Yuletide Log.

And not the kind that you'd want to put into the fire either, believe me.This preggo constipation is a sick readiness program that God has concocted to train us pregnant woman to push no matter what. PUSH even when it seems like the object you are pushing has clearly settled in with the remote and doesn't plan on going anywhere.

If that's the case, if this really is a training program - I'm training HARD.
Pun is horribly intended.

Yes I'm talking about my poo. AGAIN. For regular readers, I'm sure this is no surprise, (<--- do not click on that link unless you love me very much and promise to love me even after you read it!) to others who happen to stumble onto this by accident, my apologies but you know you're going to keep reading. Black, white, yellow, old, young, short, tall, curved or straight, the whole world can relate to poo. Especially the kind of poo that has you sitting on the pot for two hours trying to pass what feels like a dry, misshaped foot.

I wonder, how the hell am I going to get this out? Clearly pushing, hysterically crying and praying isn't working. There has to be another way. Hmm, maybe if I put my leg this way and hold onto the sink like this and sing Daydream Believer by The Monkees. Ridiculous, but I try it. I try it because I'm desperate. I try it because I'm starting to get a toilet ring around the ass.

Things start to get a little frantic at about hour two. Horror stories about that chick that got stuck in the toilet for two years start to creep into my head. I can almost feel my skin embracing my dire situation and start growing around the toilet. No!!

I really don't now how I get through these ordeals. I think I pass out from exhaustion and somehow my personal Christmas presents manage to make it down the chimney because I'm still here, spinchter still intact - but just barely. Pass me the Prep-H.

I truly do apologize that I choose my blog as my main venue to rant about the yuletide logs coming out of the bunghole but it's not like I can do it anywhere else you understand? When someone asks me, oh hey girl, how's that pregnancy going? Sure I can talk about my fatigue and the nausea (that seems to be passing thank goodness) but even my socially inept self knows that when someone asks me how my pregnancy is going, they do not want to know about my rock hard droppings.

I'm sure you didn't want to either and yet here you are with horrible visuals in your head - you really are a dear dear friend. I'll release you from the clutches of disgusting thoughts and experiences now.

Go.

Take that hot shower and keep at it until all of what has been discussed here is gone.

I love you.

Grand Opening of Club Uterus!

Wow it's been more than a month since I've posted anything. I would say that's a record but more often than not I'm ignore this blog more than I paying attention to it. So really, I'm just being consistent.

So first things first, for once, I have a very legitimate excuse for not blogging and mostly that's because more than two months ago I peed on a little stick and it told me that Club Uterus was open and ready for business. In fact, just this week, I got a little peek at our new client at Club Uterus.


That's right. I have a little bean rocking out in there waiting to make his debut on July 4th! Whoot! Whoot!

Actually the baby looks more like Mr. Peanut, just give it a top hat, a cane and an eye spectacle thingy?

Bam-o Mr. Peanut:


and lots of things are happening at Club Uterus. Since it opened, the place has been rockin' with activity so much that I've been feeling nice and queasy almost every day. Thank goodness there hasn't been any deliveries from the regurgitation station and I hope it stays that way until this thing passes. I've been tired and sluggish after about 10:00 a.m - I've attempted to write many blog posts since the day I found out but I think I ended up falling asleep and drooling on myself before I even started typing. In fact, the other day I think I slept the entire time I was washing dishes. As for the outgoing deliveries via my ass, sometimes I think I'm passing a semi truck through a doggy door and the after affects? Let's just say that it feels like I've been sodomized by a Clydesdale.

The nausea and the extreme fatigue is all new to me because when I was preggers with the munchkin, I felt sick once and I was only really tired a handful of times. Unfortunately, the constipation part I'm quite familiar with.

Yeah it gets a little graphic up here at Club Uterus but we're super excited about adding on to our team. The crazy thing is two of my best friends, with whom I've been friends with since the 2nd and 3rd grade, are pregnant too, we're within weeks of each other. So it looks like Club Uterus is a franchise.

So I hope you don't mind if this blog starts becoming my weekly log of all the happenings at the Club. The good, the bad, the gross, the cravings (I want to put Tabasco sauce on EVERYTHING right now) and the constipation.

