New Digs

Hey folks, I have officially moved over to my new fabulous site, and can be found here!

Signs of the Apocalypse.

Oh man.

I should have known I was in for a bad run when Tatiana Del Toro made it into the Top 36 last night, a blur of fuchsia lipstick, runny mascara, a hyena laugh, and sausage arms.

Plus, I noticed that my stairs have started creaking every time I ran up them yesterday.

Big fat cow? Check!

Anywhore.

I came home from a night of pineapple and green pepper pizza at my parents to find my house freezing.

I went down to the basement to check on the shiny new furnace we sold a kidney for last year, and by check on, I mean, see if it was making any noise, and then maybe poke it with the rusty screwdriver I left in the corner down there from when I threw it at what I thought was a giant bat with rabies, but totally turned out to be a black strapless bra.

Turns out...not ok.

2 feet of water.

Sump pump...no visable signs of life.

Baby swing, Baby bouncer, all baby paraphernalia...at the bottom of a murky brown lake, next to the skinny pictures of me from high school and the Ron Popeil Rotisserie.

Black strapless bra...quietly floating into the night, like One Eyed Willy's pirate ship at the end of Goonies.

Mother fucker.

So, after addressing that issue for a few hours by sitting on the steps sobbing into my leftover box of cashew chicken, muttering words like "priceless" and "irreplaceable" and "fuck" while my husband and dad sucked out water, I went upstairs at 1am to check on my sleeping boys, only to be greeted by a two year old covered in vomit.

Which made me puke, because I am a total sympathy puker, and that's how we roll.

So once that issue was cleaned up, we all fell asleep crying in our bed. My son because he felt like shit. Me because I no longer had any photographic proof of how hot my boobs were in high school.

So, I woke up this morning ready to face the day. A day of doctor appointments, and rubber boots.

But, all is not lost, folks, because I also come bearing wonderful news.

Starting Saturday, Valentine's Day, I am having a giveaway.

A wonderfully dirty and scandalous giveaway.

And, if that isn't hotter than the thought of me waddling up and down creaky stairs in knee high rubber boots, I don't know what the hell is.

Sweet Cheeks

Ok, this is a total Valentines Day must for me, ever since my gorgeous friend Jen introduced the concept to me, I have been hooked, and have whipped them up ever since.

Because what is sexier on Valentines Day than eating some hot ass cookies!?

Nothing.

Anywasted, they are an absolute blast to decorate with all your lushy girlfriends, and only get better looking the drunker you get.

Step 1: Roll out some store bought (or if you are a better person than me, some from scratch) sugar cookie dough.

Step 2: Using your heart shaped cookie cutter, cut out as many hearts as you can fit, re-roll left over dough, repeat.

Step 3: Using a knife (this step is reserved for the people not yet too tipsy to handle a weapon), cut the point off the bottom of each heart cookie.

Step 4: Bake as directed.

Step 5: Once cooled, pull out all your fun frosting accessories, and decorate!

Step 6: When they are all done, pull out your camera and proceed to take drunken obscene cookie pictures that only you will think are funny the next day as you scroll through your memory card with a total hangover, snickering at the shots of you accepting the dare to put glitter frosting on your real, non cookie ass, totally confused as to why the damn dog won't leave you the fuck alone the next day.

These cookies are magical.

And enough.

In March of 2005, I lost one of my dearest friends. My cooking buddy. My business partner. A girl who stood up for me on my wedding day, and spent the night before stuffed into bed with me as we giggled about weddings and babies and boys.

She was an artist, a singer, and my brother's fiance.

She died ten days after he asked her to marry him.

My voice still cracks when I say her name.

I still remember the day I had to watch my little brother carry her urn down the aisle of the church.

I remember what he was wearing, I remember the song that was playing when I got into the car to drive to the cemetery, I remember the rain.

It was too sad for even the sun that day.

It took me two days and the snot covered sleeves of three different sweatshirts to get through writing this post.

My Oma, my grandma, my uncle, acquaintances, friends of friends of friends, people I never had the chance to meet face to face.

I mourn them all the same.

I am still not numb to losing someone to cancer.

I still kiss the cheeks of my kids as they sleep, praying for their health and long lives. I scrutinize ever fever, every bump, every ear ache.

It's a hurt I want to be done feeling. A hurt I want everyone to be done feeling.

So, let's do that. Let's be done with this.

It takes drive, conviction, money and...sometimes hair.

Mad props to Jay from Halftime Lessons for his second annual participation in the St. Baldricks head shaving event to raise money for childhood cancer. I urge you to join me in supporting him and his cause, our cause, your cause.

I don't know a single person who isn't carrying around a story that still makes them cry so hard their insides shake.

This is a cause I am more than happy to voice and support.

Plus, it gets the whole floor pooping thing out of the immediate headlines.

Because with each passing day, I totally get more paranoid, man.

I don't need any revenge scat.

Will birth for food...or like, something else totally cool.

Four days since my last post?

Yikes.

I was just skimming someone else's blog roll (because you can tell tons about a person from the shit on her blogroll), and there I was, at the bottom, last post, 4 long ass days ago.

