Poop Giveaway!

Remember when I said I purchased "What's Your Poo Telling You?" and I said when I finished reading it I would give it away to my dear readers? Well, that time has come. Fucking finally, huh? I think after the last two posts we all need some laughs and poop. Here's how it will work, official rules and all that:

1. Post a comment with your best poo story. It must involve poo from your ass or your immediate family's ass. No stranger poo stories!

2. Your comment must be on this post by 12:00am PST Saturday, January 15, 2010. That's 3am on the east coast for you non-math types.

3. I will have my official number drawing baby pull a number at random out of a jar. I will post a picture of the drawing! Cute babies pictures! YAY!

4. The winner must give me an address to mail the book to, and I will PERSONALLY AND WITHOUT MALICE sign the book for you. Personalized inscriptions are 20 cents extra, tax included. (Kidding! It's free! Unless you want to send me twenty cents!)

4b. I will post the winning poo story with a link back to the winner's blog (if applicable). If you would like to remain anonymous to the innernets at large, please say so in your comment!

5. On the day that I announce the winner, I will post my MOST TERRIBLE poo story EVAR!! Involving CAR and FULL TERM PREGNANCY poo. So terrible that it has never been told on Sam's Stories. Hopefully that day will be the Monday immediately following the end of the giveaway contest thingy.

6. If you have any questions, please contact me at samsstories at gmail dot com.

7. This giveaway is not sponsored, paid, threatened or containing blow jobs. I purchased the book with my TB's very own money. I just love poo. And books. And my readers.

Now, you might be wondering how to describe your poo accurately. I have a handy chart for you! This way we all can fully understand what type of poo you or your family member is having in the story. When I first found this chart I meant to post about it, and then fucking life and diaper changes got in my way. But today! I present the Bristol Stool Chart. Very handy for daily discussion of your poo with friends, family, neighbors, and people on public transportation. I especially like using this when on a lengthy flight. People really appreciate this kind of information!

Oh No You DIDN'T!!

This is my first post from my phone.
I gave up trying to post on my phone. Fucking pain in the ass. Beware, there is angry venting to follow:

I am having some serious issues, yo. My stepBIL got out of jail for the fucking hundredth time just before Christmas, because there is nothing like having the potential of a unconscious, naked, drug addict to make your Christmas merry. This is not an exaggeration by the way. It is what he does. Shoots up, gets butt-assed naked, and then passes out somewhere. Sometimes in his parked car, sometimes in the doorway of his trailer (when he lived in a trailer park and all sorts of people can see him), sometimes on a front lawn or maybe on my FIL's living room floor. After breaking into the house, stealing things, loading up his car and then POOF! Nakid and passed the fuck out. He was recently convicted of indecent exposure due to this habit. I don't know why he does this and I really don't care. He's an addict. He's never been a normal, responsible human being even before the drugs. But the problem isn't him. It is merely a piece of the fucked up puzzle I call the relationship I have with my FIL and stepMIL.

Before TB and I were together, he avoided his stepBro whenever he could and just lived his life. Now that I am in the picture, things are a bit different for all of us. There are children involved. The first time that my stepBIL appeared on the scene for me was summer of 2007. He got out of jail, I tried to be open-minded, he ended up back in jail. Rinse, repeat. TB and I decided that as long as stepBIL was an active addict with all the surrounding behaviors, we did not want to be around him. We did not want him in our house (or to even know where we live, etc.) We would not spend holidays with him when he was not spending them in the pokey. If he is ever able to be clean and sober for six months we have stated that we will revisit the situation. Until then, no way.

The last year has been supremely fucked up. StepBIL has been in and out of jail several times, and each time he gets out the issue is pressed by my FIL and stepMIL. We hold our ground, they say that he is CHANGED and DIFFERENT and this time it will be ALL BETTER. He's going to go back to school and get his high school diploma! He's going to BLAH BLAH BLAH. He relapses and goes back to jail within a couple of months. He has gotten thrown into jail for possession and violation of parole so many times I can't keep track without looking up his rap sheet. I'd like to add that many, many functional human beings do many, many drugs and go their whole lives without ending up in jail. He's obviously doing it wrong.

When he is out of jail, he gets a car, a place to live, money for food, clothes, etc. Even if the last car was towed and left in impound. He gets anything he needs. And right now they are buying him some land with a trailer on it so he always has some place to live when he gets out of jail. He gets kicked out of every place they put him, even though everything is paid for by his mom and stepdad. He doesn't have to work, go to school, stay sober, be a functional member of society. They give him everything and wonder why he doesn't stay clean.

All of which wouldn't matter to me, if it wasn't for the fact that I get blamed every time shit blows up. It's MY fault that we won't allow the children to be around my stepBIL. My FIL doesn't like ME. I'm not a good wife because I don't have his midwestern values. I don't cook dinner every night with makeup on and my hair done. I'm disrespectful of my marriage, looking all shitty like I do most days. I have endured years of snarky, passive-aggressive comments from my FIL. TB tells him not to say XYZ and his dad apologizes. Then does it again. I suck because I breastfeed with my dirty, nasty titties. I am a crappy mother because I put a hat on Egg when it is cold outside even though he doesn't LIKE hats. Everything is my fault. I am dividing the family by keeping away from my stepBIL. I don't make my FIL feel comfortable in my home. The list goes on and on and on....it always comes back to me. I did something wrong. (These are examples of the things that my FIL tells TB that I do wrong by the way, except for the breastfeeding which is only snarked at and not directly mentioned.)

