Still got my signature pre-pubescent sense of humor. Yay!

This is Meds Day Two, if you're playing along at home.

Yesterday (Meds Day One) I was just kinda lethargic and fighting my own hatred. I hate that I need the meds. I hate who I am without them. I hate how pathetic and defeated I feel right now.

And I'd forgotten how much anti-depressants mess with my system. Kinda poetic how I'm trying to feel like my life's NOT in the shitter, and yet, every ten minutes, where am I? Yeah. On the plus side, one thing I will say about depression - I've lost weight.

Still, I managed to get out of the house with R and the Apes. R wanted to get a camelback personal hydration system because he's looking to get into Airsoft, kinda like paintball (which he used to do before we had a baby and got married). I wanted some flip-flops, and I don't go for the $2 Old Navy ones. I want something more substantial. So we went to Cabela's.

Cabela's is full of stuff that sounds dirty, but isn't. Stuff that sounds funny when you say "I got yer (fill in the blank) right here" or "I'll (something) YOUR (something)."

For example:



I got yer Bouyant Cushions right here. See?



I'll Seek YOUR Slab...




I'll Troll YOUR Depths with my Master Rod...




This one doesn't really need a caption.





I suppose if I were a guy and if my pants suddenly went all (ahem) 3-D on me, A) I hope I'd be somewhere secluded, and B) I'd be relieved to know that a random tent pole's not going to rip them. I'm guessing these pants are a godsend for the boy who sits in a deer blind with a Hustler mag.


Speaking of Hustler, can you believe I got cut from the August issue just because I refused to wear the sequined camo bikini? I just thought it was tacky. I have standards, people.



Doesn't the look on my face just say,
"You gotta be FUCKIN KIDDING ME..."?


Historically, I tend to feel better when I give myself a project to focus on instead of my own funk. I pour myself into projects and surround myself with my various relationships so I'm not bored and alone, because that's when Penny Dark wants to come out to play. When I have important stuff to do (like beating Guitar Hero Aerosmith) and people who think I'm cool, I kinda feel a greater sense of purpose and motivation and I feel less extraneous. Extraneous is the feeling I'm trying to overcome.

Yes, I know my personal sense of worth should come from within, and for a while I was working on improving that, but, hey, it just isn't me. Have you noticed I've blogged more in the last two weeks than I did all last month? I feel like you guys are there for me. Thanks.

This week's project has been planning Beeb's birthday party. She's been kinda sad because my Grandma's death coincided with her annual trip to visit my parents and she didn't get to go. This is the same trip she almost didn't get to go on last year because I just about strangled her in the airport after what has since become known as The Liquid Incident. That's a great story. I know she's really disappointed, she had been looking forward to the trip for months. But I'm kinda glad she'll be home, I was going to miss her.

I can't give a lot of detail about her party because it's supposed to be a surprise/mystery destination sort of thing, but it should be cool. We're only inviting four of her friends (three of whom are triplets), so I won't be too overwhelmed, I hope.

My parents will be in town from Saturday to Wednesday. They're not going to be staying with us, so that's less pressure on me. I was thinking about opening up the floor to some questions you might have for my parents, just for fun. Of course, I'll ask them all nonchalantly, not, "Oh, the people that read my blog want to know..." just because I really don't feel like explaining the existence or the content of this blog to them.

I feel like there was something else I was going to write about. OH!!!

R found more Cheap Shmitty at WalMart! So now, quite literally, we have 100 bottles of beer on the wall. Well, really, on the dining room floor and on the buffet. Anti-Stella suggested we decorate with them. I just might.

And for Poops:

Old Purse.



New Purse.



And to answer a question Rip asked, yes, lip gloss flavor matters. My favorite lip gloss is Body Shop Hi-Shine Lip Treatment. It's normally outside of my Emergency Retail Therapy Lip Gloss Budget, but the one I have (Mauve Dream, I think) I got free. It tastes like passionfruit. No complaints yet!

Emergency Retail Therapy

I want to thank everyone for the empathy and encouragement recently. And thank you especially for not doing one of those disgusting cheesy cheerleader "Turn That Frown Upside Down, Charlie Brown!" ridiculous bullshit. Sure, you can outthink your depression. SURE ya can. Right.

I deal with my depression in my own way. First, if I'm sad, sometimes it helps me to find something in the situation that I can be angry about instead. Yes, it's completely unproductive and it resolves absolutely nothing, but isn't it waaaay more fun to be pissed off than sad? It is for me.

Oh, there's a part of me that relishes being pissed off. Why? Cuz It's ON. I go into Penny Scorned mode. She's way more powerful Penny Dark. She can kick Penny Dark's ASS. I dig deep and find inner strength I didn't know I had. And I get eloquent and creative. It may manifest itself as a poem or as some poetically spiteful act of vengeance. Stay on my good side. I'm serious.

But in this case, I can't be pissed. FS-H didn't do anything wrong, really. Hurtful, yes, indescribably painful, but not wrong. It was right. I don't disagree. And I'd like to be pissed so I can be something other than sad, but I can't be pissed, so now I'm just frustrated as fuck. And that's worse than sad.

My other means of dealing with depression (in a short-term sense, which sometimes is enough) is through small amounts of Retail Therapy. I'd never go out and drop a hundred bucks or anything, because what's more depressing than getting the Bounced Check notice in the mail and realizing you have no money? No, I indulge maybe $5 in a lip gloss, and pretty soon, I feel better. And apparently I do it quite often because my Tito has caught onto it.

Here's what he said about me on Mother's Day.

So I was in need of a lil RT, and it somehow occurred to me that I probably have enough lip glosses. And instead of a lip gloss, I thought I'd get something new to keep my lip glosses in. Like perhaps, a cool purse! I was getting kinda sick of the one I'd been carrying. It was too big.

I go back and forth between a too-big purse and one that's not really big enough. This has gone on constantly for the last eleven years, roughly since I started having to carry baby paraphernalia with me, like Ziploc bags with Cheerios and wipes and an emergency extra onesie at all times.

Anyway, I dumped my old purse out to transfer everything into my righteous new hemp purse I got at Whole Foods Market.

Would you like to guess how many lip glosses I had in my old purse?

Go on, guess.



SEVENTEEN. Count 'em.

And that's just in my PURSE. I have more in my bathroom, next to the bed, on my dresser. I had no idea I had so many.