But, in my defense, I have been super busy doing grown up stuff...and by grown up stuff I mean buying crazy huge bras that contain letters no one should buy unless you are Divine, steam cleaning the fuck out of my carpet, working with a fab designer on a complete blog redesign, as well as switch over to the scary world of self hosting (you know, so I can curse, giveaway dildos and post soft core porn pics without the watchful eye of a higher blogger power), and, most importantly, I have decided to scale back my blogging and focus on birthing, full time.

Because, the thing is folks...I want a bigger house.

And loads of other free stuff.

But, most importantly...a big new house. With, like, tons of land. And a barn for horses. But, no ponds, because everyone knows zombies live in ponds and try to bite your toes.

Oh, and it can be anywhere really, but it'd be even awesomer if it could be someplace where I could adopt a sweet accent, so when I came home to visit everyone, they would think I am super exotic with my bad ass new accent.

So, let's be frank.

How many kids do I need to pop out to make this happen?

'Cause I am a super good pusher, and I am fucking awesome at naming things.

My only fear is ending up like my mom's one eye'd pug, Olive.

She had, like, three litters super close together, and then all her hair fell out and now her uterus drags on the ground.

But, then again, if I can have a bunch of kids, get my own show, and then get someone to purchase me and my brood a small estate somewhere, then, it would be ridiculous to assume that someone wouldn't quickly volunteer to hack off all my saggy skin and perk my boobs up free of charge.

Plus, out of complete boredom, my husband keeps emailing links to houses like this, and is all, listen, you need to start making waay more money, so we can buy a house like this. And I am all, doooood, I already told you, these eggs in my ovaries are like money in the bank, and if I just keep on popping out babies and writing about all the shit you tell me I am not allowed to write about, like your mom crapping on our floor, then I just know I'll make a million dollars.

Soooo......that's what I have been up to.

Sometimes life only figuratively stinks.

I have a love/hate relationship with karma.

On one hand, I am all about it rearing it's ugly fist when this old lady took the last Expectant Mother parking spot in front of Babies R Us the other day, and I was all, what the crap, you are old, not pregnant! Karma, you better go after this selfish bastard. But then Karma is all, listen, I have my own shit going on right now that is more pressing than making an old lady, who is 90 with a walker btw, slip on some ice for making you waddle 20 more feet to the door.

Even though, it was so totally farther than 20 more feet, and it was super cold that day, and I am carrying a fragile human life around, all that lady was carrying was a walker and a hip that probably wasn't even originally hers, anyways.

Times like that, karma is a bitch.

But, sometimes, sometimes, the universe throws you a bone, and evens the karmic keel on the people in your life who have been a little douchey to you in the past.

Like my mother in law, Janet. I can best describe my life with Janet as a whole lot of me not quite measuring up, panic attacks, sweaty palms, trying to impress, and then failing miserably.

It happens.

Not everyone has to love everyone else, right? Some of the best comedic stories are based on awkward in-law relationships, Everybody Loves Raymond, Dharma and Greg, Meet the Parents. Comedy gold.

So, when my in-laws come for a visit, like they did yesterday, my life gets a touch anxious. Lots of cleaning, shoving shit in the closets, and looking for long lost diapers. Heck, I even cleaned my carpet. I was in it to win it.

So, it was for that reason, I was sooooo thankful that when we all arrived to our house after a lunch out, that my mother in law was up in the bathroom when my father in law interrupted my husband and I gossiping in the kitchen, to announce our dog had had an accident of epic proportions on our living room.

Henry. What the fuck, man. I let you out 3 times before lunch, and we were only gone an hour!

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

First of all, I had already spent 3 hours cleaning that carpet, and the hell I was going to bend my swollen ass over in front of everyone, to clean up, what can only be described as, puddles of liquid poop, off the carpet. Luckily, my husband is a champ, and took one for the team as I ushered the dog out the door for the remainder of the visit.

20 minutes later, my Janet comes back downstairs.

Hey, who am I to judge, I can be in the bathroom for an hour, but it's mostly because I hide my magazines and taffy in there, and at least it gave us time to scrub and spray the crap out of our carpet.

But, something was amiss. She wasn't in her normal rich person slacks. She was in...um...my maternity jeans?

What the hell, she was definitely wearing my maternity jeans!

And, she goes on to announce that the most embarrassing thing had happened. She had come in the house and had to run right upstairs to the bathroom, as she had the worst diarrhea she had ever experienced, and it was literally running down her leg.

Ok, so aside from that statement being, well, disgusting, and shockingly odd coming from her expensively lipsticked mouth...it suddenly all came together in my head.

I looked at my husband.

He looked at me.

And, because we are so totally soul mates, he got the telepathic message I sent to him screaming...OH MY FUCKING GOD, YOUR MOTHER POOPED ON OUR FLOOR. SHE POOPED. ON OUR FLOOR.

As God as my witness, the woman took a shit on our carpet, and she has no fucking idea it even happened because she had run upstairs so fast.