If anything this will give me an excuse to not ignore this poor blog for so long. It thinks its gotten fat and I'm doing another blog on the side.

Back Up Off My Reese's yo and other post-Halloween delights...

I really have nothing to say and no time to say it because I have to get out of the house in a half an hour to pick up the munchkin and the dog is crossing his legs begging me to let him out so he can pee on every bush that dares not smell like his urine. So I'll make this quick....

This year the munchkin became quite the little mind changing diva when it came to deciding what she wanted to be for Halloween. She wanted to be a rattlesnake, a tarantula, oh no mom, can I be Hannah Montana? oh no wait, I want to be ICarly, oh wait, no, I want to be her best friend Sam! Actually I want to be Wanda on Fairly Oddparents.

WHAT?

Her costume ideas were getting more and more obscure every day, I was afraid if I didn't make a decision for her, she was eventually going to want to be the old lady who said "I'll have what she's having" in that movie When Harry Met Sally.

So we finally decided on Patrick Starr, Spongebob's best friend. Great. Fine. Good. Let's go online and see what they have and this is what a found:


I'm pretty sure this is what future KKK members wear to their preschool class. Um, no. Not going to work. So with no sewing skills whatsoever, this is what me, fabric glue, felt and safety pins managed to wrangle up:


I give it a B- but she loved it so I got an A+ from the munchkin.

In other Halloween news....

My brother's girlfriend and I hit a new low when we dug out all the Reese's Peanut butter cups out of our candy bowl so we could keep it to ourselves. The kids can have the Dots and Dum Dum lollipops. We need chocolate and peanut butter sustenance because we all know passing out candy and tsk-tsk-ing on 9 year olds dressed in inappropriately sexy costumes (one was a sexy vampire who ended up just looking like a two dollar hook with bad dental work) is a hard job. And then later of course, I have the arduous task of going through my daughter's candy pile and sneaking out the candy I want from her stash without her noticing. Phew. A mother's work is never done.

Joey took me to the annual Haunted Trail thingy they have here at Balboa Park. I screamed, screeched and practically ran myself into a wall as scary teenage zombies and out of work ax murderers came at me and followed me in the woods. Joey laughed, pointed and egged the them on. It brings him extreme joy to see me scurry and pee myself in terror and as a good friend and devoted hag, I am willing to give this to him every year. You're welcome Joey. Thanks for the chicken strips at Dennys afterwards.

OH! and I've gotten an idea for a possible Halloween outfit for next year as well. I'm sure you've all noticed that a lot of women take Halloween as an opportunity to take any mundane occupation; be it a nurse, a flight attendant, a McDonald's cashier, whatever, and turn it into a whore-a-ween costume, which I have no problems with but it's so tired and obvious don't you think? I think we should turn less obvious things into whore-a-ween costumes.

For example, why hasn't anyone thought to dress up as a slutty hobo? Dirty hair, smelly clothes, holding a jar of piss with like short shorts? or what about Little Bo Peep's sheep? Why can't we have sexy Bo Peep Sheep? When is it THEIR turn to whore out? A naughty ax murder? A bloody head and lots of cleavage sounds like a win/win to me.

Okay I gotta go, my dog is now doing the pee pee dance and I think I just heard his bladder burst.

Lindsey And Donatella doing a great impression of my parent's leather couch.

So my take on the Lindsey Lohan thing is basically, wake me up when the E True Hollywood Story happens, particularly at the part where they show her snorting cocaine with a vacuum attachment.

It’s really hard for me to pay attention to a slow moving train derailment even if it does leave crack rock trails and incoherent twitter rants in its wake. Yawn. Snore. At least Britney Spears embraced her train wreck and made it action packed! (She’s a true performer that Britney...)

This morning, whilst perusing my favorite celebrity blogs, I came upon this picture and I immediately felt like my eyes were covered in fire ants and I was doused in alcohol and sweaty desperation. This picture gave me the cotton mouths in a serious way. I wanted to take all those free moisturizer sample packets in my magazines and squirt it at these two walking Halloween masks.