I do have some Hella Sexy lips, and of course I do love to draw undue attention to them as well as my other top features, but I didn't realize I was the Imelda Marcos of lip gloss. I'm sure there's some glaring psychological implication.

Speaking of psychological implications, I'm starting back on the meds today. Stay tuned.

Grandma passed peacefully this morning. I'm glad my mom could be there with her brothers and sister. Thanks to everybody who offered to road-trip it to Ohio with me so I could be there, but I'm really okay. Yes, I'm the Ultimate Road Trip Companion, and you'd get to meet my awesome family as a bonus, but I'd rather plan something fun, not Road Trip Funeral. Under other circumstances, though, I'd love to.

Maybe I'll write a book and go on tour. Pimp out the Odyssexy like the Madden Bus with a hot tub and a knitting nook for my groupies. And plenty of room for my lip gloss!

Now Auditioning for the Role of Drinking Buddy

So last night R and I went out to drinks with a new pal we'll call, per his request, Rip Van Winkle. It has to do with his being asleep in a marriage for 20 years and just now waking up to life - plus he played the part of RVW in a play in 8th grade.

Great guy, nice time. Went to Clancy's for Dollar Burgers, one of my most favoritest places, as you may recall. It was fun, plus, I love introducing people to Clancy's.

So I got this email from him this morning. He wanted to post it to my blog, so here y'all go:


OK so all you very hip and cool people out there, I am about to make y’all jealous as HE-double hockey sticks. You don’t even KNOW me, but you are jealous. Trust me.

You see, I am a Penny Karma newbie. Somehow, buy sheer dumb luck, we connected through cyberspace, and once I “beheld” her brilliance, I knew that this Penny chick was something very special. This connection happened, what? About a week ago, maybe? And here’s the make-you-all-jealous part: PK and R invited me to drinks with them! Yes, I broke bread and bottlecaps with the excitingly scintillating Penny Karma.

With the anxious anticipation of a kid waiting for Christmas morning to arrive, I tried to put this all in context while sipping a beer at the very cool irish bar where we were to meet. PK is in a “dark” swing through life right now. What in the world caused this woman to decide to meet a total stranger on this day, at this place? Is there something I can offer to her and R that will help them put some perspective to their lives? I am older than they, by a healthy decade, and maybe that’s a good thing from a life experience standpoint. But the “wisdom of the elder” thing just doesn’t seem to be what drew PK to ask me to party with her. Not sure, but I ain’t complainin’.

Having read a bit (not most and certainly not all) of her blog, and then the comments from the good people who have found her, I know that I should consider myself to be very fortunate, and I do. Intelligence and sparkling wit and brilliant storytelling, when all wrapped up in one person, do not come along very often. R and I actually sat there and talked to Penny about how she should try her hand at writing, really writing, some stories, for publication. To me, this elder-type PK newbie, nothing could be more clear. She has a talent for something that, for her, is “easy,” and following that talent should be a natural thing.

I don’t know exactly what will come of this new friendship that I hope to foster with Penny and R. I am fresh from a long marriage and my search for new friends has just begun, and I need all the friends I can get. I get the sense that once Penny’s friend, always a friend, and the same is true for me, so perhaps there is hope that we can find each other mutually beneficial in the friend department.

Oh, one last thing: To quote the Divine Miss K: “They’re real and they’re spectacular.” Yup. Have to agree there! Thanks for the hug, darlin’!


I'm assuming he's talking about my stunning blue eyes. I didn't whip my tomaters out or anything. I usually save that for the second non-date. ;)

And I think you'll all appreciate this conversation we had as we were leaving - I was saying that I think of myself more as a Penny than a Sarah.

I've never thought the name Sarah suited me. It's too boring and Puritanical.

Penny suits you. Penny's fun. Pennies are bright and shiny.

Except when they're tarnished, like me, you mean?

No, no! Pennies are great. It's just kinda sad that nobody bothers to pick them up anymore.

WHAT????

Once I got over the shock of being publicly dissed by someone I'd just met, I have to say I admire the man's balls - wait, that TOTALLY came out wrong - I admire that he felt like he could give me shit and that I could take it. I can absolutely take it! That was hilarious, intentional or not. And R thought it was brilliant too, so Bravo, RipVan. Bravo.

You can totally hang. Although, you're gonna need to check your filter at the door. H-E double hockey sticks, dude? Nah. Say Fuck. Everybody who reads this blog can take it.

My Vast Readership is Fuckin Awesome!

More sad news.

The days of ridiculously cheap beer are gone, I fear.

R scored another case and a half of Smithwicks and cleaned out the WalMart in Eureka, but when I went back to the one closest to us, the Smithwicks bin ticket was gone. So I guess they're not going to sell it anymore, which is probably why it was so cheap, but hey - it still tastes like it's supposed to!

I have three cases sitting on my living room floor. And I'm afraid if I have one, I won't be able to stop.

That's what you call Irony, kids.

Maybe I could take the kids to Grant's Farm. They'd cut me off after two. Unless I whip out my tits. Never tried that.

Adding another dimension to my Melancholy and Infinite Sadness is my Grandmother's failing health and my constant sense of my own mortality. She's basically waiting to die. My parents are with her, which is good. And I wanted to go, too, but it's a 600 mile drive and my mom didn't want me to be on the road alone. I wanted my mom to fly my sister here from Austin and then she and I could drive together, but my sister didn't want to go. She's not a funeral person, she says.

I've been to some absolutely incredible, beautiful, inspiring funerals. What I hate is how every time, I can't stop thinking about how the family of the deceased has to go home afterwards to a house that will never feel the same again. And how life goes on the next day. The sun still rises, even though a world without our loved one doesn't seem possible.

See, I kinda don't want the world to go on without me. If it doesn't matter to the world whether I'm dead or alive, then what purpose does my existence serve? If the world could go on without me, then why am I on this planet? What's the point of Sarah?

I'm completely superfluous. Extraneous. Dispensable. Replaceable. What am I DOING here? I should probably be inspired to greatness by that thought, but instead, right now, I'm just overwhelmed and exhausted by it.

So I wanted to go to the funeral for a couple of reasons. Mainly, I wanted to be helpful to my parents. My dad will be doing the funeral, and I kinda wanted to be there for that, honestly. My dad is so awesome and brilliant in those situations, it's really quite something to see. And part of me wanted to go to make myself feel better. I didn't feel like I'd done enough in the last few months to make her transition into the next life (if you believe in that sort of thing) peaceful. But it wouldn't have mattered how much I did; I still wouldn't have felt like I'd done enough. That's just how I am.

