Keepin’ The Romance Alive

When you’re married with children, it’s damn freaking hard to find alone time to spend together.  The kids and their continuous needs inevitably take top priority.  And trying to keep that spark alive isn’t the easiest task in the world when your spawn are always lurking over your shoulder, trying like hell to blow out the fire.  Take, for instance, our anniversary.  Now in a perfect soap opera world, my husband would’ve whisked me away for a romantic weekend on some remote tropical island to celebrate our 14 years of wedded bliss together, right?  Unfortunately, though, we don’t live in the fictional town of Port Charles, so there was certainly no whisking and absolutely nothing tropical about our monumental moment.

The night of our actual anniversary was unfortunately spent in a hot, crowded room with a boatload of other over-stressed parents, registering my daughter for the travel soccer team.  Real idyllic, huh?  I’d seen my husband for a total of thirty seconds throughout the entire day, and it was only prior to the meeting as we raced by each other on my way out the door.  The timing of the whole thing didn’t even allow us to eat dinner together.  I’d had to shove down some food with the kids and left him a plate of pasta on the counter.  We were holding out hope that maybe, JUST MAYBE, we’d steal some time together after finally getting the kids to bed.

Regrettably, though, our children have decided to boycott sleep these days.  Just when we think we have the all-clear, a little body pops up on the stairs, which is exactly what kind of scenario played out on the night of June 8.  Somebody was hungry; somebody was thirsty; somebody had a sore throat; somebody was scared; somebody had to poop — on and freaking on until I literally started threatening alien abductions to anyone who dared get out of bed again.  And wouldn’t you know that by the time we FINALLY heard the last peep outta the twinkies, I glanced over to find my hubby sawing some serious logs on the couch.  So much for romance.

Luckily, we were eventually able to escape for a quick sushi dinner together last night after my son’s baseball game.  We sat outside and even had < gasp! > an uninterrupted conversation!  Naturally, though, this blissful state of mind was poo-pooed the very moment we stepped through the front door of our house and heard the babysitter negotiating with the little vampires upstairs who were supposed to have been asleep by then.  I seriously think we may have to start hooking up in the car like a couple of teenagers in high school to avoid the inevitable interference from the shorties.  So if the wheels are a rockin’, please, for the love of God, don’t come a knockin’!!!!

Always Left of Lost

You may recall just how horrible I am with directions and that I am the queen of getting lost. So it’s probably no surprise then that driving in downtown Chicago generally scares the Hanky Pankies right off me. We live out in the burbs, so when I get downtown in the middle of all those big ass buildings, all the streets look just the same to me. And the cabbies? They drive like they’re playing bumper cars on the Indy 500 track. That’s why I was a wee bit concerned when I found out that I had to drive down and pick up my husband from his knee surgery yesterday morning.

Surprisingly, I was able to find the surgery center without any major issues. The parking garage, however, was a whole other story. It was like I’d entered a black hole of parked cars. I mean, really, why must they make those things so damn confusing?! I could NOT find my way out of that garage and into the proper office building for anything in this world. And unfortunately, I somehow managed to weave my way throughout every friggin’ floor of that mind-boggling structure of concrete.

At one point, I ended up in the damn condominium side of the building and even had a personal escort back towards the direction in which I needed to be going. And believe it or not, that STILL didn’t put me back on the right track. I then found myself entering the ground floor 7-Eleven of all frickin’ things. The barely audible cashier was kind enough to redirect me, only to lead me to a section marked “Employees Only” for the maintenance staff of the building. I’m pretty sure there were some cackles and eye rolling going on as I once again tucked my tail between my legs and retraced my clueless footsteps. Really, would it have killed these people to put up some damn maps to tell me where the hell I was for crap’s sakes?!

I was starting to wonder if my poor husband was gonna have to hitchhike his way back home after his surgery, when I FINALLY stumbled onto the actual surgery center office. Halle-freakin’-lujah! I was so relieved to be in the correct location after winding my way through that endless maze of confusion. I was barely able to even catch my breath before my husband was wheeled out of surgery and I was sent back to the recovery area with him. And I felt like crying when they told me to pull the car around and wait for him to be brought down by wheelchair. They clearly didn’t realize that I’d wound around the depths of HELL in order to get there in the first friggin’ place.

