That Person

Don't be that person.

That flaming, empty-headed retardando who has to call out his/her reaction to abso-fucking-lutely everything in a movie. Yes, we all know you're there. You're a person and you want attention. STFU. It is not our job to give it to you, or hear your stupid incessant "oh's" and "oh my gosh's" and stupid little commentaries, "his tools!"

That said, I enjoyed "There Will be Blood." In spite of the, yes, the cunt, beside me. I used the c-bomb. One of the scenes had me laughing so hard I was crying, another made me so uncomfortable I got up to pee, and not just because I needed to.

Highly recommended.

AB went to the dentist today. She did so well. No cavities. Yay!

No Excuse

So lame, so lame. YouTube videos are the blogger's lazy day, and I apologize profusely for doing this to you.

That said, my new favorite band is Breaking Benjamin. Enjoy.

Campy Cheesiness

We went to a birthday party last night. At Medieval Times. I have so many snarky comments to make about it that I'm oozing at the seams.

Utter madhouse to get there. Huge crowds, lines. Chaos. They did my oh so favorite thing, lined people up for pictures as you tried to get in. Grrrrr, god damn I hate that. We blew past, got our burger King hats with our color on them, met up with our friends, and I tried to be cheerful. Amongst all the excited rednecks. The glass of wine helped. A lot. We waited for an hour and a half to get into the arena, wandering around and spending an assload on a princess hat for AB. To match her princess dress.

Did I mention that?

She wore her special princess dress. Nary a soul that we passed didn't awwww at her. So. Cute.

They called us. We filed in. Sat down. Waited. They brought us soup as the show began. AB was so good for the whole thing, several hours. She ate lots of chicken, lots of rib meat, a little garlic bread, and half of her apple turnover. She and R had the best time, she was so sweet, really got it, we all cheered and screamed and hoorayed and honestly?

We all had a fucking amazing time.

So. Lame.

But there it is. It was great. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.

We spent the night at our friends' house and AB was so good, she went to bed with no problems whatsoever. Such a good girl. We stayed up and talked to our buds until after 1 a.m. about blow jobs and homeschooling. We finished after breakfast the next day, minus the BJ talk. It was a lot of fun.

Happy Birthday, Eric.

On another topic, AB has started using the word "appropriate." Appropriately, of course. Most of the time, anyway.

"Milk is appropriate to have with dry crackers."
"This dress is appropriate to shake hands."

Great weekend. God dammit, is it time to go back to work already?

No, Baby! Ike Loves you, Baby!

Not that I'm short for blog fodder or anything, but you don't want to hear about the (full) weekend we have planned with birthday parties and sleepovers and lots of trying to not think about work.

When I saw this, so many ideas flew through my head that I had to act upon them. Pistols left the following comment:

"I'm just not ready for our relationship to be in that place, you know? Especially since I hear you're out of practice in certain things."

Aw, Pistols baby, nah, baby! Goofy loves you, Pistols! Don't shoot me down so fast, gives me another chance, baby! Don't believe what that other man says, baby! It's lies, all lies!

Two quick facts, to set the Pistols straight.
1) I give aural every day. Constantly. Love aural.
2) I can get oral anytime I want. Anytime. So marriage doesn't kill that like you think (another comment, go dig for it).

And, last but not least.

Thanks, R, for cock-blocking me.

AGAIN!!

Insta-Fodder

My husband left the following comment on my previous post. First you can read it, then I will set him and you straight. This is an all out smackdown, motherfuckers.

"Well, she left out the part where it took her an hour and four Apple martinis to get through it. I know I was impressed, sitting there watching it... and watching... and watching.

A and I, we're a good pair. She eats like a Hummingbird, not a lot in each bite but over the course of a day it fills her up. I eat like a wolf, bolting down the still twitching kill before any of my brothers can get a bite.

So that leaves lots of time for me to deliver lectures on philosophy and current events over the sounds of her dainty munching.

On the crayfish, A tried to suck the heads but she had forgotten how. What's that phrase? That's what she said!"

Upon first read you might think that is clever or funny. It is neither. Let me clear some things up here.

"Well, she left out the part where it took her an hour and four Apple martinis to get through it. I know I was impressed, sitting there watching it... and watching... and watching."
What he doesn't know:
It was only three martinis. Get your facts straight, retardando.
What you don't know:
He never just watches. Always with the running his fucking mouth.

"A and I, we're a good pair. She eats like a Hummingbird, not a lot in each bite but over the course of a day it fills her up. I eat like a wolf, bolting down the still twitching kill before any of my brothers can get a bite."
What he doesn't know:
The reason we're a good pair has nothing to do with eating and everything to do with him doing everything I tell him to do.
What you don't know:
He has no brothers. Only sisters, and they don't eat.