Why do I do stuff for people? Because I want to leave an indelible impression on the people I meet. That way, I fill another seat at my funeral; add another line or two to my obituary. I'm securing my place. Reinforcing what I perceive to be my own value. Reminding the world that I'm here too. I'm pretty sure that I have a genuine phobia (I actually think the clinical definition applies) of being forgotten. Is there a word for that? Maybe that's why the Full-Spectrum Heartbreaker hurts so much. I feel forgotten. I think Full-Spectrum Giddy's going to work out (and I'm cautiously thrilled), but I don't think Heartbreaker will, sadly.

And my throat's hurting again. I swear if it's Strep for the 3rd time, Imma be hella PISSED. Last summer it was the eyeball ulcer that wouldn't die. This year it's Summer of Strep. Isn't THAT all I fuckin need.

But, just so that this post isn't a total downer - after a week of feeling like an absolute Hershey Squirt in the Underpants of Life, Tito whipped out yet another artistic masterpiece and, for a few moments, I was floating peacefully above the Apocalypse.

I apologize for the quality of the pic, but see if you can guess who's on the cross this time.

Hint: It's not Jesus.


Another hint: The squiggly lines at the bottom are snakes.

It's Indiana Jones. See the whip in his hand? Genius.


I love that kid.

It's not you, it's me.

I feel like venting, but not really. I think what I'm feeling is, for lack of a better term, emotional bulemia.

I want to purge a whole bunch of shit and just spill it all and bring you fully up to speed on exactly what I'm dealing with, but A) it would take forfuckingever, B) I don't like when I get like this and I don't really want Penny Dark to take over this blog, and C) I'm not sure everyone would handle the information well.

I feel like you all know me. Really. And I love feeling like I can write about just about anything on here and either you'll keep reading, or you'll decide that I write about stuff that makes you uncomfortable, and if so, hopefully you'll check back from time to time and see if my life has slowed down to something more palatable for you.

One of my more sporadic readers actually told me the reason why he reads only sporadically is because he equates the feeling he got while reading my blog to the feeling one gets when one discovers one is sitting in gum. I'm still not exactly sure what the fuck that meant, but he thought he was eloquent, so whatever.

Look, here's the thing, kids -
I'm not here to blow sunshine up anybody's ass.

Right now it's 3:45 in the a.m. and, I say this with all the candor that keeps you coming back, I'm pretty fucked up mentally. I told R yesterday that I thought something inpatient might be necessary for me. I meant it more so I could focus and not be distracted by kids bickering or stressed about getting there on time, but R read it as She's Become a Danger to Herself and Others. There's some past history figuring in to his reaction, in fairness to him, but that's shit I'm not going to get into on here, like, ever - unless it becomes necessary.

He asked if I was having dark thoughts. And the truthful answer? Yes, I was. The even more truthful answer is that I have them all the time. Didn't know that, didja? I'm a Crying-On-The-Inside kind of clown because I'd rather be a clown than a Drama Queen. The clown has more friends. Who wants to hang with Drama Queen? Unless she, like, has cute clothes or something.

As for the dark thoughts, I wouldn't put myself on suicide watch or anything like that. I didn't want to die, exactly, but I desperately wanted a break from life. I wanted to clock out for a few hours, sleep it off, and clock back in eventually, refreshed and relaxed.

I wanted to get off of the merry-go-round of my life for a few minutes. Does that make sense? Kinda like telling the gym teacher you've got really bad leg cramps because you don't really see the point of running laps - I wanted to bench myself. And if I had to show Coach a bloody bone sticking out of my leg so she'd see I was totally serious, then here's my fuckin fibula, sister. I'm sittin' this one out. Fuck you. Have a nice day.

That's kinda the mentality I was dealing with. It's juvenile, sure, but there ya go. And you know what kept me from taking several Xannies and just passing out? The mental image I created of my three children wandering around a church (they're at yet another VBS this week - two, in fact) wondering why their Mommy hasn't come to pick them up. And then fast forward to the mental image of each of them relaying that same story to their own individual therapists. My kids, without their even knowing it, kept me from doing something incredibly stupid.

So R took a vacation day, without really clearing it with me or asking me if I wanted or needed him to (which bugged me - I would have told him no because it wasn't going to do me any long-term good if he rescued me every time I was having a dark day). And he and I took the kids on a Metrolink Adventure Day. It was hard for me to get into it at first, but it the kids were so great. And R was patient and cheerful. I got a blister on my toe from walking down to Laclede's Landing to see how high the river was.

But apart from that, it was a great day. Really. Got the kids home in time for their evening VBS with Anti-Stella's kids, which gave me and R some alone time. Did some talking, which was difficult, but good. Productive and healthy.

But still, I'm worried about tomorrow (or, I guess, the today that will begin in a couple of hours). He can't take off every day just to hang out with me when I'm sad. My friends have jobby-jobs. So I'll be alone with my demons, once again.

It won't surprise you to hear that I haven't taken my meds for a couple of months. Not on purpose, but periodically I get out of the habit for one reason or another, and I feel like I'm handling life pretty well, and then BOOM. I am back to the Should I Go Back on the Meds argument I have with myself every once in a while. It's probably why the Xannie hit me so hard at Chez Inlaw the other day.

When I'm looking at Raw Me, Sad Me, Ugly Me (aka Penny Dark), I can't help thinking THIS is who the meds are suppressing. Is THIS the real me? Do the meds make me somebody I wouldn't and couldn't be otherwise? Even if it makes me nicer to be around, is that the right way to go through life, as someone other than who I am naturally? You guys have seen me unmedicated. You've seen me lower than this.

I guess I don't like when I feel that self-reflection has been forced on me. I literally stood in front of the mirror yesterday thinking, My God, is my face always this puffy? How does nobody tell me when I look this puffy?? No, that's not the kind of reflection I'm talking about, really, that was just a coincidence.

Lemme talk about full-spectrum friends. I don't want it to sound like I hold back certain elements of my life from certain people, but I do kinda filter some stuff out of some of my conversations. We all do it. The Baptist Church Moms would shit themselves blind if they heard me say the words Shut Up (Remember that? That was fuckin hilarious). My parents, who only see a sliver of the PK spectrum, would shit themselves blind if they ever read this blog.

This blog, as it is, is pretty much full-spectrum. I do Nerf it down for the masses to a certain extent, but apart from politics, there's not a lot I don't write about, really. The people that read my blog know me.