A few days before Christmas we made dinner plans with my FIL to go to a restaurant and exchange gifts. We couldn't go to my FIL's house because my stepBIL was there, and a nice dinner out seemed like a good idea. My FIL was deciding on whether he should invite his wife, because she gets upset when he invites her to do things with us. (According to him.) Two hours before the dinner reservations my FIL calls my SIL (she is visiting us from Texas) decides that stepBIL and my stepMIL need to be at the restaurant. He states that it is a public place and we cannot stop them from showing up and sitting at the table next to us

TB calls his dad on the phone and tells him that we will not be meeting them at the restaurant. It gets ugly and TB raises his voice at his dad, something I have never heard. His dad threatens "Grandparents' rights" during the conversation if we try to keep Egg away from him. I quickly asked Google about it, and in the state of California where the biological parents are married, there are NO grandparents' rights through the court system. However, the fact that he mentioned this makes me very unhappy, to put it mildly. To have someone with fairly vast resources threaten to get visitation of your child BY LEGAL FORCE when that person lives with a volatile drug addict is terrible. To have it happen three days before Christmas really sucks balls. Merry Fucking Christmas everybody!

If you've been reading my Tweets today, you are likely impatiently tapping your toes. You want to know what I make TB do that is SO TERRIBLE AND AWFUL. You see, TB had breakfast with his father yesterday to attempt to hash out some of the crap that we have been dealing with for the last few years. During this meal my FIL told TB that he is unhappy with the things that I make my husband do, things that are My Agenda. This meal that is supposed to be about Respecting Our Decision Not To Be Around Drug Addicts and No More Badmouthing The Wife (me) is now about the things that I do that are NO GOOD. Of course!!

So? You ready for it? I made my husband go to the dentist and get much-needed dental work done. Approximately 10k of dental work because he finally had a job with dental insurance. I held him in the dentist's chair and forced root canals on him. If you are wondering, this wasn't cosmetic work. It was, "Your mouth is falling the fuck apart and you need to fix it before you are wearing dentures at age thirty." I feel terrible that he can eat and drink comfortably and is not in pain anymore, especially since I could have used that money for hookers and blow.

The other thing that I Am Guilty Of is pushing my husband to go back to school. I recently ordered his college transcript to see where he was and what is needed to earn his Bachelor's Degree. I went back to school when I was 25 and it was one of the best things I have done for myself. I'm proud that I have a college education and I want him to feel that, too. I am trying to convince him that he can start soon, taking one class per semester and I will pick up the slack around the house. It will be hard with a baby to care for, but he can do it and I can support him in achieving this goal. That's what spouses do, right?

The end result is that I am sadder than I have been in a long time. It really hurts to be disliked so much by TB's dad and stepmom. It hurts that every time TB talks to his dad he is hopeful that things will change, and then is hurt by the reality of the situation. But this time is different, because I am FUCKING OVER THIS SHIT. They are not welcome in my home, for any reason. They shall not see Egg. They shall not interfere with my marriage. They are going to have to do some serious fucking work before I will consider letting them into my life again. Fuck That Shit. I have had enough.

Sleep

We are having a wee smattering of sleep issues here at Sam's Stories. I'd like to illustrate it with the following texts between myself and our new babysitter: (I have a post on the babysitter issue, too.) (Not that our babysitter has an issue. I have an issue. Or twelve hundred.)

Sitter: My mom said I'm good to go for Friday.
Sam: Yes!!
Sitter: :) 5 to 7:30?
Sam: Yep! Thanks!
Sitter: No problem.
Sam: Can you text me your address so I can put it in my phone?*
Sitter: Sure. (insert address here) I'm going to your house tomorrow though, right?
Sam: Tomorrow? (at this point I am trying to figure out how to say politely that I had no fucking idea what she is talking about when she is a newish sitter and I don't know her well enough to use the word "fucking" yet) Hmmm....my brain is failing. Do you remember why? When I told you? Dude, I need a decent night of sleep.
Sitter: Haha. You said tomorrow from 5:00 to 7:30.
Sam: Friday! Today is Tuesday, right? I hope.
Sitter: Today is Thursday.
Sam: No way.
Sitter: Yeah.. Lol
Sam: ROFLMAO. I am SO dumb. Sorry!
Sitter: Hahaha no worries. You just need sleep.
Sam: Total FAIL. See you tomorrow then!

So, the combination of traditional holidays stresses, SERIOUS FUCKING FAMILY FAIL, shitty sleeping by one baby and therefore one mama and partially one daddy, and a new phone mean that I have no brain and blogging has failed me. Or I have failed blogging. Whichever. I have had mad, passionate sexor with my phone many times and OMG I lurves it so much. I can read blogs very well with my phone but typing an actual post is not appealing. I might have to get over myself and start blogging on it. I have SO much to say to you all!!