Did Lindsey volunteer for some kind of fucked up Donatella Versace apprenticeship program where the goal is to look like 15 miles of bad road with potholes, stand next to Donatella and make her look like a spring peach? I would have laughed at such an idea but this picture made me think twice. Don’t get me wrong, Donatella definitely doesn’t come close to looking like a spring peach. I don’t think she’s been ‘springy fresh’ since the 1700s. But she usually looks like that overly cooked chicken you see in the grocery store that’s been spinning inside the roaster for like a day and a half, with its crunchy skin all hanging off.

However, in this picture next to Lindsey, she’s taken on a very youthful, “sun bleached, dried up kitchen sponge” look don’t you think? Who knew Lindsey’s meth wrinkles would be quite complimentary on Donatella?

But even though I make fun, I still hope Lindsey pulls through. Remember when she appeared to be talented and well fed? The poor child is 23 going on 63 with a face that’s slowly looking like Octomom’s flappy lips (not the giant wax lips on her face either). This is why we say NO to drugs kids; particularly taking an eight ball of cocaine with a vodka chaser for breakfast.

As for Donatella, I’m not even worried about her because we all know zombies defy the test of time.

Xenu's Burning My Meatloaf and Other Delightful Nuggets...

Despite my love for sweets, (see love letter to Funfetti cake mix post below!) I'm pretty proud of myself for not being 300 plus pounds which I could easily gain if left alone at a 7-11 overnight. Do I want to stick my head under the blueberry slurpie nozzle, turn that lever and shotgun that sucker like a kegger? Yes. Yes I do. With every fiber of my being; however, I refrain because I care about my health! (actually I just haven't had the opportunity because the damn cashier is always eyeballing me when I start to circle the machine.)


At this point, do you think Jon Gosselin sweats dirty vag water? I know we throw the word 'douche' around in jest but I think that the universe has agreed with the masses for once and is turning him into an actual douche. If he starts growing a plastic spout of his ass, we'll know my theory is true.


I got so busy the other day that I actually told my poo to stop bothering me and come back again later when I'm not so busy. Like it was a Mormon knocking on the door or something. Well, no that's a lie, I would never tell a Mormon to come back later.


Last night I woke up around 2:45 a.m. and thought I smelled meat. I know - don't walk away yet, it gets better. I'm sitting there trying to determine what the smell was. It wasn't overpowering, it was just a hint of a smell. So every possible reasonable explanation goes through my head in about five seconds, 'did viking hubby just cut a fart with some extra stank on it? (no, because the smell didn't make my face want to eat itself which is usually my reaction when hubby lets one go). Is the dog breathing on me? (no). Did we leave a frying pan on the stove and maybe it's turned on slightly? (hmm, possibly.) So the next logical thing is to go check it right?

Well this is where you and I are differ. My brain made a U-turn out of logic town and heads to Tom Cruise's Xenu House of Crazyville because then I start thinking, well - what if this is some kind of ploy (by ALIENS. I know....SIGH...) to get me out of bed (double sigh) so they can electroshock me and put heated pokers up my bum? Fun for Tom Cruise sure, but for me, not so much. I swear, this TOTALLY made sense to me at 2:45 a.m. In my head, I was certain that in the alien handbook on how to attract and abduct humans, cooking meatloaf on low heat topped the list. It was nothing by the way, I ran to the kitchen, didn't see anything and ran back to bed. Because you know,...aliens can't possibly catch me when I'm onto their sneaky cooking schemes and scurrying quickly.

And yet, after all that, I still can't wait to watch THIS MOVIE.


I twitted the other day that I think I am allergic to PTA moms and actually I felt kind of bad about that because I'm sure most of the moms in the PTA are lovely people. So let me be more specific. The things about the PTA that causes my eye to twitch uncontrollably and make me wish for tourettes syndrome are...

* those in the PTA that emphasize and drag their vowels ...'oh that's greaaaaat.' 'Oh that's absolutely daaaarling.' 'Hey yooouuuuuu, how have you beeeeen? Oh wondeeeerful!"

* those in the PTA who can't differentiate whether they're talking to adults or children, so they just talk to everyone in the same, condescending baby talk. And usually, it's the same people who drag their vowels. They're a hoot to have a forced conversation with.

* those in the PTA that treat the planning of a bake sale fundraiser with the same seriousness as feeding starving children in Africa. You're selling homemade cupcakes girlfriend, not rebuilding a village in Darfur. Take it down a notch.