I think.

My problem is, when I get away from people, I start to question who I am. When you see yourself in the way other people react to you, and no one's around, are you really there? It's truly scary to me. Truly.

Two of my full-spectrum friends told me the same thing a couple of days ago - basically, that I need to get some shit together before we can hang out again. Well, one was total full-spectrum, the closest full-spectrum friend I have had in years, apart from R. That was a heartbreaker.

The other was a newer friend, but I was blissfully caught up in the awesome possibilities and sensed enormous potential for full-spectrum access. I was really looking forward to that overwhelmingly liberating sensation that comes from such a relationship. I was giddy about that one.

The kicker, though - I was telling Heartbreaker Full-Spectrum about the loss of Giddy Full-Spectrum when Heartbreaker decided Giddy was right. THAT sucked. Dumped twice within about 30 minutes.

I believe that the people who said this to me care about me and genuinely have my best interest at heart. And I don't disagree with their reasons. So there's that. But it doesn't make it suck any less. I don't know when I'm going to get my shit together. And how am I going to know when I've got it together? Who else has enough of the full-spectrum backstory to help me see if I'm at least on the right track?

And yeah, I wish I could be the sort of person who can look back and be happy for the time I had with them, but I'm just not a "We'll always have Paris" person. No way. Is that supposed to make me feel better? So what if we'll always have Paris? What the fuck good does that do me now?

I always hated the end of Casablanca.

I'm Starting to See a Pattern.

And it's not a knitting pattern. It's a July 4th Weekend pattern.

Before I start, though, I need to mention two things that have nothing to do with the past weekend but nonetheless are contributing to the fucked up state of mind I'm in right now. One, it really requires an assload of backstory to truly understand, but suffice it to say that I've got a couple of dear relationships that are weighing on my heart pretty hard right now.

And two, after typing on this blog entry for about 40 minutes via my Wii internet connection (since the kids were watching something from Netflix on the PC), I discovered that nothing I had written got saved. Thought it happened automatically, but I guess not. Gah, I hate that. Totally par for the ubershitty course of my day.

But anyway, back to why I'm starting to hate the 4th of July.

Two years ago, Tito got lost in the dark after the fireworks and scared the shit out of me.

Last year, Aldigirl kicked over a chair and FIL tried to make me as mad at her as he was.

Oh, and may I just point out that the Aldis were conveeeeeeeeniently absent from this year's festivities? Just as I will find a way to be conveniently absent in 2009. And forevermore.

This year topped them all, friends.
TOPPED. THEM. ALL.

I haven't told ANYONE this story yet. Not even KOFA, who so often hears my stories as they unfold or shortly thereafter.

Let's begin with Friday. R and the kids and I were invited out to my friend Maeby's parents' house. We were going to go to the local parade that Maeby and her daughter would be in, BBQ and hang out. Wasn't our neck of the woods, and her parents had never met us, so there was potential for disaster there. Plus, ya gotta know, it's not really R's thing to hang out all day and be social with total strangers, but he handled it brilliantly because he knows how much I like hanging out with Maeby. And I thanked him. He was awesome. Truly.

Anyway, we didn't stay at Maeby's for the fireworks because it was a really long day and R was kinda Peopled Out, but we had a great time. Her family was fantastic and it was a lot of fun. Beeb even got to flirt with her son a bit, which was adorable.

So after a long day at Maeby's Mom and Dad's, I had to pull it together and go out to Chez Inlaw for the big Fireworks party the next day. I couldn't seem to wake up, so I kinda tried to pump myself full of caffeine so I wouldn't be a slug when I got out there. It's all part of my Game Face.

This was Supremely Bad Idea #1.

I got really jittery and I could feel my hands shaking and my heart pounding and my jaw was starting to hurt, so what did I do? I took a trusty Xanax. On an empty stomach.

Supremely Bad Idea #2.

I could (and should) have taken half of one instead, but I needed it to start working fast and I wanted it to last long enough for me to ease into the evening. I meant well, really. But it knocked me out. BIG time.

I was the kind of tired that you only get on Thanksgiving, when you eat until you pass out watching football, you know what I'm talking about? I just wanted to curl up and watch football, only the Cards/Cubs game was on instead - even better! And Mr. Lexus was there, so I figured he'd be into it too and there'd be two votes for baseball. Awesome.

So I got up from the table - where the topic of conversation was POOP, I might add - threw away my paper plate and plastic utensils and went over to the sofa to watch the game, happy as can be. At one point, FIL asked if I was feeling okay, and, surprised that he cared, I answered, Yeah, I'm okay, I'm just really reeeeally tired.

Supremely Bad Idea #3.

Later, and I don't remember how much later, but I think it was when R and I were walking over to put our blankets down and stake out our spots for the fireworks, (which were scheduled to start in about four hours - yeah), R quietly brought it to my attention that FIL was upset with me.

Jesus Christ, what now? What'd I do?

According to FIL, when I'm a guest at his house, I NEVER offer to help clean up after a meal.

Never. EVER.

In almost twelve years, not once have I offered to help clean up.

Do I even need to point out the utter fucking absurdity of this statement? I mean, think about it - in all that time, dontcha think at one point I might have ACCIDENTALLY helped clean up, even if I really didn't mean to? COME ON! But according to FIL, I'm a big fat lazyass and R needs to lay the smackdown.

Ok, first of all, Dickless, FUCK YOU.

I kinda figured since we're all adults and perfectly capable of picking up our own paper plates and plastic utensils, there really wasn't a whole lot of cleaning up that needed to be done, that I could see. But I'm truly sorry if you expected me to remove your paper plate for you so you wouldn't have to, y'know, stop talking or anything.

Secondly, got static with me? Fuckin bring it TO ME. Don't be a pussy and talk to me only through your son.

But ya know why FIL won't ever confront me directly? Because he doesn't have the history of blind submission that he gets from his wife and children. No, I'm a loose cannon. He can neither control nor predict how I'm going to react to him. And he can't handle it. Simply put, he's afraid of me. And he should be. I'm sick of his reign of terror. I'm plotting a revolt.

That's why I'm really careful not to drink too much when I'm out there. It doesn't take much for my filter to turn itself off. And yes, I actually do have a filter, believe it or not. If I got drunk and he wanted to start shit with me, I may just say something like,

Y'know what, Bag O' Douche? YOU's the one who never lifts a goddamn finger to help clear the table. You sit there and talk and talk for a million hours all alone at the table while the rest of us clean up the kitchen. Do you even know where the fucking sink IS?? And y'know what? I would so much rather wash dishes than sit and listen to you. I would rather wrap my naked body in barbed wire and roll around in fiberglass. I'm just (hiccup!) sayin'...