*I got a new phone so I am updating contact information. If you know me in the real world, text me so I can add you. I chose not to do a data transfer so I am starting all new. Like a baby. Or a virgin. Or a baby virgin. EW. All babies should be virgins. Otherwise is just WRONG. Sorry! One should NOT post after taking night time pain meds. No filters. Bad Sam!

Merry Christmas (From My Front Yard)

Doesn't everyone need a hippo in a tutu dropping a deuce on your lawn?

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.

Rain, Rain, Go The Fuck Away

Note: It just rained. My body is fucking killing me. I took two darvocets. The following writing I cannot be held responsible for in any way including a lack of spelling skills, grammar issues, run-on sentences, and general fuckery of the English language.

1) Watching Bones and a character just used the term, "bump uglies." Seriously? Did I hear that right? On network television they used bump uglies? Also, spell check says that I spelled "uglies" right the first time but not the second or third and I cannot see the difference. Moving on...

2) Recently I have had a spambot issue on an old post of mine. The first time I was a little irritated, but it reminded me that a lot of my older stuff is still missing pictures from when I was in the teaching credential program and removed all of the photos that showed my darling face. So, put the picture back in and left it at that. Or so I thought. The fucking spambots came and commented again. And again. It seemed a little tacky to me. You see, the post is Posting From Colorado, where I announce that I buried my dad that day and show a picture of me at his grave. Seriously rude, right?

I finally realized that I can close comments on that post alone, did so, and now the problem is over. I think. You might be tempted to recommend that I turn on comment verification, but I already explained my issues with that ridiculousness.

The End

Odds And Rectums

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

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

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

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

FUCK YOU BLOGGER Picture FAIL BOAT

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

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

Halp!

I need your help, innernets. I am going to Austin, TX next week to visit my SIL. She is in need of support, yo. The kind that is found in adorable babies of awesomeness. I haven't flown with a baybee in more than a fucking decade so I am a little lost. I did not buy a seat for Egg so he is on my lap, and Chicken is staying home with TB. I am leaving Tuesday morning and returning Saturday afternoon. I tried to make my flights short, have a decent but not too long layover in Denver, etc. I've done this before with Chicken as a baby across the states (VA to CA) a zillion times, but I'm rusty.

I am flying United Airlines and according to their website it will cost me $15 for the first piece of checked baggage and $25 for the second if I prepay online. The third piece of checked luggage is $125, same with the fourth, and the fifth is $200. Holy fucking shit. REALLY? How does a parent with a child travel to a place that does not already have things like a stroller, car seat, a place to sleep that has bars for fuck's sake? Egg is too big to put in a dresser drawer at this point. I figure that I will need one big assed suitcase for clothes and such, plus checking the car seat. Two items. That leaves me without a stroller or a place for Egg to sleep other than in my arms. I have a co-sleeper that converts to a play pen that can be easily checked, but then I have to forgo A) a car seat or B) clothes and diapers.

Any suggestions? I really like wearing clothes but if I have to fly nekkid I will.

ETA: Husband of Awesome (AKA TB) found this: "When traveling with a child, either on a paid ticket or on your lap, checking car seats and strollers will continue to be free." on the United website for me.Between that and all your VERY HELPFUL OMGILOVEYOUALL comments I think I can relax a tiny bit. Just enough to freak out about baby + plane = wild card of possible doom but likely just plain fine and I need to just shutthefuckup already.

Questions Answered Via Stick Figure

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

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

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

But instead I got this:

"..."
"..."

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

Weeds

I believe with the accent it is called, "youngkey."

Bwahahahaha.

Have Cats Or A Sense of Humor?

Then go here. Are you scratching your head, too? Fucking bizarre shit, yo. Teddy Bear sent me the link and I had to share.

My MIL sent this to me today:

This picture was taken over the weekend and I hadn't seen it yet. It makes me smile.

Random Bits Of Titties

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back To School, Sam Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

"..."

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

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

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

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

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

Neighborhood Peeping Tom

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



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



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



And I bleed.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

Lazy Assed Blogger

Because I haven't posted this month and I'm a total fucking asshole I am posting an email exchange. Not even new, original material here at Sam's place. However, I have recently returned several emails that were months old, so there's that. And, Egg is six months old today. Can you believe that shit? I'm not sure how it happened, but I have a sitting up baby that interacts with you and plays with eats toys.

In other news, I am house sitting for someone right now. Or animal sitting? Which is the one where you have something furry squirming under your ass making a strangled mewing sound? That one. So the animal I am watching (in his home) is a cat. A terribly lovable cat that I call Rex Roofer. His first name is Rex, and to protect his anonymity I can't tell you his last name. But it isn't Roofer. So Rex Roofer is awesome. He loves me, and purrs and lets me pick him up and cuddle him. He's usually an indoor/outdoor cat, and even when he is outside he comes to me meowing and wanting love.