* those in the PTA that give me the side eye because I can't volunteer for 50 events in one week. I have a thing called WORK and Facebook to do when the munchkin's in school. Piss off.

* and finally those in the PTA that can't handle a tasteful dick joke once in a while. (when its just the adults around of course) God forbid I interrupt your fascinating monologue on how much better your child is than some other mom's kid, THEN when said mom comes around you smile in their face and tell them that they're just daaaarling.

Sorry, I got kind of ugly there didn't I? My apologies. My panties get into quite a bunch when I'm denied my sub-par dick jokes.

You Complete Me. A love letter to Pillsbury.

Dear Pillsbury "Funfetti" cake mix,

I will never forget that moment last week when you caught my eye. So festive, so joyful with the doughboy promising everlasting yumminess in your blue and rainbow colored box that glistened under the Target halogen lights. I was going to walk right past you for what did I need cake mix for? There was no birthday to be had, no special event in the near future to warrant a cake and I'm not much of a cooker/baker anyway. Even the simplest of baking tasks (like a cake in a box) can turn into a shriveled black coal in my cooking disabled hands. Children have weeped and ran away in fear from past baked monstrosities goodies that had the misfortune to have been created by me. There was absolutely no reason that our paths should cross.

But it did. And I was drawn like a magnet, curious as to what' funfetti' meant in the context of a cake. As I got closer, I saw that you were just a simple cake mix with some sprinkles thrown in. How could a simple thing like cake mix with sprinkles in it possibly live up to the promise of glee, celebration and happiness that your box shouted at me from across the room? It couldn't! And yet there I was, picking you up and including you with my other basket of goodies that was the reason I had visited Target in the first place. (Madonna CD/DVD of course).

Still unimpressed, I let you sit in the cupboard for three days and almost forgot about you until my sweet tooth kicked in. Let's see what that cake has to offer I thought, making you as an afterthought as I chatted away on the phone. It was at this point that I saw a recipe for Funfetti cookies on the side of the box and on a whim, I decided to do cookies instead because it only required two eggs, a 1/3 cup of oil and a steady mixing hand. Even THAT I could do and the 1 and a half steps it required to make the cookies appealed to my laziness when it comes to cooking. (oh who am I kidding, it appealed to my laziness period.)

Eight minutes later you were done. Two minutes later I experienced you.
(gotta let that bitch cool. Many a taste buds have been sacrificed due to my inability to grasp this concept in the past.)

And......OH.....My......GOD.

Cake mix with sprinkles!!! So simple and yet GENIUS on my taste buds!!! How could I have ever doubted you? How could I have questioned the marketing execs at Pillsbury? If Pillsbury promises ecstasy and one million orgasms in a box then by God they deliver!! I'm a believer Pillsbury! I am a believer!

I was a fool. I'm sorry. Please accept my apologies. I hope to have more wonderful times together, even if half the time it is my husband who prepares you, just remember, it is I that loves you most.

Til' we meet again on aisle 6, sweet sweet funfetti dreams.

Your admirer, lover, and newfound addict,

Me.

Dear Joe Simpson, Quit Creeping Around My Legs! (Jeopardy Answer: Things Jessica Simpson would say.)

A funny thing happened to me when I went to go see the red-headed messiah and comedy idol, Kathy Griffin, this weekend with my gays.

I got R.L.S.

What's R.L.S. you say? Restless Leg Syndrome.

Yeah. I know. What the fuckity fuck? Leave it up to me to get random shit at the most inopportune time. I'm surprised I didn't get a whooping cough on top of it. Anyways, come closer, hold my hand and walk down short term memory lane with me won't you?

If you don't know what restless leg syndrome is, let me explain. It's this super creepy crawly feeling that you get in your legs and you're just unable to keep them still. There's this urge to MOVE. If you have gotten restless leg syndrome, then you know the feeling that I'm talking about. (or if you're Jessica Simpson, you know the kind of creepy that I'm talking about, right Joe Simpson?) I don't know much about it, but I've gotten it on and off throughout my life. I even saw a commercial for a magic pill that would get rid of R.L.S. in exchange for wonderful side effects like growing a giant fuzzy mole in the middle of your forehead, powerful bowel movements and sporadic turrets syndrome.

