Okay! That's it! With the celebration of FB's birthday (being today...I was a made a mommy 12 years ago today. Hard to believe. I don't feel 12 years older. And he looks 15. Whaddya gonna do?) the holiday food train has come to an official and complete stop. The leftover birthday cake will be looked at longingly and sniffed heartily, but no longer will pass down my gullet. The 4 gallons of ice cream sitting barely touched in my freezer will be touched by the children alone. (Why four may you ask? Because I was in the middle of the holiday food carte blanche that I extended to myself and they were buy one, get one free. There were three flavors I HAD to have and you can't buy three gallons of ice cream when it's BOGO...you have to get four. My logic is infalliable; don't try to debate me on this.) So have I spoken, so shall it be. Well, that's the plan anyway. I've indulged to the point my body is going to demand broccoli at knife point.
29 December 2010
28 December 2010
I was tooling around Netflix adding more movies I have no time to watch to my queue when it struck me that Paul Walker is a fine looking man.
Those are some awful purdy blue eyes, and I really don't care that his gorgeous teeth are capped. It helps that he also looks like this:
Definitely would be hard pressed to kick that out of bed for eating crackers. Of course, my heart still belongs to Mike Rowe as long as we're talking about impossibilities. I don't know if anyone can match him for sheer snark and sarcasm. Not to mention I wouldn't get CPS called on my ass for grabbing his.
Has anyone noticed that Steven Seagal, renaissance man that he is, is still making movies despite working for a Louisiana Sheriff's department for the last 20 years? Or was filming up until 2009? Wanna know why you don't? Because, although he is a great shot, speaks fluent Japanese, and is a master in several martial arts, let's face it; the man still can't act. Wooden is an adjective that comes to mind. Not that I still don't watch nearly everyone of his movies when they come on the tube, but still. Can't act. And he thinks he's the recreation of a Lama or something. (No, not llama, Lama. He's not that nuts.)
I'm sitting here in a post holiday funk, waiting for pizza to arrive and for a phone call from the groomers stating that I can come fetch Knucklehead McSpazatron and Crackhead. They have been there since 1300. Apparently, although I had an appointment, it was walk-in day at Petco and they are not allowed to turn away walk-ins despite running out of kennel room, leashes, tie rings to clip said leashes to, and a 4-5 hour wait time for scheduled appointments to be done. I heard all this at check in. It seems the natives were a trifle displeased with management today. So now I'm sitting next to my cell phone, wondering if it is going to ring to come fetch them the same second that the pizza arrives, or if they can't get Crackhead cleaned up well enough because of the tsunami of spittle he has invariably filled the boutique with. ( He tends to drool when nervous. Looks like a Saint Bernard when he really gets going.) As it is nearly 6 pm, I'm starting to wonder if I need to call to see if everything is alright or if they've forgotten my phone number. And I still haven't started on FBs birthday, which is tomorrow. Tree is still up, decorations everywhere, and family room a shambles from the daylong Xbox fest he has indulged with his friends over WiFi. I just have to get through his birthday shenanigans and I am starting the "Campaign of Fitness." I let myself have WAY too much leeway this holiday season, and with still not being able to run or put a lot of stress on my knee, that has resulted in some dastardly after effects. Yeesh. I'm going to have to cover all the mirrors in the bathroom in shame.
Has anyone noticed that Steven Seagal, renaissance man that he is, is still making movies despite working for a Louisiana Sheriff's department for the last 20 years? Or was filming up until 2009? Wanna know why you don't? Because, although he is a great shot, speaks fluent Japanese, and is a master in several martial arts, let's face it; the man still can't act. Wooden is an adjective that comes to mind. Not that I still don't watch nearly everyone of his movies when they come on the tube, but still. Can't act. And he thinks he's the recreation of a Lama or something. (No, not llama, Lama. He's not that nuts.)
I'm sitting here in a post holiday funk, waiting for pizza to arrive and for a phone call from the groomers stating that I can come fetch Knucklehead McSpazatron and Crackhead. They have been there since 1300. Apparently, although I had an appointment, it was walk-in day at Petco and they are not allowed to turn away walk-ins despite running out of kennel room, leashes, tie rings to clip said leashes to, and a 4-5 hour wait time for scheduled appointments to be done. I heard all this at check in. It seems the natives were a trifle displeased with management today. So now I'm sitting next to my cell phone, wondering if it is going to ring to come fetch them the same second that the pizza arrives, or if they can't get Crackhead cleaned up well enough because of the tsunami of spittle he has invariably filled the boutique with. ( He tends to drool when nervous. Looks like a Saint Bernard when he really gets going.) As it is nearly 6 pm, I'm starting to wonder if I need to call to see if everything is alright or if they've forgotten my phone number. And I still haven't started on FBs birthday, which is tomorrow. Tree is still up, decorations everywhere, and family room a shambles from the daylong Xbox fest he has indulged with his friends over WiFi. I just have to get through his birthday shenanigans and I am starting the "Campaign of Fitness." I let myself have WAY too much leeway this holiday season, and with still not being able to run or put a lot of stress on my knee, that has resulted in some dastardly after effects. Yeesh. I'm going to have to cover all the mirrors in the bathroom in shame.
25 December 2010
Castra Praetoria: Twas The Night Before Christmapocalypse
America's 1st Sgt is serving in Bahrain these days (yes, the same Bahrain as my Bardy Hardys!) and I just had to link to his Christmas posts. They speak to me in a way nothing else would at this time of year.
(Just roll over the sentence below. For some reason I can't get my links to highlight. Stupid links.)
Makes me weep softly into my pillow in gratitude.