After some very careful backtracking, I miraculously found my way back to the car. (Seriously, I think I deserve an award or something for that heroic feat.) And when I pulled around to wait for my husband, I about peed my pants when someone out on the street approached ME of all people to ask for directions. I literally laughed out loud as I told the woman, “You are asking the WRONG person, lady!” Asking me to help you find your way is like asking Lindsay Lohan to teach you good manners.

Things I’ve Learned This Week

** My son is a human pogo stick.

** Turning 29 again this year feels even better than it did the last several times.

** Sending me a coupon in the mail AFTER I just made a big-ass purchase at your store does nothing but piss me off.

** Larry King is to marriage what 2+2 is to 5.

** Kids talk. A. LOT.

** Every day should include a good scalp massage.

** I am a 5 foot, 2 inch chew toy to my asshat of a dog.

** Nobody in this freaking house knows how to replace the empty toilet paper holder.

** There are way too many LOUD people in this world.

** My husband should never be put in charge of family programming.

** Whitney Houston should probably lay off the crack pipe before trying to belt out the high note in “I Will Always Love You”.

** I am a sucker for boys in baseball caps.

** Downhill is WAY more fun than uphill.

** We all live in a yellow submarine.

** It will be nothing short of a miracle if I can finish another book.

** The laundry STILL doesn’t fold itself, even on your birthday.

** Bras are overrated.

** The little guy doesn’t always finish last — sometimes he comes in second to last.

** I may very well O.D. on Benadryl this spring.

** Cheese that doesn’t belong to you is called NACHO CHEESE. 

** My mom was right — I WILL be late for my own funeral.

** I butter A LOT of people’s bread around here, dammit!

** Despite what I might think, God does not give me more than I can handle.

Get To Work!

 

     

     You know what was really great about date night this weekend?  Getting away from all the stress of the kids and enjoying an adults only night out. You know what wasn’t great about date night this weekend?  Coming home to a house that looked like a bomb exploded all over the freaking place.  And I gotta tell ya, it’s really kinda hard to “get into the mood” when you’re tripping over Legos, Nerf bullets, and popcorn with every single step that you take.  

     So, as a result of said frustration, I had to take matters into my own hands and lay down the law when the two shorties got up yesterday morning. They needed to know that just because a teenage babysitter may or may not have been texting away on her purple Justin Bieber cellphone all night, that most certainly did not give them the license to turn our friggin’ homestead into a damn pig sty.  Therefore, I climbed up on my soapbox and informed them that they would march their little asses right down to the basement and spend however long it took them to pick up every flippin’ thing off the floor or else all birthday parties would be cancelled next weekend.  (Now would I REALLY follow through with this mean of a threat? Hell no!  I mean, shit, I’m no Mommy Dearest or anything, but they needed to know that I meant business and to shake in their boots just a little bit.)

     After giving them a good hour of cleaning up time downstairs, I thought I’d pop down to see just how the progress was coming.  I was sure that they would’ve had to make some kind of headway.  But when I poked my head into the playroom, I found my daughter shuffling construction paper piles and my son staring contentedly at a dust bunny in a corner.  Clearly, an intervention was necessary.  So I gave them very specific tasks and told them I’d check on them again in a half an hour.  And when I went downstairs a second time, they were both hiding underneath the bean bag chairs in the fetal position.  Seriously, kids, WTF?!  I realized that sadly,  I was working with a crew of monkeys.    

     Luckily for me, the assistant foreman (aka my hubby) overheard my hissy fit and stepped in to help get a grip of the out-of-control situation. I gladly put him in charge of overseeing the remainder of the project since this was obviously going to need on-site supervision.  I don’t really know how he did it (nor do I really give a rat’s ass), but he was somehow able to light a fire under some itty bitty asses and finally get that basement spick and freaking span halfway throughout the afternoon.

