Ever call your kid a hooker to her first grade teacher, on accident?
And then have to tell your husband, because he is the father of said child.
A father who very much loves his daughter and does not think she is a hooker. Who is not going to be too pleased with his spastic wife, who has fat fingers and is iPhone crazy, and is completely overly obsessed with Twilight and should probably be put in some sort of program or something.
Why do I even bother asking? Nobody does that but me.
And just so you know. I don't think my child is a hooker.
Ever walk into a room and think, maybe I shouldn't be here.
Like maybe, you felt a little uncomfortable about something you saw?
Or maybe you were at the mall, Burger King or somewhere, and you saw two teenagers totally mugging down and you thought, Ugh. That has got to be gross. But you just kept looking because it was kinda fascinating in the most horrifying National Geographic type way?
So you stare because your eyeballs have been locked into a dead on glare, in which they can no longer move to the left nor the right until you figure out what in the world she is doing with her tongue.
If you poke him, he jiggles a little, but only a little.
He wears this sad little pouty look on his face, and his jaws droop down like Deputy Dog. When he opens his eyes, he barely opens them into these tiny little razor slits.
A.) I don't want my husband to kill me
B.) You might be tired of me moaning and whining
C.) I'm tired of me moaning and whining
D.) When your life flashes before your eyes, it isn't an experience you want to relive over and over again for long lengths of time
First let me say, I lurv my husband. I don't just love him. I lurv him. That's like love to the infinite degree.
Secondly, I know I created this beast, with too much talk about girl power. It's all my fault. I deserve what ever should befall me.
This is me airing my dirty laundry. Well, not the dirtiest laundry. Not my unmentionables. Just the stuff that needs a quick rinse. And I'm doing it anonymously for the sake of non-innocent parties.
Dear Anonymous,
I am very, very, very, mad at you.
Maybe I shouldn't use the word "mad". My mother says "mad" is for dogs. And I'm not the dog in this scenario. Not that I'm saying there is a dog in this scenario. But if there were, it wouldn't be me.
I've been wanting to tell you for sometime now, but I couldn't find any food to adequately display the feelings that I have for this song.
When I hear it, I turn up the radio really loud.
I ignore my children. If my children continue to talk to me whilst I play my hymn, I turn it up even louder, and sway my hips harder.
If they still continue to talk, I take drastic measures. I quickly jerk my head in their direction, shoot fire lasers from my eyes, and blow icy breath on them that immediately freezes their sad little bodies and momentarily handicaps them from speaking.
He was so in love with me. Whenever we were apart all I wanted to do was be with him. To stroke his hair. To feel his arms around me. To feel his breath against my neck.
When he walked, he had a swagger. And his chest was HUGE and muscular. The shape of his back was CRAZY-RIDICULOUS. Broad at the shoulders and ripply huge hunks of muscles all down his back.
But. . . . . .
He had Jon Bon Jovi's Hair. What do you think that means?
Boy that Mr. Woo is a fat mug of Hot Chocolate Banana Smoothie.
I don't think I need to elaborate.
Hot Chocolate Banana Smoothie
Ingredients:
2 cups milk, microwaved until hot
1 banana
Ovaltine or Chocolate Syrup (per package instructions ~ about 6 TB Ovaltine or 4-6 TB Syrup)
Dash of Nutmeg
Dash of Cinnamon
Directions:
In a blender, combine hot milk, banana, ovaltine/chocolate syrup, nutmeg and cinnamon. Blend.
There is pee in clothes and in places I dare not mention.
Pee, Pee, Pee.
This is the reason I hate to do the laundry.
I avoid it like the plague.
I have even considered decorating my laundry room in the theme of Twilight - New Moon (my fave book), just so that I can bear to walk into that room bravely and do my duty.
But alas, not even that sweet nugget of Edward Cullen can convince me to walk bolding and turn on that blasted machine.
And now my mother has come, and like all good mothers's, great mother's, nay Stellar Mother's that rival the greatest humans that have roamed the earth, my mother has caught me up on my laundry.
So what, you say?
I HAVE 4 FREAKIN' KIDS, AND IT'S A LOT.
A WHOLE LOT OF CLOTHES.
Especially for someone who originally didn't do much laundry.
Originally? Who orginally does laundry? You know what I mean.
Anyway, I'm swamped and overloaded and now, I'm caught up.
And this my sweets is the reason why I have not blogged for 997 days. Sorry. I've missed you. But now I'm back, fully tomorrow, with a lovely little recipe that will knock your socks off. But for now, I'm going to go dance like I'm "Dumb, Dumb, Dumb, Dumb, Dumb, Dumb." Until "I'm numb, numb numb, numb, numb, numb."
Cause Kesha is a genius (in Crazy Land - which is where I live), and she must have been writing this song just for me, and all other individuals who find great achievement in clean laundry and dancing like they're dumb.
Peace out peeps. You're all superstars. You gotta be who you are.