During this cat sitting gig he is stuck inside. This is pissing him off A LOT. I can tell this by two things: he pissed all over the kitchen rug, and he fucking attacked my left leg tonight when I tried to leave. When I say attacked, I don't mean rubbed up against me purring and meowing with a silky soft touch. I mean he ran up to my leg, grabbed it with his front paws, claws extended and into my flesh while his fucking mouth opened wide and he bit my fucking calf. With his teeth. Drawing a bit of blood in four places if you include the claw marks. Dude. It sucked. I am not wearing shorts over there again. Tomorrow I am wearing an old pair of jeans and possibly bringing Reina with me. Because that bitch hates him.
She sits at the window, waiting for him. When Rex is sighted, she runs from window to window, following him and losing her shit. One night he came up to the front door and I was dumb enough to open it. A white-hot ball of fury named Reina chased poor Rex Roofer's ass down my front walk to the grass and then I'm pretty sure she yelled, "And fucking stay off my lawn, motherfucker!" I'm not sure why she hates him so much, but she's an angry bitch that I wouldn't cross.

Now, for the email exchange that you have been anxiously awaiting for the last two minutes. Unless you're a slow reader. Then ten minutes. Whatever. The first email isn't very funny. But the second is, I promise.

Jenny,

I was reading Good Mom/Bad Mom because I read all of your writing that I can get my greedy little hands on when I noticed that you took a picture of your daughter and niece while at Rosa's. Which is AWESOME because I love Rosa's and had dinner there tonight. Except probably not at your Rosa's because I live in Southern California. You are probably saying, "Big fucking whoop" because there are about 15 Rosa's in Texas. However, there is only ONE Rosa's in California. And I eat there. My baby fucking loves their cups because of the colors and he knows that crack cocaine lives inside them. We call it Diet Coke but he knows better. I have one question for you, if you can answer (please oh please) during your *cough* free time? Okay, never mind. I am a douche canoe. But! I will pose the question and if you should choose to answer, it is up to you. But I will be dying to know the answer and the guilt just may consume you. GUILT! Here it is: Is the ice at YOUR Rosa's as wonderful as the ice at my Rosa's? Because everyone loves it.

Thank you in advance for your awesomeness,

Sam

PS If you were wondering, flexeril does make one loopy and impedes the writing process. Also, I think I should refrain from emailing while relaxed in such a manner.

---

The Response:

I actually traveled 9 hours to get to that Rosa's because I love it so
much and the ice is fucking AMAZING. It's like rabbit poop if the rabbits
were angels.

~Jenny

---

I've never connected rabbit shit to the ice at Rosa's but she got it EXACTLY right. The Bloggess is The man. Or The woman. Whatever. She's so The that she transcends gender.

Totally Lame Fanboy

Yesterday I convinced my dear husband to drive to Denver to see Dooce and get a copy of her new book signed. Because I am a total moron I gave Chicken the camera to take a picture of Heather. Uh. Yeah. Good job, kid. It was fantastic except for the part where I walked up to her, handed her my book all while being struck mute. So many of the ladies were all chatty and shit, "blah blah been reading your blog forever and I want to hump your leg please let me touch you inappropriately" and I was just MUTE. I believe I said "thank you" like a little fucking schoolgirl but that was it. I am lame, people. Lame and mute.

Jon was there with her, and he signed my book, too. I was smart(ish) enough to snap a few pictures of him myself.
When he noted that the inscription from Heather was To Sam he asked if that was my name. I said no, it was my blog name and that I couldn't post it with my real name and then felt like a total weirdo and thought about running out of there with my remaining shred of dignity possibly (but not likely) intact. Jon said that he really liked Sam as a girl's name but that SOME people didn't like it while nodding pointedly at Heather. He wrote,"Sam! You are not a man! Thanks for coming out, Jon." Then he muttered about blah blah man they knew named Sam and it wouldn't work and my brain just kept going OMG TALKING TO JON. And then we drove back to Vail. The End.

Poo

I bought this book today when I was at Barnes & Noble:

It has already made two members of my household happy and TB isn't even home from work yet. I am thinking of letting everyone in my family (and possibly Neighbor Lady) read it and then passing it on to a bloggy reader. Would anyone be interested? There is also a calendar that one could purchase that sounds delightful. I am easily amused.

Seriously? What The Fuck.

I am typing this one handed. Back in the day (Tuesday maybe?) this would have meant something dirty but this day it simply means that my other hand is holding a baby that just right now took a noisy shit. Dude is sitting next to me saying, "Duuuude. That was loud. He just shit himself on the fucking couch, didn't he?" Luckily TB just walked in from his Man Cave and happily offered to make Egg whole again. Or at least less pants full of poopy. Dude is still staring at me mournfully but now I am typing with TWO hands. Score!
The reason I am typing this post is not to explain the previous post. Nope! No time right now to discuss peeing in the shower. Instead, this is a bathroom post of another nature entirely. One that you cannot discuss with certain members of my family because they might get pissed (no pun intended) and maybe hurt and offended. But seriously? I cannot be silent any more about this situation. I CANNOT and I must bring it to you, my bloggy peeps for guidance and what the fuckness.