     So, yeah, maybe I posed a threat that was secretly empty, and maybe I exploded just a wee bit too much, but I get so sick and tired of cleaning up one mess only to find yet another in its path.  I don’t get paid a damn dime for this maid gig, people, and I flat out refuse to bring more kid shit into this house if we can’t even organize the shit that we already have.  Now don’t go thinking that I’m gonna freak out in the middle of the night about wire hangers or anything — I haven’t gone that far off the deep end just yet.  And besides, my kids know better than to use anything but PLASTIC hangers anyway.

The Sexting Experiment

     A while back, my husband and I got into a discussion about this whole “sexting” phenomenon.  With all the talk about it in the media, we were both saying we felt like we should really see what all the hype was about.  (Perhaps we felt a little left out?) Anyway, we don’t want our kids to think they can EVER EVER get away with this when they’re teenagers, so decided we should give it a go ourselves so as to be better educated <ahem> on the latest trends.  We thought we’d be one step ahead of the game and all.  And let’s just say that my first couple of experiences with it were not quite as “sexy” as I’d had in mind.

     I guess I completely forgot about my whole suck-ass ability to take a decent freaking picture with my iPhone to save my damn life.  I’m always chopping off heads or accidentally moving my hand, creating the world’s most unidentifiable, blurry photo ever known to man-kind.  And to try to take a picture of myself?  Well, that’s a whole other story in and of itself.  I can never figure out how just to angle my arm so that I can actually get myself in the picture.  Even if I stand in front of a mirror, I still somehow manage to eff it up.  So, you can imagine just how jacked up a self-took naughty photo might potentially be.  And that’s just what happened on my first attempt at this sexting thing.

     We were coming back from a weekend road trip when I thought I’d sneak a quick pic of myself on one of our bathroom breaks.  I planned to surprise my husband and give him a little sum’n sum’n to think about on the long, long drive back home.  (What a nice wife I am, right?)  So I was in a stall trying like hell to position my iPhone just so, which turned out to be a damn near impossible task, and I was getting more and more frustrated by the second. Wouldn’t ya know that I picked the skinniest stall in all the friggin’ land?  No matter how I tried to position myself, I could not get the “angle” I wanted. When I finally had it focused, I lost my grip on the phone and gasped in horror as I watched it tumbling toward the toilet.  Like a game of Hot Potato, it bounced from hand to hand before I was eventually able to get a firm hold on it.  Needless to say, my first attempt at sexting was a big, fat failure.

     Never one to give up without a fight, though, I decided to give it another try one day when my hubby was at work.  I figured an impromptu pic from me would surely brighten up a boring old day at the office for him.  It took me about 10,000 tries before I got just the right shot I was going for, but I eventually was able to get what I thought was a pretty damn good image.  I typed a quick text message and hit “Send‘, feeling quite proud of my technology skills for a brief moment.  I was sure that I’d instantly get a return text saying something to the nature of, “Holy shit!  You’re the best wife ever, and I want to shower you with diamonds.”  However, one hour later, I still hadn’t heard a single flipping thing from my husband.  I started to wig out that maybe I’d sent it to the wrong person. Dear God, what if I’d accidentally tweeted it?  Or what if his phone was lying on his desk and someone picked it up and saw more of me than they were ever hoping to?  I frantically searched my phone and sent my hubby four different texts to see if he’d ever received it. Thirty AGONIZING minutes later, I finally heard back from him saying he’d been stuck in a meeting but was pleasantly surprised to find my message.  I told him to enjoy it cause the near heart attack he’d given me had pretty much sucked all the fun out of that sexting experience for me.

     So, for now, I think I’d better just stick with my crooked little action shots of the kids and the dog on the old cell phone.  It’d be just my luck that a very incriminating picture of me would somehow end up in the hands of someone like the coach of my son’s baseball team.  Talk about throwing a guy a curve ball….