"So that leaves lots of time for me to deliver lectures on philosophy and current events over the sounds of her dainty munching."
What he doesn't know:
I never hear a word. Remember the blank football-stare? It's like that but with the addition of a conversation between the voices in my head.
What you don't know:
He never talks about philosophy or current events, from the bits I do hear. The only two things he talks about are 1) Foosball and 2) AB.

"On the crayfish, A tried to suck the heads but she had forgotten how. What's that phrase? That's what she said!"
What he doesn't know:
When I pretend to not know much he expects little.
What you don't know:
Golf ball through a garden hose, baby.

In actuality I got quite a kick out of his comment. Several. I kicked him several times. Then I laughed. And he did have time to clean the house, pick up AB, and make her dinner in between thinking this up so I guess he's offa my shit list.

Oh God damn it. Does this mean I have to fuck him now?

Gah!

Happy (Early) Valentine's

AB went to her Grandparents' this weekend. We dropped her off on Friday afternoon, had a wonderful early dinner with everyone, then went to run a few errands before returning home. With two free nights ahead of us. It was blissful. Saturday was a shopping day with my bud, where she actually wore me out with all the walking and the strolling and the giving of my flawless and always on target fashion advice.

Hey, shut up.

Then R and I went to dinner at this relatively new seafood place just down the road. I ordered several Appletini's (stfu) and went right for the New Orleans Seafood Pot. Because why the fuck not? Why should one settle on one kind of seafood, or two even, or even three for fuck's sake, when you can, for the low low price of $35, have four. That's right people, four.

It arrived. It was the size of a family-style casserole. There were enough crayfish to stun a man, enough crab to kill a smaller-stomached human, more shrimp than I thought I could bear, and tons upon tons of fresh steamed mussels.

Did I eat it all? No.

I left a handful of crawfish.

Those things are kinda creepy anyway.

Happy early Valentine's day, R.

The Ritual

It is dark; night. Her lamp glows softly in her room. I approach quietly, noting any books or other hard objects in her bed and removing them. I brush her hair out of her face and kneel at her bedside. Depending on my mood I might smile down at her and kiss her cheek softly. Sometimes I take her completely in my arms and press my cheek to hers. Sometimes my eyes leak as I notice how huge she is getting, how tall.

My tears sometimes drop onto her temple as I stare at her face, slack in its repose, lips open, breathing heavily, unspeakably beautiful.

I smile.

And exit her room to find repose of my own.

Super Effing Bowl XLII

God damn Patriots.

Aaaaanyway, as you might guess the Super Fucking Bowl (SFB) is a big deal in our household. We do stretches and whatnot just to warm up for it. We warm up our voices with some synchronized yodeling. We practice our fist-pumps (Woohoo!) and fist-bumps (All riiiiiight!). We plan a meal of greasy food which can be easily consumed in front of the boob tube. We get out the camera(s) to snap a photo of AB with this year's SFB logo.

This year did not disappoint. We shopped for the super yummy crusts and bought all the ingredients to make our own pizzas. R did all the work, natch, as I abhor kitchen-themed duties much as I do bedroom-themed ones. (Just kidding.) Let me just tell you what this entailed: he painted olive oil over the crusts before preparing them.

Any cooking which involves the word "painting" is going to be fucking delicious. Unless you're talking about painting the walls red from a sliced finger. That's never delicious.

And he delivered. Sausage and black olives for mine, AB's with black olives only, and R's with pepperoni and chicken. I coated mine even still with crushed red pepper because I know of nothing that red pepper doesn't make more yummilicious.

The baby e*trade commercials were the best. "Really underestimated the creep factor." Bwahahahaha! I think there was a game played, or something, not sure about that. Before it started I asked R: "Which team are you rooting for?" He gave me some background season information which I tuned out with a pleasantly distracted look on my face and pulled "Giants" out of his sentences. I turned to AB: "Hey AB! We're rooting for the Patriots! The guys in the dark jerseys and the silver hats. Say, 'Goooooooooooooo Patriots!'" (Repeated in small AB-voice: "Goooooooo Patriots!")

It was awesome. And you know the best part, friends and lovers?

The football season is over.

Fist-pump! Fist-bump!

Discovered While Running

Four miles today exhausted me. Am I still walking?

Either way, there is nothing like finding this kind of gem on the side of the road.

I mean, what could have been so emergent that you had to unload that monster in the car on the way to wherever? That you couldn't wait until you got into the privacy of your own home?

Did some diminuitive dude decide to decorate his dockers with a decidedly decadent dick?

Did a horny honey have a hankering for a hunk of hardness in her Hummer? Or a hummer for her hairless honeypot?

I should stop now. But seriously.

Tell me how you imagine this package came to reside on the side of the road.

Delivery

As promised. I'm having a crappy day, so no charming accompanying text.

Told you. Way too low cut. Those Frenchies.