Let's say, hypothetically that you know some people. And those people just built a very nice custom home on a piece of property. The people are very nice themselves. But somehow, there is this bathroom issue that I cannot resolve in my head, hypothetically. The main guest bathroom-the one that you would use as a dinner guest but not as an overnight guest- has an issue. There is a toilet and a sink as per usual. I assume this to be for pee and poo and then washing hands, right? That is what I would do at someone's house if I were a guest for a few hours and I needed to use the bathroom. Maybe not poo but most likely pee, depending on need of course.

Now, when I use the restroom I wash my hands afterward. I use soap and water and then I dry off my hands on a cloth towel. Unless I'm in a public restroom and then it is likely a paper towel or stupid fucking air machine in which case I dry my hands on my pants in a strategic way to look like I didn't just dry my hands on my pants. Except! In this particular hypothetical bathroom there is no soap. And no towel, cloth or paper variety. Or air machine of doom. Nothing. Nada. No fucking cleansing/drying tools whatsoever. So what the fuckity fuck, peeps? Are you not meant to use the bathroom? Or just not meant to wash your hands? If that is the case, then shouldn't they just have not included a sink in the bathroom since they built the house and designed the plans just so? Please give me your guesses. I am at a loss. And there are wet spots on my pants from drying my not soaped hands on them.

Halp! Mah Chickens Haz Cox!!1!

Remember the chickens? And the chicken vs. bacon video I owe Kaila? Well we seem to have a bit of a problem. I've got too much cock in my house already, and now it seems that 2 out of 3 chickens aren't hens as much as fucking ROOSTERS. *sigh* I need my bloggy peeps to help me out on this one. Does anyone know of a person that would like two wonderful cocks? They are BFF's and spend all day side-by-side. But I can't have them making their cock noises at dawn every day. I'd be willing to drive them to their new home. I just can't cook them up and serve them to Chicken. We are keeping Beck and getting another hen to keep her company. She seems so sad, trailing after the two boys. GAWD. SUX. WAHHHH. Pictures for your amusement. Don't judge teh awesome backyard, it came that way and we are landscaping the front first. It's a jungle back there. A jungle full of COCK.

George!

Beck and Peck

Egg Has Arrived

I originally attempted to publish this post at 7:ooam Tuesday, January 20th. However, the server gods hated me and when I logged back in I found NOTHING. And no Sam's Stories. Nice, huh? What a day to have shit go bad wrong, when all of the innernets is waiting to hear the splendid news. Egg is here! The stats:

Baby: a boy Egg
Weight: 7lbs 7oz
Length: 18 1/4"
Born: 6:03am, Tuesday January 20, 2009

We will be hopefully returning home Wednesday morning (in just a few hours) and I will update as soon as I can. Everything went splendidly and I am so in love.

I Recommend Wearing a Pantiliner

Turn on the sound and probably keep mid-sized children away. Small children are okay. I think.

One of Sam's Friendly Letters

Dear Uterus,

You're doing a great job thus far! You are keeping Egg cozy and warm and for that I am appreciative. I assume he is well-nourished as well as provided ample space for kicking and shoving. I know you take a lot of abuse from him, especially during his active times of the day and night.

Normally, I would call this a job well done and leave it at that. However, I have a small issue that I'd like to address with you. Maybe we can come to some sort of agreement just between the two of us? How about this: I will try my hardest to avoid having a doctor cut into you in order to remove Egg from your grasp. You, in turn, will SHUT THE FUCK UP UNTIL I'M IN REAL, ACTIVE LABOR YOU STUPID WHORE. Because really, who wants to have contractions on and off ALL FUCKING DAY LONG, HUH? NOT FUCKING ME. I am over this shit. Either dilate my cervix all the way and let me push Egg out or chill the fuck out. Okay?

It's not that I don't like you. It's more like you are fucking annoying and it is hard to have a decent conversation with my husband when I am paying attention to the rock that my abdomen has briefly become. It's a little bit uncomfortable and I'm sure Egg is tired of having his poor nads squeezed half to death. Stop it. Also, I'm not ready to give birth yet. Tomorrow I am packing my bag and fixing my hair, but tonight? Not so much with the hair or even clean underwear (beyond the pair I am wearing). So fuck off. Give me a little more time to prepare for this shit.

Also? My baby shower is going to be on Saturday. And Chicken is flying into town on that day, too. I'd like to attend both events with my cooterus intact, thank you very much. No swollen labia, new baby, and bloody cooterus for this weekend. How about Monday? Monday is good for me.

Love,

Sam

Sidenote: TB says that currently my nipples remind him of Whoppers Malted Milk Balls but without the chocolate coating. I have no fucking clue what that means.

Snow?

One or more of you may have heard that there is a bit of white stuff blowing around California. Don't worry, I just got rain and cold. And stuck with the damn chickens in my laundry room. Thank goodness for plastic tarp because those fuckers shit a lot. A LOT OF SHIT. However, certain members of the Sam household have recently begun commuting to Antelope Valley, CA where it did snow today. Yes, that is a fucking LONG commute. He gets up at 3:30am every day. And now he's stuck there at least overnight. Don't worry, he's safe and sound (and sound asleep) in a comfy hotel but I am here ALL ALONE. Which totally rocks. I love me some alone time, as long as I'm armed and not in labor. So cross your fingers about the labor part, please n thank you. Since you seem to be all about the pictures, I thought I'd share some that TB snapped at his job site.