Facebook Foul

    

     Are you a Facebook addict?  Do you constantly update your status and spend hours looking through other people’s pictures?  I used to be on there a whole lot more than I am now.  I will say that it’s definitely a great place to reconnect with old friends and to see where life has taken them.  However, lately, I’ve become a bit turned off by the whole thing because of those over-the-top mushy statuses that make me want to vomit on my computer screen:

     “My amazing hubby is like a gift from the heavens.”  
     ”Every single part of motherhood makes me giddy with happiness.”
     “My life is so rich and full of sunshine and rainbows.”   

     Now, if you just so happened to marry Prince Charming and you truly enjoy digging baby poop from under your fingernails, then that is absolutely wonderful for you. Unfortunately, though, there are those of us who may just be having a really sucky day and don’t really care to hear you toot your horn about the awesomeness that is your life.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to send your freak of nature husband or your infant’s little patootie a personal thank you note instead of broadcasting it to the rest of the free world?  Don’t get me wrong — I truly am happy that you’ve found the utopia that we all seek in life.  However, I just don’t need you to shove it in my face when I’m just a phone call away from checking myself into the nut house.

     And then there are those who feel they need to wrap up their whole world with a big shiny bow so that everything looks hunky dory on the outside, when in reality, it’s gone to shit on the inside.  They want to put on this facade that they live on “perfect mountain” high above the rest of us imperfect souls.  I’m convinced that these are the very same people who send out those obnoxious holiday newsletters, bragging about all the amazing things they have that you don’t.  

     And it’s not always easy to tell whether those ooey gooey Facebook statuses are for real or whether they are just trying to overcompensate for something.  Regardless, though, I really wish people would take a serious chill pill on the praise singing.  So if you really feel the need to shout it out to the treetops about how unbelievable you think you are, then open your back door and scream to your little heart’s desire.  That way, you’ll spare the rest of us who are struggling just to hang on for dear life.

Let’s Get It On!

It’s been a long time coming, but @whyisdaddycryin and I finally teamed up again and wrote another crazy tale together.  This time, he plays the part of the hubby, and I play the part of the wifey.  We are both describing the different perspectives of a couple finally overcoming all their daily obstacles to have a date between the old sheets.  The lovely and talented @toywithme was kind enough to allow us to post our ramblings on her site.  And so, in an effort to remind you of the awesomeness in which this venture is made, here’s a little background on my cohorts:

  @whyisdaddycryin:  This guy is one of few who is ready to deal a laugh like a drug lord deals crack — he knows just how to keep ya coming back for more and more.  He is an amazingly talented writer and father of two whose blog www.whyisdaddycrying.com details everything     from his goal to never allow his daughter to have sex to his desire to rid the world of Snuggies once and for all.  

  Be sure you also take some time to browse around @toywithme‘s blog at www.toywithme.com.  While most of the fascinating topics tend to center around sex-related issues, she also isn’t afraid to tackle such subjects as the upcoming controversial Tebow Superbowl commercial.  I highly recommend that you give her a whirl.

And, now, without further ado, here’s the story you’ve all been waiting for:  ”Let’s Get It On!”  http://toywithme.com/stories/having-sex/

 

You Asked, I Answered

     

Most of you know by now that I am the queen of Too Much Information.  I don’t know if it’s because it’s therapeutic or if it’s just cause I like to make fun of myself, but I tend to be an open book for the most part.  That is why I presented the idea for a Q&A blog post to my Twitter friends.  Here are some of the questions they threw my way:

@mrshotmom:  “Are you happy where you live?  Would you rather live in another state?” 

        ** Funny you should ask this question — it’s one I ask myself every winter.  I live in the Chicago area, home of the windy city.  And trust me when I tell you that they don’t call it the windy city for nothin’.  We’re talkin’ beat down, freeze your tootsies off, smack your ass and call you Judy-type cold air that frosts the very being of your core.  Do I enjoy these nipply gusts of frigidity?  Hell to the no, I don’t!  I’m a warm weather girl — bring on the flip flops, baby!  I would much rather live someplace warm and sunny.  However, I’ve lived here in the Chi for nearly fifteen years, so it seems that I won’t be heading south anytime soon.