But instead, after I got back to the house with R, I got down on my hands and knees, in full view of FIL, and picked up every single crumb off the floor under the table. YES I DID. Happy now, FIL? Nope, he wasn't. But I didn't care.

You do NOT want to get into a Who Can Be A Bigger Passive-Aggressive Asshole war with me. Have we ever talked about how competitive I am? Not sure if we have...

So just to go a step further, I had a private moment with MIL and I totally spilled my guts.

"MIL, I'm sorry I didn't offer to help clean up. And I hope you don't feel that I never help out..."

She clearly had no idea what I was talking about. Interesting. I went on.

"That's how it got back to me, through R, and I feel especially bad for him because it puts him in a tough spot. I know he wants to defend me as his wife, but he doesn't feel like he can. And that breaks my heart.

"Just to let you know, the reason why I'm a little out of it today is because I'm on some pretty heavy [note the emphasis]... anti-anxiety medication ... for reasons that I'm sure I don't need to explain, and it's making me a little groggy. I wasn't going to bring it up because I just really didn't want to talk about it and I don't think it's anybody's business, but I wanted to tell you because I wanted somebody to understand why I'm not my usual chipper self."

And here's what she said back. Ready? She said,

You know what, Sarah? I can't get anything right either.

And thank God I had taken the meds because they slowed down my tear production. Otherwise I would have been a fuckin basket case.

I don't know if she said anything to FIL or not (and it may well have been Supremely Bad Idea #4), I hope she did, but I kinda doubt it.

The rest of the evening, I don't even really remember because even though I knew I'd done all I could do to smooth things over in an equally passive-aggressive manner (i.e. via an otherwise uninvolved messenger), I was still kinda seething. But the kids were good, the food was good, the fireworks were good. We didn't get home until after midnight.

And I don't really care if I ever go back again.

I've also noticed that we haven't been invited to Aunt Huggy or Aunt Drama's yet this summer. I'm going to look at it this way - I'm sure they want to invite me because, let's face it, I'm kickass. You WANT me at your party.

But, if they invite us, then they'd kinda have to invite MIL and FIL and The Aldis, and well, they suck. So they'll give up a shot at a kickass party just to prevent royal suckage.

Sigh. I hate when my coolness jacks up my social life. It's a curse.

Penny's Pride. And Joy.

I don't know why I didn't write about it last time while I was writing about PSR because it would have given Beeb's teacher's comments on her report card ("always had thoughtful comments to contribute to the class discussions") some perspective.

I left this comment on KOFA's blog yesterday, after he'd written about GLBT rights in reaction so something his mom had written on her own blog (and please don't go hatin' on his mom, she's sweet):

Beebie and I have been talking about gay marriage recently. I love openly discussing her opinions on different topics. She's quite adept at defending her beliefs! I have to say it was one of my prouder moments as a parent when she came home from PSR (Parish School of Religion, required by the Catholic church) informing me that they had discussed some pretty heavy topics that day, including homosexuality.

She said that her teacher told them that homosexuality is a sin, and Beeb shared her own opinion with the class, even though it differed greatly from what she was being taught. She told the class that we can't help who we love. That's how I've always explained it to my kids. It's simple, and it makes sense to them. Makes sense to me, too.

It's important to keep in mind that extending the same rights that you have to someone else doesn't diminish your own rights. I liked how you said that.

Maybe I'll take you to Pridefest next year with Beebie and me. I have a Lilith Fair shirt you can borrow.


I was proud of Beebie not even necessarily because of what she was defending, but because she had the ballz to tell a teacher and the class, "Hey, y'know, I don't know if I agree with that. I don't think that's right..." when it might not have been popular or socially acceptable to do so.

I get a lot of shit wrong, I admit. I don't give myself a perfect score as a parent. I write about most if not all of the mistakes I've made. Some of them are, in my opinion, relatively minor - like the tv shows, movies and music I expose them to. Or maybe we just haven't yet seen whatever long-term damage it's going to do, I'll concede that. Maybe she'll be a potty-mouthed, crack-smoking juvenile deliquent. And if she is, whatever. I'll handle it. At least we'll like the same music.

But I want, above all else, for my children to be independent thinkers. I want them to feel like the world welcomes their questions and opinions, and that their parents encourage them to defy the mainstream - when they want to. R and I try to, when they ask questions, give them factual and age-appropriate information to the best of our knowledge, as unbiased as possible. And when they ask what I personally believe, I explain my own opinion as well as the reasons why someone might believe something different, so that they can see more than one side to the issue and make up their own minds.

I had been a little vocal about my disdain for the requirement of PSR and the outrageous cost, and some of my other issues with the Catholic church in general (and don't even get me started on Patron Saints), and I feared that some of it had rubbed off on the kids, but they went to PSR and I encouraged them to be enthusiastic and openminded and respectful of their teachers. And they enjoyed it, and that's great. I'm glad they weren't subversive assholes or anything.

So I was proud. So proud, in fact, I went to Pride! I took about 8 billion pictures on my phone. Here are some of my favorites.

It says VAGINA on that girl's black panties.



I thought this guy was just adorable.



And what's sexier than a Speedo? I mean, really?



I love drag queens. Especially when they're prettier than me.


Unlike this one.


Nothing really to say here.


The funny part was that it actually WAS raining men.


The Arch Rival Roller Girls!!!


Now this, I found a bit stereotypical.



I went with my Roller Derby pal Mysty. I told Beeb where I'd been, when I got home. Remember when I took you to Indigo Girls, Beebie? It was kinda like that, only with a parade and a huge park full of people.

Beeb asked me if Mysty and I "acted like a couple". It was cool that she asked. We're not, and we didn't, if you were wondering the same thing.


Ok, enough Pride. On to JOY!

Pie had been telling me that the waistbands on his panties were bothering his skin. His big belly is hard to fit, and he wears his pants and panties down low under his belly, like a little old man. Even when he was little if we'd pull his pants up to where his natural waist would be, he's pull them back down. When he was a baby we used to put suspenders on him. It's horrible to say, but it really was funny.

Anyway, we needed to get Pie some bigger panties. Then of course, Beeb piped in that she wanted new panties too. And Tito didn't want to be left out, so he got Batman Underoos.