During the storm:

Before the storm:

According to the ever reliable news, it has been ten years since it has snowed like that in Antelope Valley. Good timing for TB to start working at the job site there, huh? Especially when his normal commute is 4 miles each way. Oops.

Sorry For The Interruption...

Someone forgot to renew my URL, therefore Sam's Stories took a shit temporarily. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere and your regularly scheduled programming will return momentarily. Or tomorrow. Whatever. In the meantime, enjoy this gallows humor from Teddy Bear found on Tree Hugger. Don't skip the fine print (click to make bigger, or go here).

Fuckin' Chicken

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



"Were you reading my BLOG AT SCHOOL?"

Chicken erupts with laughter.

Mother- FAIL
Child- WIN

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

Straw? What Straw?

I used to be a very physically capable person. Need something heavy hung on your wall? Call Sam. Need a jar opened? Call Sam. My girlfriends were fond of using my abilities, and it was nice to be a competent human being. Of course the last eight years with fibro means that I am stuck with my brains most of the time, when my brains work. Occasionally I forget that I am broken and my former self rears up and takes over my brain. Especially when my pride and menfolk are in the picture. My brain says, "Just because I'm a cute little thing with a big ole belly does NOT mean that I can't XYZ just as well as the next guy" and I'm off to the stupid races.

Today the stupid races involved a car, a bale of straw, and a lot of laughing. Remember the fast little convertible that TB and I purchased in May of this year? Well, shit happened and a faulty belt caused the engine to take a big shit. It's been sitting around waiting for a new engine so we can sell it as we only planned to drive it for six months. New baby + fast convertible = ridiculous. TB finally got the engine in and the car running last week, just in time for my car to eat shit. It worked out perfectly from a standpoint of not having to rent a car while mine is in the shop. It worked out less perfectly because I am a stubborn asshole.

Today I decided that the chickens desperately needed straw. Chicken and I headed to our local feed store where we found out that the straw is only sold in bales. Did that stop me? Nope. Did the gentlemen purchasing several bales of hay with his big truck laughing at me (in a kind way) stop me? Nope. Did my two door convertible stop me? Nope. I was fucking bound and determined to get my fucking bale of hay. Plus, the idea of it all was hilarious and Chicken and I love to have adventures. Watching two guys load a bale of hay into my car was the best thing that I've seen in a long time. And because I'm a giver, I have an early holiday present for you, my dear readers:

I drove with the top up to keep the straw from blowing all over the world, but the picture worked better with the top down. Also, I recommend putting the top down to assist with the removal of a bale of straw from your car. It is very helpful. I must say, I underestimated the huge fucking disaster of a mess that is caused by a single bale of straw. That shit was EVERYWHERE. Including down my shirt and in my pants. I would have more photographic evidence but I had to borrow a camera for this shot as my camera was in TB's truck and I was not about to show him what I did to his precious car. I wonder how many seconds it will take from the time TB reads this post until my phone rings. Hi Honey!

Jacking Off

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

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

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

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

Snippet

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

Award Winning Parenting

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

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

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



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

---

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.

Is Being A Moron Genetic?

I don't like to bash my husband, because he is a kind and loving man. That being said, am I about to (in two months or so) give birth to a fucking moron? Because Teddy Bear just brought up spending the day at the race track next month, when I will be just about 8 months pregnant. This will entail a 3+ hour drive each way, and then hours in between spent in a SPEEDING FUCKING CAR ON A RACE TRACK. He was concerned about my hips being too uncomfortable to sit in a car all day. Here is where I say: "ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS??!!"

Please tell me, am I being pregnant and fussy or is he out of his fucking mind? If it is the latter option, how about leaving comments that I can use to explain to him the TOTAL FUCKING INSANITY that he is contemplating. He doesn't see how it is any different than having a child in the car while on the track. To which I say: "OMFG no KIDS IN THE CAR AT THE RACETRACK!!!" I need a drink. Or twelve. Deep breaths, Sam. Deep breaths.

Update: TB found this onesie at ThinkGeek. Awwwww...how cute. I'll keep him. For now.

Nekkidness

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

Chicken's You Tube Pick

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

Chicken Writes

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

---

"Squirrel is My Name"

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

By Chicken

Twitter

So, let's say that you finally join the ranks of fellow Twitter people after thinking about it for a long time. At some point you are talking with a certain someone in your life and they remark that they twittered for about five seconds once upon a time. Hmph. It feels kind of weird that they never told you, but whatever, right? You stew on it off and on because you're hormonal and why the fuck would they not tell you about it?

Then you are looking at Twitter and trying to find if a certain person twitters when you come across the other person in that person's twitter feed. Fuck this is becoming a pain in the ass to understand, huh. Let me spell it out clearly:

• Teddy Bear was on twitter.
• I was looking for the wife of one of TB's friends and found TB's twitter URL.
• Apparently he twittered in January, April, and May of this year.