@mrshotmom:  “Do you follow the same sports as your husband or do you let him be alone while watching a game?”   

          ** I’m sorry to say that I’m really not a big sports fan.  I almost feel un-American saying that, but I see a big game as an opportunity for me to catch up on my stupid DVR’d reality shows.  The hubby sets up camp in one room for his testosterone-fueled viewing pleasure, and I sprawl out in front of another boob tube to see who’s the latest, greatest jackass to make a fool out of themselves on national t.v.  I know it’s pathetic, but I’m all about mindless entertainment after battling and herding short people all day.   

@jabulani9:  “What is it about wedding rings that makes men go deaf?”

     ** I wish to God I had the answer to this question.  I could seriously be the next Dr. Ruth if I did.  What it all boils down to is selective hearing.  Now, I hate to stereotype, but in my experience, most men tend to only hear what they want to hear.  For instance, I could have an entire conversation with my son about what he needs to do in order to receive his allowance, but until I say the words “Wii” or “Mario Brothers“, he’s going to look off in the distance with a blank stare, completely oblivious to any and every little thing that comes out of my mouth.  The same could be said of my husband.  I could carry on for days about the dishwasher being broken or the trash that needs to be taken out, but until I mention something about “sex” or “boobs“, he’s going to look at me like I’m an alien from outer space.

@woo222:  “What do you wish you’d learned in school?”

     ** When I started out in college, I wanted to be a writer.  I was majoring in journalism until I did some research and found out what I would potentially make salary-wise.  I then decided to switch my major multiple times and wound up graduating with an education degree.  I later went on to become a teacher in a Catholic school, which makes TOTAL sense since that’s where all the big bucks lie < insert sarcasm >.  I really wish I would have had the wherewithall to follow what my gut was telling me to do.  I never wanted to be a teacher!  From the time I was a little girl, my passion has always been the written word.  I kick myself in the ass every day for not following my instinct.

@kristins4kids:  “Was your pregnancy an easy one?” 

     ** This is a tough one to answer.  Since it took nearly three and a half years of infertility treatments and miscarriages to actually get pregnant, I was the epitome of a paranoid freak of a woman when I finally did get knocked up with twins.  I was afraid to even breathe, much less have anyone touch me, including my husband. I think he and the Lubriderm bottle got quite friendly during those nine months.  Then, there was the fact that I ballooned up like a damn house.  I am only 5’2, and I gained almost sixty pounds throughout my pregnancy.  Our bedroom at that time was on the third floor of our house, and I actually had to take rest stops on the way to bed every night.  I’m quite certain my lungs had become homies with my larnyx at that time.  I was so flipping happy when I finally pushed those little pip squeaks outta me — I could finally breathe again and was so happy to be reunited with my toes again.

@cocoamommy:  “Is it possible to morph ourselves so that everyone (husbands & kids) is happy?”

     ** I will emphatically say NO!!! to this question, even though I try like hell every day to make this happen.  I could seriously drop-kick the June Cleavers and Carol Brady’s of this world for setting the bar impossibly too high for the normal, average wife/mom.  For crap’s sakes, nobody I know wears pearls ala June to clean their damn end tables.  And Carol had it made in the shade cause she had her own live-in chef!  I think people tend to forget that these are fictional characters, and that REAL life is way too complicated to make everybody happy all the time.  The way I see it, a good day is one in which I get everyone into bed with all their limbs in tact.

@bfe21:  “What is your greatest joy of motherhood?”

     ** My greatest joy of being a mom is that no matter how badly I screw up, make an ass of myself, or blow my top, my kids love and adore me more than anything in this world.  How cool is that?  That is without a doubt the greatest feeling I’ve ever had.  

@whyisdaddycryin:  “When I was thirteen and < spanking my monkey > like a mad man, my mom totally busted me.  If forced to get a tattoo, what would it be, where would you get it, and why?”