So now what? Do I say something, like, Um hey, you may not have realized this, but in your haste to run upstairs, you crapped all over our clean carpet, and it's totally awkward that your son just had to spend 20 minutes scrubbing your poop off our floor, and poor Henry the pug has been yelled at and ostracized out back due to your inability to control your colon after a harmless turkey ruben?

Orrrr....do I be the bigger person, and realize, sure, it can be a little demeaning to have your authority constantly undermined, and your lifestyle routinely passed off as petty and not up to par, but hey...at least I didn't poop on her carpet?

I remember when I was in 3rd grade, and I was invited the birthday party of the boy who lived next door. I was one of the only girls there, and we were all in his basement playing hide and seek, and I was so super nervous because my biggest crush ever, Justin, was hiding behind a pile of boxes with me, so I was all giggly and looked super adorable in my new blue dress and white tights.

I had to pee super bad, but the hell I was going to give up my chance to be thisclose to Justin, plus, getting in and out of my tights was a bitch, so I held it, and after, like, 5 minutes of hiding, we got bored, and The Bangles as my witness, I had my first kiss behind those boxes. It was dreamy.

But, in all my excitement, I completely forgot to concentrate on holding my bladder, and I peed right there. On the floor. Next to Justin.

I didn't even give Justin a chance to scream out in disgust. I ran upstairs, grabbed my coat and ran all the way home crying in wet tights. My legs were chapped for a fucking week.

But, despite it being the most embarrassing thing to ever happen in the history of the Earth, no one ever spoke of it. It's like, it never happened.

Sure, Justin never tried to kiss me again, and the memory of my first kiss is forever tainted by the fact that I pissed on the shoes of the first boy who kissed me, but other than that, I was so grateful to have never been teased about the whole humiliating ordeal.

So, even though she makes me cry and feel horrible about myself, I'm not going to tell her she shit on our carpet.

But, I will always know in my heart that it happened.

Plus...it still totally smells like poop up in here.

My hips don't lie.

I don't know what my problem is.

I'm pregnant.

How is that I keep forgetting that when I go to do super important things like buy beer or kicking the ass of the lady in the make up aisle at Target for completely cock-blocking the mascara section. It is absolutely annoying, because the only make up I even wear/know how to apply is mascara and cherry flavored lip gloss. So, while I waited for-like-ever for her to make her selection, I noticed she had the most chin hair on a woman I have ever seen in my entire life. She seriously looked like a goat. And then it seemed silly she was taking so long and being so picky about mascara, when nobody with two working eyes would ever notice she was even wearing mascara because she completely looked like Col. Sanders.

Or like, after every fucking episode of Girls Next Door, I get this fabulous idea I want to do some racy half nude pictures, and my husband gets all huffy and grossed out about it because I am carrying his baby, which is funny, because despite my girth, he still thinks I am the fucking elastic woman in the sack, so apparently, I am only disgusting in print, but marginally agreeable to look at in bed.

Loser.

Oh, or when I am in Target, and I suddenly find myself in the middle of a life or death bathroom situation, and because I forgot I am in maternity pants, I literally almost crap myself as I fumble around for the fucking zippers and buttons that aren't fucking there.

I mean, maybe I am sidetracked by the fact that I am trying to get my sons to stop reaching into the tampon trash box like it's it's a God damn toy grab bag.

But, hello, I can't find my way out of a fucking pair of elastic pants!?

Then, there are times when I totally remember I am pregnant.

Like when I wake up feeling like someone spent the entire night drop kicking me in the crotch.

I know there is some perfectly magical scientific explanation for this, like how my hips are expanding to make way for a beautiful child of God, or some shit. But these days, I awake to a full bladder, and a waddle of shame to the bathroom feeling rode hard and put away wet.

I spend my days sitting on a frozen bag of peas...ok, not peas, because peas are disgusting, and I don't keep healthy frozen shit in my freezer, so what I am really sitting on is a roll of frozen Thin Mints.

Or, like yesterday, when I decided I wanted to lounge around in my husband's sweatpants all day, except they didn't even fit me because I am a huge puffy monster, and instead of coming downstairs to a hug and reassurance, I come down to the news that Elisabeth Hasselbeck is pregnant, again.

And, like all her other adorable pregnancies where she miraculously ends up "losing weight" which is, like, so weird because she totally "eats tons of garbage" like us normal women, me and my 30 pounds of pregnancy weight gain will completely hate her.

So, um yeah, me and my double chin are on Team McMommy, and out of solidarity, here is my photographic proof.

Women don't sweat after 17 hours of epidural-less childbirth, they fucking glisten.

And just like that, it all comes racing back to me.

Yes....I am pregnant, and the tattoos, body shots and mud wrestling will have to wait. In the mean time, I will just enjoy my time being lazy on the couch, and eat the yummy minty cookies from the bag between my legs.

P.S.Turns out, of all my amazing qualities, someone has decided I deserve be recognized for my ability to cuss. Which is awesome, and completely confirms what I have thought all along, that the time I spend helping the homeless and reading to old people is a fucking waste.

So, go vote for me, and make it all worth while.