This seems like a bit more than a five second jaunt to me. He twittered long enough to follow two people. Neither of those people were his WIFE. Now, he didn't do anything wrong, per se. Just enough to make me feel weird and unhappy. Am I being totally hormonal or should I be a little put out by this? Hmph.

Oh, I forgot! He has also started a blog before without mentioning it to me. I didn't find out until he commented on my blog under that name accidentally and I said "WTF?" He said that he wanted to determine whether he would stick with it before telling me. I don't know if he stuck with it. I don't keep tabs on things like that because I feel like he should tell me if he wants me to know. But he should want me to know, right? Being the wife and all? I'm cranky, can you tell?

Unfriendly Letter

Dear Ants,

Fuck you. I tried to be nice to you, to share the world with you, to understand your plight. When you came into my home initially I gently encouraged you to leave with kind words and gentle phrasing. I moved the cat food to a place where you would not be so tempted to steal from Dude and Reina. I moved my trash can into the backyard so that you could take what you needed and then move onto trashier homes. I then moved my recycling can to the backyard as well. Then I scrubbed the ever-loving fucking shit out of my kitchen. I moved the cat food dishes again after scrubbing them clean. Then I moved the big bag of cat food to the garage when I noticed that you were curious about it.

Then you invaded both bathrooms searching for tidbits of this and that. You found nothing but still you roamed. Then you fully invaded my kitchen, my shiny clean kitchen without so much as fucking crumb laying about the counters. You found nothing but still you persisted. Then you got into the big bag of cat food in the garage. The fucking thirty dollar bag of cat food that costs more than gold because precious fucking Reina needs special tummy food so as not to explode fecal matter all over herself and others. I bagged up all the cat food in ziploc bags because who fucking has a tupperware container that big?

You continued to storm about my home. Never concentrating on any one area because MY HOUSE IS FUCKING SPOTLESS YOU ASSHOLES. Today I lost my shit when I found that you busted into one of the ziploc bags of cat food. As you ran over my fucking feet I had to find containers to hold the cat food and keep you the fuck out of it. Have I mentioned to you that I have moved the bowl of cat food so many times I forget where the fuck it is? What about the fact that the cat food bowl is now tupperware and right after the cats eat I have to put a fucking sealed lid on that motherfucker to keep you sons of bitches out of the fucking food? Try doing this all day and night as Dude whines pitifully and Reina is too damn stupid to find the food for fuck's sake. By the way, I hate you.

Today's cat food incident really fried my ass. You know what changed me from semi-sane person to holy fucking terror? When I realized that the huge, four dollar, OPEN bag of dog food (for strays and lost puppies I find) was sitting in the garage five feet away from the cat food bag untouched. You parade around my house like you fucking own the place searching for fuck only knows, eat my cats' food and then ignore the dirty cheap dog food. It's on motherfuckers. I am killing every last one of you assholes.

Fuck you,

Sam

Boobage

After I posted a letter to Lefty, there was instant cooperation for about a week. Then she began again, with renewed vigor. Monkey told me that wearing a sports bra might help and holy fuck it worked. The only flaw in the plan is that when in the wee hours of the morning you get tired of wearing a damn bra and throw it to the floor it is less effective. The sports bra has to actually be worn on the body and not just in the general vicinity of the boobage to curb leaking.

This morning I got up and Lefty felt a bit damp. I pulled back the covers and took a peak. Sure enough, a great big drop of milkishness was sitting there just daring me to move. Until this point I had yet to see any leakage directly from the source. Lefty preferred to leak on the sly, dampening shirts and sheets but never getting caught in the act. I stared in amazement and then the drop rolled onto the Great White Expanse that is my breast, immediately followed by another drop appearing on the horizon. Panicking (what? I just woke up from not very many hours of craptastic sleep!) I asked Teddy Bear to get me something to staunch the flow.

He returned with tissue, dried off my breast and then put the tissue over my nipple with thumb and forefinger as if he was blowing a nose. He looked at me expectantly until I made the appropriate nose-blowing sound and then he was satisfied. If it helps the visualization of me blowing my nipple, I have provided this picture (NOT my nipple) to illustrate the fact that my nipple was in fact erect at the time. I am sure this lent itself to the nipple-blowing process.

Now I have a dumb question: What, exactly is Lefty leaking? Would it be considered colostrum or milk or something else entirely? Maybe unleaded gas? Because that would rock.

Random Snippet

Sam: I am going to work on a project.
TB: A project? What kind of project is that?
Sam: The kind where I pull down my pants and try to push poo out of my butthole.

Overloaded

My brain is done and my hateful allergies stuffing up my head are only serving to further fry the few remaining operable brain cells. Fuuuuuck. There is so much going on right now that I really need to take a xanax, smoke a bowl, drink a beer, or fuck my brains out to let out a little of the pressure. However, my current condition means that the first three are prohibited and the last one just doesn't sound like very much fun. I'll have to make due with blogging for the moment I suppose. Dammit.