     ** When I first read this question, I must admit, I felt a little clammy.  Was he seriously asking me about that < ahem > personal of an issue?  He knows that my parents totally read my blog.  But, thank you sweet baby Jesus for allowing him to flip the switch and stick me with the good old tattoo question instead!  So, if I got a tat, I supposed it would be one that said, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!”  And I would get it right across my forehead, so that when I look at my tired and pissed off image in the mirror at the end of a long day of taking care of everyone else BUT me, I’ll remember that I don’t suck. 

The Bumpit, The Snuggies & A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

The following story is a collaboration betweenhttp://www.whyisdaddycrying.com and me.  He is a hilarious writer, proud papa, and fellow Chicagoan that I’ve come to know through Twitter.  He makes me laugh multiple times every single day by the insanely witty things that pop out of his imagination.  His blog is all about fatherhood and all the other funny things that life throws his way.  We were encouraged by some other fellow Twitter friends to join forces and write a story together, so we put our whacked-out brains together and came up with the following crazy tale. The blue lines are written by him, and the pink ones are written by me.  Buckle your seat belts cause you’re in for one wild ride! 

 

THE BUMPIT, THE SNUGGIES & A CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE

Every time I smell the scent of butter frying in a pan, I can’t help but think of the scent of her neck, the way hair grew on only the knuckles of her feet, and how she could beat me in thumb-wrestling with her pinky.

 I always found solitude in the unibrow that framed her over-sized googly eyes, and her summer-toothed smile (some were here, some were there) that just melted my heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Those were the thoughts twirling in my head as I finished shaving the hair off the back of my last customer of the day where I work at Max’s Back & Bikini Wax.

As I swept up the last of Big Bertha’s pubes and Captain Carl’s back fuzz, I knew that I needed to get in touch with the woman who showed me what love was all about. 

Slowly I slid my pants back on, being careful not to catch them on the 12-inch knife cut she gave me just a month ago….the last time I saw her. 

 She had been raging mad because I’d accidentally thrown away her most prized possession, her Bumpit.

 I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know it was her girl toupee when it looked like Uncle Ned had come by our trailer again and left behind one of his fetish dolls?

That fight was the last I saw of her, and word on the street was that she was dancing for dollars at the Pink Puttycat Parlor down in the back woods of Alabama.

But “word on the street” wasn’t gonna stop me from giving it one last shot – so I called her number, 1-900-HOTT-ASS.

When she answered the phone, I could tell she was reading a script as she robotically told me just what she’d do to me and a vat of Velveeta cheese, and I got so excited at hearing that burly voice once again that I nearly pissed myself.

I quickly took a deep breath, checked to make sure I hadn’t made a wet spot on myself, and said, “Hey sugar-britches it’s your little waddly boodly boo.”

After about three minutes of dead silence, she laid into me for all the things I’d done to drive her away, like calling her brother a man-whore, using her wart cream as toothpaste, taking all the Beeno without asking, and throwing away her precious Bumpit.

Those words pushed me to my breaking point, so I angrily reminded her of the time she made me wear her Bumpit backwards while we had sex so she could comb it, and how she made me “wear” a tampon all day so I could “empathize,” and how my father had to get a restraining order against her so she’d stop breaking in his house to smell his dirty underwear.

I knew I’d gone too far when all I heard was silence on the other end, but then she blurted out my worst nightmare—she’d married that son-of-a-bitch neighbor of theirs who sold imitation Snuggies out of his trailer.

Slamming the phone down I knew I was finally going to have to pay a little visit to my safety-deposit box to retrieve and begin swift implementation of my diabolical master plan to rid trailer Snuggie sellers from the county once…….and for all!!

Gathering up my lighter fluid and matches from my highly protected treasure box, I headed on over to the White T Timbers Trailer Park to pay a visit to old Mike Hunt and his Snuggie wannabe piles of shit.

Hopping off my fire-engine red Schwinn bicycle with flesh colored truck nutz hanging off the back, I reached in my backpack for my matches and lighter fluid while hawking a loogie on the ground so that anyone watching knew that I meant business!!

