would have graciously thanked you and went off on my merry way to watch a splendidly, dirty, funny-assed show and been happy. But no, you didn't even once think of me as you watched with gleeful tears in your eyes. You suck.

Love,

Sam

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!

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