And recently I've had a craving for Skittles.

So we were going to go to Target. Then I remembered that I've also had a craving for beer, and Target doesn't sell beer, so R and I drove a little farther to WalMart.

Some days, kids, the planets align and the heavens open up and God and His angels smile down on us. Today, however, we stirred the compassionate soul of St. Arnold, the Patron Saint of Beer .

I would have been satisfied with the Bud Select. But hey, look - they have Smithwicks! At WalMart! No shit! Let's get some!
Here's the tag.



It said a 6-pack of Smithwicks Ale was $1.14. Cheaper than a 20-ounce Diet Coke, for fuck's sake. That couldn't be right, could it? No way!

R was all set to go to the mat with whatever cashier tried to give us a hard time. He was TOTALLY, uncharacteristically, fired up. Nobody was going to deny my man his score. So we scanned it. And sure enough, it SCANNED at $1.14. R was a little disappointed that he didn't get to fight somebody.

We completely cleaned them out. We got five 6-packs of Smitty for less than the price of one 6-pack. UNBEFUCKINLIEVABLE!
I almost felt guilty about it. Almost.

So R and I went into Bonnie and Clyde mode and drove to three more WalMarts. We didn't get home until almost 11pm. We came up empty, and the gas we used probably negated what we saved on the beer, but it was an adventure!

And besides, Bonnie and Clyde mode is arousing...
Partners in Crime.

Psychology. History. High School.

I should write a book. Seriously.

This Reverse Psychology Parenting thing R and I have going is working brilliantly.

Remember how I had Blink 182 going in the Odyssexy on the way to Bible School? Beebie was reading the liner notes on an upcoming song (which had not played yet, thankfully, and please note that I was NOT going to play it with the kids in the van) and she asked me what a cock was. It helps, at this point, to know that the song she was talking about is called Happy Holidays, You Bastard:

It's Christmas Eve and I've only wrapped two fuckin' presents
It's Christmas Eve and I've only wrapped two fuckin' presents
And I hate, hate, hate your guts,
I hate, hate, hate your guts,
And I'll never talk to you again,
unless your dad will suck me off
I'll never talk to you again
unless your mom will touch my cock
I'll never talk to you again
ejaculate into a sock
I'll never talk to you again,
I'll never talk to you again

It's Labor day and my grandpa just ate seven fuckin' hotdogs
It's Labor day and my grandpa just ate seven fuckin' hotdogs
and he shit shit shit his pants.
He's always fuckin' shittin' his pants
And I'll never talk to you again
unless your dad will suck me off
I'll never talk to you again
unless your mom will touch my cock
I'll never talk to you again
ejaculate into a sock
I'll never talk to you again,
I'll never talk to you again


Should I be relieved or alarmed that she didn't ask about the phrases "suck me off" or "ejaculate into a sock?" I'm sticking with relieved, for now.

It's a great song to listen to when you're feeling particularly angsty. Not as good as Methods of Mayhem, which I prefer for extended angst, but if you need a quick little release and you only have about a minute, go with Happy Holidays, You Bastard. Trust me, you'll feel better. An anti-angst "quickie", if you will. And now you have the words, so you can sing along.

Anyway, when I discreetly told Beebs that a cock was a wiener, she said, "Well, then, Mom - I don't think the next song is going to be very, um . . . appropriate."

Yeah, I let my kids listen to things they probably shouldn't, but I figure as long as they KNOW they probably shouldn't be watching it, it's probably all right. At least I've confirmed that she knows which words are bad. She certainly wouldn't know from hanging out with me. I use "shit" and "stuff" interchangably, usually.

Observe a few of our recent conversations. We've been talking about her upcoming birthday:

Me: Hey, Beeb, when you turn 16, I'll take ya to get your nipples pierced.

Beeb: Eeeeew! Gross!

R: Or you can get a tattoo if you want.

Beeb: No way!!


This one takes place almost nightly:

Me: Hey, Beeb, fetch me a beer. And don't go sneakin' any sips, either!

Beeb: Whatever! Like I'd even!

See? Works like a charm. We've already got her terrified of sex, too, thanks to the power of Naps. Hee hee!!!


Oh, hey - the beer thing reminds me of my new role at Chez Inlaw. Forgot to tell you guys what MIL said to me at lunch on FIL's Day. We had brats and hot dogs, and I'm a bit of a brat connoisseur, so I asked where the brats were from. They have a butcher shop they like and they've gotten great meats there in the past.

My favorite brats are the ones from G&W Meats; they're the ones they serve at Grant's Farm. G&W Meats is brilliant. They give you a beer when you come in - no shit, it could be 9am and they'll offer you a beer when you walk in the door - of course, it's a Busch Light in a can, but hey, when have I ever complained about free beer?

Anyway, I asked MIL about the brats because they were pretty good (and because I wanted to make polite conversation before FIL started talking about whatever he was going to talk about). She said they were the Johnsonville Beer Brats.

We figured you'd like 'em, Sarah...they have beer in them.

So apparently I've established myself as the lush of the family, and I'm really quite okay with it. I like it, in fact. I just hope it doesn't take away any of the magic when I show up drunk in a red sequinned dress at FIL's wake.


I need to wrap up Summer PSR for you. I must admit, I got far more fiendish amusement for my money than I expected to. Anakin vs. ObiWan on the cross thing was fucking hysterical (see the last post for a pic, if you missed it), and there were other funny things too, but nowhere NEAR no $360 worth of entertainment value. Tell ya what, though - you be the judge.

Here's the Church Nazi in her extremely intimidating frog green polyester pants.

See the yellowish hexagon-shape at the bottom of the pic? That's the A-B symbol on my Grant's Farm parking sticker.


Here's a necklace Tito made for me.


Is Pope Benedict aware that this parish is handing out rainbow crosses to children? Perhaps I'll wear it to the Pride Parade this weekend.

My favorite photo op was today at the Family Mass. I was in the back of the church, near the baptismal font, which is the circle on the floor in this picture.

And I did a double-take.


THE CHILD IS IN A SWIMSUIT.

Ok, she's like, not even 2, and she didn't actually get in the pool, but she sure looked like she was going to. Thank God the Nazi didn't see her.

The other funnies were stories that I don't have pictures of. Pie's teacher told him he should be a priest. R and I weren't sure exactly what to make of that. Apparently, the lesson was about how Jesus was a servant and he washed the disciples' feet, and my boy piped in, "Hey, didn't some lady wash Jesus' feet and dry them with her hair?"