With my purple pleather shit kickers, I knocked down Mike’s shower curtain front door, grabbed as many fake Snuggies as I could from his king-sized brass waterbed and lit the biggest damn bonfire that trailer park had ever seen.

Then I tossed the remainder of the Snuggies on the front basket of my Schwinn, looked around to see if anyone was watching, checked my kick-ass pleathers I nicknamed “my shit kickers,” lifted a leg to let off some “steam,” and peddled off towards Tammie’s house where I knew I could finish the deed. 

Tammie was waiting for me on a lawn chair in her front yard, and after punching me smack dab in the teeth, she grabbed me by the neck and pressed her big red lips, crusty cold sore and all, right up to mine.

“That better be a shit-ton of snuggies in your pansy-ass bike basket idiot boy or else I’m gonna make you clean Rufus’ anal glands again while me and the neighbor twins drink beer and watch ya,” she said in her super seductive smoker’s voice while stopping every 5th word to hack up a lung.

In between grabbing and groping each other’s cottage cheese asses, we managed to gather up the shit-ton of burned Snuggie bits and erect a commemorative statue of them in the side yard of Tammie’s trailer, attracting thousands of supporters of the anti-Snuggie movement to come and pay their respects.

We were partying, drinking 40s, shooting guns in the air, stripping, taking turns with the neighbor’s goat, and that’s when I noticed the most horrifying, disgustingly sexiest, f@*k-o-licious part of Tammie I’d never seen before…..she had a third nipple!

The fact that Tammie had one overgrown testicle just like me, combined with this latest revelation of a third nipple just like mine confirmed to me that stealing her from that one-legged pimp all those years ago down by the river was the smartest decision I ever made.

To this day I still don’t understand why that fur-wearing bastard only had one gold leg made instead of two, but I’m chalking it up to the thought that maybe he’s just a big fan of hopping?

At any rate, I finally had my honey schnuckimcakes back, and I figured that if I could swipe her from a no good son-of-a-bitch gimp bastard, then surely I could snitch her from Mike Hunt and his lair of fake blanket robes.

And I had just the thing, buried deep in the crotch of my pants, that was guaranteed to seal the deal and bring her to her knees begging for me to be hers for the rest of our unnaturally born, inbred lives.

I lifted my one oversized very sweaty ball and pulled out a brand new Bumpit to replace the one I’d thrown away, complete with the biggest rock of a Ring Pop I could find at the arcade.

With a Marlboro Red cigarette hanging from her lower lip and eyes popping out of her weathered face she stood there dumbfounded and expressionless before suddenly reaching deep down into the crotch of her pants.

She, too, pulled out a Bumpit and even a comb and told me that I could do the styling during sex next time.
 

This was the moment I’d waited for my entire life and was the reason I’d worn tear-off pants and a condom every day since I was 13.

So I ripped off my pants to expose my leopard print thong that was emblazoned with the words, “For f@*k’s sakes, will you marry me or what?”

A smile crept across Tammie’s face as she ripped off her shirt to reveal a custom-made bra with three cups for her boobs and extra nipple with “You Damn Skippy” also emblazoned across it.

As we embraced in a sloppy, tonsil-hockey kiss, the whole trailer park came out to cheer us on, even Mike Hunt & the golden-legged pimp, and the two of us lived happily ever after in a van down by the river.

Here Comes the Bride/Groom

I could easily give Bill Cosby a run for his money on who’s heard more of the darnedest things from kids. My twins could provide enough material to create an entire season of that show.  They constantly crack me up with their perspective on certain concepts. Lately, they have been very interested in the idea of marriage. They ask everyone if they are married.  I really don’t think they completely understand what that actually means because my daughter asked me if she would be marrying her daddy when she gets older.  She also asked me if she could be a flower girl in my next wedding. And my son REALLY threw us for a loop when he proudly announced to his grandma that he & his little “boy” friend from kindergarten would be adopting a baby together when they get married some day.  We all did a double take with that one — I have no idea what ever prompted him to think about marrying a boy (not that there’s anything wrong with that), much less adopting a baby!  How about we just stick with being five years old and getting through kindergarten for now?