First of all, Chicken is attending a new school this year. The middle school he was attending failed miserably in a number of areas in my opinion and I was not sending him back to that place. I found a new charter school locally that seems to fit perfectly with my wants and Chicken's needs. Maximum enrollment is 150 students 6th-8th grade and class size is less than or equal to 25 students. The interior of the building is not completed, therefore yesterday class began at a local park. The students took a field trip to the library, parents and students had a potluck lunch, and everyone got acquainted with each other. Not a big deal if you are a normal human being and like other people. For me, it was a stretch but I am proud to say that I socialized all day and mostly did not make an ass out of myself. Chicken had a blast and is looking forward to the first real day of school on September 2nd. He has an independent study contract to work on until then and is not appreciating the workload. I think it is good for him.

Next, we are buying a house. We've completed negotiations and are waiting for the underwriters to find new and unusual ways to ass fuck us. We are expecting to close escrow by mid September. In the meantime, we have a few home improvement projects to worry about. Namely, the issue of doorknobs. Oh, and carpet and paint and grass. Maybe bushes? Epoxy the garage floor. Replace a door and closet doors. Find a gas dryer as ours is electric. Perhaps a microwave? GAH. The list manageable but daunting, and my concerns are petty but pressing. For example: how do I choose a color to paint my bedroom when in the near future we are buying a bigger bed and therefore a new duvet cover? I don't want to be completely neutral and boring but I don't want to repaint in a year or less. How does one figure this out?

Then comes the carpet and the hard floors. We want carpet in the bedrooms and hard flooring in the living room. The dining, kitchen, and baths are all nicely tiled. I have no clue about flooring. None. Not a fucking clue if you paid me to find one. I don't know what is good, bad, or indifferent. I am hoping that Teddy Bear can field this one and I can play the girl part and say, "Oh that's pretty or ugly or blah."

Then I started looking at paint for Egg's room. Chicken can pick his own paint, but I am fairly sure the baby is screwed out of an opinion at this point. I drew a complete fucking blank. The colors started to swirl and I just wanted to wait until much later to even think about the decision. Teddy Bear filled my arms with brochures and samples and I staggered to the car. Guess what I found?
How fucking cute is that? Now, I'm not married to Baby Einstein or Pooh Bear but the butter yellow, soft blue, and brown have me swooning. The picture isn't the best so you'll just have to imagine the gloriousness of it all. Please tell me everything will fall into place as easily as this. Please? Because being knocked up, a new school for Chicken, buying a house, moving, and putting a fuckton of work into the new house seems like a lot of work. Can't I just bake cookies naked and call it a day?

House Hunting Tips 101-599

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Engineer's Guide To Cats

If you happen to love engineers and cats, this YouTube video is for you.

Funnay

I flash Teddy Bear my nether region and shout: "Look at mah underwear!"

His reply: "Oh zexy. They have vagina print on them."

I was wearing underwear. Until I sneezed several times and peed mahself a little. Dammit. I need Depends.

Chicken Says

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

and then he hands me this:

Letter To My Left Tit

Dear Lefty,

I understand that you are looking forward to the day that you can provide sustenance and comfort to a baby. Nursing can be a rewarding experience. What I don't understand is your desire to prove your ability at this point in time. Yes, you are the overachieving tit. You are bigger than your right counterpart. Congratulations on that accomplishment. However, I do not currently have a need for milk. My shirt is not thirsty and becomes cold and slightly miserable when wet. Let me remind you that I am expecting the baby to arrive in early 2009. It is currently August of 2008. I understand that calculating time is not your greatest strength, so let me make this completely clear for you.

STOP IT. TOO SOON. NO NEED MILK NOW.

Love,

Your body

Busted!

Update: You must read TB's comment.

I opened the microwave today to a shocking discovery. Instead of the sparkling white and clean interior that I saw yesterday afternoon, I was treated to this horror show:

My husband KILLED the microwave. This looks suspiciously like the taco meat, refried bean, and cheese mess that he heated up for Chicken.

TB "cleaned" the kitchen after dinner last night. I think he missed a spot or twenty. What the fuck?!

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.

Not A Random Event

Remember the Lenscrafters technician that asked me about IVF last week? I had decided that her comment was a random event and that she was a perfectly normal human being (relatively speaking). Then I saw her again today. She was adjusting my glasses when Chicken noticed an interestingly shaped glasses case. We commented that it looked like a pill. Ms. Technician stating that in her opinion it looked like a suppository. I made a super subtle motion (pointing down to the cooterus area and then up again) to Chicken to explain what a suppository was so he could keep up with the story that was unfolding. I quietly explained that it was a medicine thing, not a fun thing.

Ms. Technician went on to state that as a child she had terrible tummy pain that was not helped by oral remedies and that she had to turn to suppositories to alleviate the issue. It was tramatic for her she said. Uh...er...um... Thankssomuchbyenow!

Don't get me wrong, she was very nice and I was not in the least offended. Chicken's face was so red from laughing and shock that I grabbed a mirror for him. The conversation made our day. As we walked out the door, I said to him, "I am SO blogging this."

Sniff And Switch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pictures, Because I Care

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


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

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

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