Yeah. My kid whipped out Mary freakin Magdalene.

And the very next day, after the kids found the Odyssexy in my assigned parking spot, piled in, and waited for the Nazi to blow her whistle so that we can all get back to our Hedonistic lives in an orderly fashion, I asked the kids what they learned that day.

Tito said they watched Veggie Tales videos. I bit my tongue and seethed silently - I'm paying for that?

Pie said, "Well, today we played a game. We were the Israelite slaves, and the teachers were the mean Egyptians who made us do really hard work. And to get away from the Egyptians, we were supposed to say Hail Mary."

It took me a second to figure out why that was beyond weird.

I could totally the voice of Linda Richman saying, "Hail Mary? Who the hell is Mary? Never heard of her. I'll say a Hail Barbra instead, no big whoop. Talk amongst yourselves..."

Old Testament Jews doing Hail Mary? What the FUCK are they teaching my kid??

That doesn't even make any sense.
ON ANY FUCKING LEVEL.

R thought I was kidding. Like I could make that shit up? I told him if they're gonna mess up my kids' historical perspective timeline, I want my fuckin money back. I ain't playin'.

But the kids all got good report cards - YES, THEY GIVE REPORT CARDS. Oh, and inside the envelope, each child got what looked like a Patron Saint trading card. But, alas, no bubble gum. Sigh. Ran out of money, I guess.

Tito's report card said that he did wonderful on his prayers and that he was "fast." I kinda didn't know what that really meant.

It sounded like a non-pliment, the intentionally vauge compliment that's not really a compliment; it's just something to say when you're supposed to say something nice or nothing at all and you can't exactly say nothing - which totally reminded me of the time we were at Chez Inlaw and The Aldis glowingly told us all how Aldigirl's dance teacher had told them that "Some kids sing really well, and some kids dance really well, but nobody sings and dances quite like Aldigirl..." They apparently didn't see it as the non-pilment that we did. The teacher didn't necessarily include Aldigirl among those who sing and/or dance really well.

Tito's fast? What is he, a playah? He did tell me he was one of only two boys in his class. And Tito does like the ladies. Guess I can be proud of that.

Beebie "always had thoughtful comments to contribute to the class discussions." And she got a 94% on, get this - HER FINAL EXAM. Yeah.

And Pie "has a real zest for learning." Which we knew. Anyway, so we've met our obligation for the year, and now we can decide if we want to change churches. This is a huge ongoing conflict at Chez Karma, kids. Stay tuned.

In other news, last night I took the kids to see High School Musical at The Muny. We were literally 10 rows from the stage. Didn't even zoom in for this pic. I could have thrown a rock and hit Gabriella. And don't think I didn't want to.


The words Sugar Coma pretty much sum it up.

The best part of the evening, other than my total Rock Star parking spot, was when we were pulling into said Rock Star parking spot, Beebie started screaming in the back of the Odyssexy, "MOM!!! ANTI-STELLA!! ANTI-STELLA!!!!!!" And of course, I'm thinking, oh there's no WAY her preggo ass is here, it's 94 degrees out. I still remember being pregnant with Beebie in late June and not voluntarily leaving the air-conditioning for fuckin ANYTHING. Except ice cream.

But I will say publicly that Anti-Stella is a far stronger woman than I am, friends, because damned if it wasn't Anti-Stella's 7-months-along ass, along with her oldest boy, SuperDuperCooper, walking right in front of the Muny. Awesome.

So today, weather permitting, we're going to hang out with the Anti-Stellas for the parade that goes right in front of our old house. Beyond that, my only plans are to rub two rocks together and hope they'll both turn to gold. Why?

Turns out Tito's ear tubes weren't paid at Network Level, and they're sticking us with a bill for $2000. I intend to complain. I didn't even tell you the drama I went through with that place because I would just as soon forget it, but maybe I'll dump that shit on y'all too.

I can't believe I've only posted 3 times all month.


By the way, I added an extra pic to the last post.
Scroll down and enjoy.

You haven't missed anything, really.

Shit, didn't realize it had been so long since my last update. Sorry.

So I'm shopping for some new Power Panties (in a smaller size, I'm proud to report) and my cell phone rings. It's Call Notes, meaning that someone has left me a message on my home phone. Weird, since R is at home. Why didn't he pick it up? Did something happen? So I press 1 to hear the message, thinking maybe it's the hospital or the police notifying Next of Kin.

Hey, Sarah, it's me, Camille's mom (I don't know why she constantly reminds me who she is), and Camille was wondering if Pie would like to... y'know... get together... maybe the pool...

SWAMP THING. I wouldn't have picked up, either. Nice one, R.

GIH. Now I gotta worry about running into her at the neighborhood pool. I already can't go to the Kohl's by me because she works there.

She gave me the window of time where she would be available to answer the phone when I called back. That window wasn't going to work for me. So I haven't called her back and I Just. Don't. Care.

This week and next are Summer PSR. I've been enjoying pulling into my assigned parking place playing some obnoxiously distasteful music. The church parking lot has excellent acoustics. I've played Nashville Pussy and NWA, for example. I played Blink 182 a couple of days but then Beeb asked me what a Cock was. And yes, I told her.

Yesterday I played Aerosmith in the van all day. I can't WAIT for Guitar Hero Aerosmith to come out. KOFA just got himself a Wii and I'm as giddy about it as he is. Factoring somewhat (he admits) into his decision of which system to purchase was the fact that he figured if he went with the Wii, he'd have access to my Wii game library. I'm sure a head-to-head Guitar Hero battle is imminent. Bring it, dude. Yer goin' down.

Meanwhile, I've had a lot of fun hearing about the kids' experiences in their PSR classes. They're making rosaries, which my sons will most certainly turn into weapons within a minute or two. My favorite thing by far has been Tito's art project. I don't know if they were supposed to draw Jesus or what, but here's what Tito brought home a couple of days ago:


It's Anakin vs. ObiWan. On the cross.
I nearly wet myself laughing.

And I finally (reluctantly and begrudgingly) paid my $360 for Summer PSR. After I gave the Nazi the check, I thought it would have been funny if I had paid in pennies. Or in a big wad of $1 bills that smell like smoke, stale beer and sweaty buttcrack. But of course I didn't think about that until a couple of days later. Sigh. I'm so much more brilliant after the fact, sometimes. I hate that.