Here's a little PSA he posted as well:
A man after my own heart. I too may be indulging in a zombie movie or two this Yuletide evening.
Merry Christmas my loves!
(Just roll over the sentence below. For some reason I can't get my links to highlight. Stupid links.)
Makes me weep softly into my pillow in gratitude.
Here's a little PSA he posted as well:
A man after my own heart. I too may be indulging in a zombie movie or two this Yuletide evening.
Merry Christmas my loves!
11 December 2010
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!! Thank Goodnes For The Kegels...
"And the cold pole feels good on my 'rhoids."
08 December 2010
Testosterone Poisoning Is Making My Son Retarded
The First Born has finally got his phone, DS, and computer privileges back after 2 long months. Now, had it been me who had lost the above mentioned electronics for not turning in my homework in an expeditious (or, really, AT ALL) manner, you can bet that I would be pretty diligent about getting my little ducks in a row. Not this yutz. Today's homework conversation went as follows:
Me: "Did you have homework to turn in today?"
FB: (Looking all around, mumbling incoherently and generally irritating me) "Not really."
Me: "What does that mean? You either did or you didn't."
FB: "Well, she....um...see....I didn't...um...."
Me: "SON, did you have homework last night?"
FB "Yes."
Me "Did you turn it in today?"
FB "No. She didn't ask for it."
Me: "When she gave you the assignment, did she tell you when it was due?"
FB "Yes."
Me "Was it due today?"
FB "Yes."
Me: *crickets* "Then you should have turned it in whether she asked you for it or not, because it was DUE TODAY."
FB: "Oh."
What makes this conversation most frustrating is that it is not the first, or even fifty-first time we've had the same conversation, only with minor variations.
I've been making peanut butter balls because it's time to make such things. I hate Christmas baking. You'd think that I'd enjoy it more since it only comes around once a year, but that is not the case. As with putting lights on the tree, I am a surly misanthrope until I get the bulk of this crap done. Seriously, some day, I'm just going to say, "Let's go to Caymans for Christmas" just so I can enjoy this stinkin' holiday. But my point was not to blather on about my Grinchly attitude. That is for another post. No, I'm still on the boy not being able to think his way out of a paper bag secondary to toxic testosterone poisoning. I was making said peanut butter balls (you remember them? I was talking about them right up there, see?), and dodging Labrador lips at the same time, because Crackhead hasn't yet figured out that I mean STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN when I growl it at him 25 times a minute. Unlike Knucklehead McSpazatron, who so obediently lies by the couch and eyes me like a vulture wondering about the sick lion. It was time to go get Spawn of Satan from the bus, so I said, "FB? I'm going to the bus stop; keep an eye on the dogs so they don't get the peanut butter balls." As I received assurance that he would guard the peanut butter balls like his own, I went to the bus stop, which is only about 500 feet from the house, by the way. I wasn't gone an eternity for the love of Mike! (Mike? Mike Rowe? *sigh*) SoS and I get back and the dogs are locked in the office with FB. Ingenious! I think. The boy is using his noggin to make sure that the PBBs are safe! Then I hear, "Mom? The dogs pulled the peanut butter balls off the counter, but it's okay; I put them back." I was greeted by a counter full of mushy, slushy, LICKED peanut butter balls. And that child thought everything was A-OK. I'm about to have him tested.
Me: "Did you have homework to turn in today?"
FB: (Looking all around, mumbling incoherently and generally irritating me) "Not really."
Me: "What does that mean? You either did or you didn't."
FB: "Well, she....um...see....I didn't...um...."
Me: "SON, did you have homework last night?"
FB "Yes."
Me "Did you turn it in today?"
FB "No. She didn't ask for it."
Me: "When she gave you the assignment, did she tell you when it was due?"
FB "Yes."
Me "Was it due today?"
FB "Yes."
Me: *crickets* "Then you should have turned it in whether she asked you for it or not, because it was DUE TODAY."
FB: "Oh."
What makes this conversation most frustrating is that it is not the first, or even fifty-first time we've had the same conversation, only with minor variations.
I've been making peanut butter balls because it's time to make such things. I hate Christmas baking. You'd think that I'd enjoy it more since it only comes around once a year, but that is not the case. As with putting lights on the tree, I am a surly misanthrope until I get the bulk of this crap done. Seriously, some day, I'm just going to say, "Let's go to Caymans for Christmas" just so I can enjoy this stinkin' holiday. But my point was not to blather on about my Grinchly attitude. That is for another post. No, I'm still on the boy not being able to think his way out of a paper bag secondary to toxic testosterone poisoning. I was making said peanut butter balls (you remember them? I was talking about them right up there, see?), and dodging Labrador lips at the same time, because Crackhead hasn't yet figured out that I mean STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN when I growl it at him 25 times a minute. Unlike Knucklehead McSpazatron, who so obediently lies by the couch and eyes me like a vulture wondering about the sick lion. It was time to go get Spawn of Satan from the bus, so I said, "FB? I'm going to the bus stop; keep an eye on the dogs so they don't get the peanut butter balls." As I received assurance that he would guard the peanut butter balls like his own, I went to the bus stop, which is only about 500 feet from the house, by the way. I wasn't gone an eternity for the love of Mike! (Mike? Mike Rowe? *sigh*) SoS and I get back and the dogs are locked in the office with FB. Ingenious! I think. The boy is using his noggin to make sure that the PBBs are safe! Then I hear, "Mom? The dogs pulled the peanut butter balls off the counter, but it's okay; I put them back." I was greeted by a counter full of mushy, slushy, LICKED peanut butter balls. And that child thought everything was A-OK. I'm about to have him tested.
07 December 2010
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