The next funny thing, I'm going to give you an opportunity to click away if you're offended by the concept of, erm . . . sex toys.



Last chance.




Still here? Awesome. Well, on with the toy talk. I have what you could call a small arsenal. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I think I might have mentioned El Diablo on here, and if I haven't, well, I'll give ya the specs. Basically, you could club a baby seal to death with this thing. It's 9 1/2 inches in length, 6 inches around in girth. Hot pink. And the best part - GLITTER.

So I've been home alone for 4 hours every day this week, and, yeah, it's been a bit lonely. So yes, kids, I confess that two days ago I dug in my Fun Drawer for El Diablo. I had to move some stuff around, and apparently, I left out another of my toys on my dresser.

And Beeb found it.

Thank God it's not too phallic-looking, but you'd definitely know its function if you saw it.



She asked me what it was, and while I vehemently oppose the use of semantics to cloud the truth from someone, I told her it was a Massager. Cuz it is.

She wants to borrow it. Y'know, for her shoulders.


Oh, and you probably want to hear about Father's Day, dontcha? I almost forgot. It was really quite boring. I took out an ice cream pie because I didn't have time to mold four sticks of butter into something tasty and artery-clogging.

The night before, I'd been out to the Arch Rival Roller Girls bout with my friend Mysty. I'm tempted to skip the fireworks at the inlaws on July 5th so I can go to the next bout. It was so fun my good mood carried over into the next day, and FIL hardly worked my nerves at all. Plus, I came up with the most kickass roller derby name for myself. Not telling yet.

Here's your f*ckin update. Now shut up.

I'm sick. And I'm tired. And cranky. Bleh!

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I really hate summer. The last few weeks have been rainy too, and that sucks just slightly more than the blistering heat. My kids have come to expect constant entertainment, and as a result, my online time is limited. I try to keep mental notes of all the faaaaaabulous things the Apes and I have been doing so that when I get a few minutes to myself, I can blog them for whatever readers have stuck around. Here's what I can remember. Enjoy.


Stitch N' Pitch, and The Ish.

I got to go to Stitch N' Pitch again this year! Last year I went with the lovely Shannon. This year I met a lovely crocheter whom I'll call Maeby in one of my many online hangouts and we kinda set up a blind date. I even made her a corsage, because I'm such an awesome date.

Did YOUR date make YOU a corsage? Shoulda gone with ME.



Seriously, I'm the funnest date ever. I'm such a great date that it's like my gift to the world. Sucks that I'm kinda off the market.

The plan was that I would pick Maeby up at her work, and as I usually do with the people I meet, I established myself early on as what I call An Ish Person. Know what that means? That means if I say I'll meet you at 5, that means 5-Ish. Not everyone is an Ish person, and I really do try to respect the people who aren't, and that's why I try to lay it out in the beginning; so we can determine our Ish compatability. R, for example, is most emphatically NOT Ishy (and I really wasn't either, until I had kids). But I am now, and I tend to prefer the company of other Ishers.

Sometimes it might be necessary to calibrate your Ish when determining Ish compatability, but generally the Ish refers to the common socially acceptable window of time that you can still count as close enough to the agreed-upon time without pissing the other person off. To me, 10 - 15 minutes is the Ish. It allows for traffic and unforseeable circumstances like uncooperative kids and whatnot. At any time within the Ish, if I can see that I'm going to arrive outside the Ish, I'll always call. I'm not that big a jackass that I'd show up half an hour late without explanation or apology. See? Ideal date.

Anyway, the SNP seats were WAY better this year, the Cardinals won, it was a beautiful night, Maeby was totally cool and we each won a prize in the door prize drawing. She won yarn and I won the Vogue Knitting book Stitchionary - righteous!! We drank $8 margaritas - which I will say, were not worth $8 - and after the game we accidentally took the Metrolink to the wrong side of the river, but it was hilarious and quickly rectified. A good time was had by all.


Tito's Ears.

The next momentous event in my life was taking my baby to get the tubes put in his ears. There's something deeply unsettling about seeing your kid under anesthesia. But the worst is knowing they trust you so inherently, when you know what's going to happen to them and they don't. That just makes ya feel like the worst parent in the world.

When they opened the door to let me know he was done, I could hear him screaming all the way down the hall. He wasn't even all the way awake yet. He was soooo pitiful. I held him until my arm fell asleep. And of course I took pictures, mostly for R because I knew he'd be there if he could and he knew how hard it would be for me. But I can share them with you too.

He started out playful and almost giddy.


Checkin the place out.


His little panties were funny, peekin out the back of his dress.


Here's when I started to cry. Ooooh! The wagon! Fun!!!
No, not really... they're about to cut into your HEAD.


This part was really heartbreaking too.


Beebie and Pie were jealous that Tito got to have a popsicle and Sprite for breakfast.


Time to go!


He screamed the ENTIRE way home. I stopped at Walgreens to get him some Tylenol and he didn't want to get out of the van. It occurred to me to leave him in the van and run in real quick like a bunny, but the way he was screaming I just knew someone would think he was screaming because his crack whore mother left him in the van while she went and got some pseudoephedrine for her meth lab and I'd get arrested. So I toted his 50-pound ass into Walgreens on my hip while he screamed in my ear.

I'm a mom. It's my job.


Sick of being sick.

Remember the Strep I had on Mother's Day? R has the Strep now. He missed two days of work, and, dutiful wife, I took care of him. Which means, of course, now I'll get it - for the second time in a month - and he'll have to go back to work and I'll have to do everything I normally do and nobody will take care of MY ass. It's nobody's fault, I know R'd take care of me if he could, but he can't, and it just sucks. It makes me more sad than angry.

R wants me to get better, of course. Why? So I won't have to skip out on Father's Day like I did Mother's Day. Y'know, since it was such a cake walk to be home alone in bed with a fever and sore throat and a giant vat of yogurt (for my blazing cooter, don't forget). Yeah. LOVED that. No, R doesn't want to have to deal with any FIL drama that might be associated with my absence, regardless of the reason for it. Jesus, I wish I could reach down my throat, pull out my own spleen and beat FIL into a fuckin coma with it.


Other Random Shit.

I spent the weekend watching Season 3 of Weeds. I love that show. I would totally do Conrad. Yeah, I said it.

Oh, and KOFA has a kilt. He doesn't like me referring to my son's undergarments as "panties", but he'll wear a manskirt. Without panties. I mean, I'm assuming. I didn't check.

Rock on!!!