My restless leg attack was so bad this past Saturday, I would not have hesitated taking a bucketful of those pills. Apparently waking up 5:45 a.m., going fishing all day, stressing out over my dog, drinking two very strong Jack and Cokes (thanks John!), and eating way too much Chinese food was the secret ingredient to a full blown restless leg attack.

So there I was, fifth row at one of the most hilarious shows I've ever seen, trying to enjoy my girl Kathy and I could not, for the life of me, sit still. To top it off, they were taping it for Bravo which is going to air sometime in November, so I couldn't get up and walk it off. AND as if that wasn't bad enough, wouldn't you know it, with only a half hour left of the show, all of a sudden had to go to the bathroom really bad. If my tweaky fidgeting wasn't noticeable before, it was definitely noticeable now.

And I guess that's why I'm writing this post, if you watch it this November and the camera happens to pan on a Filipino girl who's crackin' out like Whitney Houston in her seat; um, that's just overly tired me suffering from R.L.S., full of piss, booze and Chinese food.

I told you I was due for a comeback.

Short, Sweet and Often...and no, I'm not talking about my Circus Peanuts Diet.

Um hi, remember me? Yeah, I don't either. I'm not going to make any blog declarations anymore, because it seems like whatever goal I set for myself, my brain will do the exact opposite. I love how in the last post I was going for a modest one to two posts a week and I went over a MONTH without posting! So yeah, maybe I'll declare that from now on I'm going to blog sporadically and write whenever the hell I feel like it because that's what I've been doing anyway, I'm going to just embrace my talent for inconsistency and you should too. Clearly I excel at it.

Anyways, enough about that because I imagine the only people left reading this are me and a random sicko who accidentally got here by googling popular key words that seem to lead to my blog: midget and underwear. No joke. I owe those two words a fancy dinner and a hand job with all the random hits I get from them. I'm sure most of the accidental visitors leave my blog in a huff and secretly cuss me out for A. not having the underwear they were looking for? B. for not really being a midget and C. for not having a picture of a midget in their underwear.

And to that last category of people, I apologize. Here's a picture of my colleague Bridgette the midget to make your visit here somewhat worthwhile...

And yes I DID say colleague because we shared trade secrets and become BFFs on the set of a wildly popular movie called "Tiptoes." I'm sure you've heard of it, but just as a reminder, I had three pivotal scenes in that movie - one was the back of my head; a performance so moving and scene stealing that I practically won an Oscar for 'Best Movie Extra's Back of Head Walk By." Unfortunately I lost out to "Dead Spartan Number 4" from the movie 300. We were neck and neck though.

Please don't act all weird now that you know my celebrity past. I put my ball gag on one strap at a time just like you do. So relax. And yes, I will personally autograph your beloved DVD copy of "Tiptoes"..... if you send me a dollar. Sorry, blame the economy. And Kanye.

I'm keeping this post short and sweet because I really do want to blog more than once every 6 months, so this is me not blowing my blog wad. But as a special favor for me, I ask my three readers that you pray for the death of all things rattlesnake! A baby rattlesnake bit our doggy this past weekend. Thankfully, we caught it in time, rushed him to the vet and he's doing fine. This took a hit to our wallets like you wouldn't believe because apparently the only people more crooked and conniving than the mafia are veterinarians.

Our option upon getting to the hospital with our poor doggy was cough up the dough for their specialized treatment or your beloved doggie dies. The most ridiculous of charges was a fee for "administering the shots"...the medicine in the shot was a whole other price bracket entirely, let's not get into THAT, but it was 65 dollars just to ADMINISTER it. As in just the act of poking and pushing the needle into our dog was costing us 65 dollars. WTF? We're all in the wrong business people.

Although to be fair they did give us an 'budget friendly' option of putting him to sleep for $100.00. What thoughtful saints they are.

Thankfully, my wonderful awesome friends, Debi and Drew, stepped up to the plate right away and helped us in our time of need as soon as they heard what happened to our dog. We didn't even ask, they're just friends who go above and beyond the call of duty because it comes naturally to them. So thanks guys, seriously. If it wasn't completely inappropriate, I would hire some strippers to give both of you a lap dance with a little dry humping on the side. But the combination of stripper glitter and sweaty politician smell takes at least two bottles of Tide with bleach to get out. Maybe we'll skip that and just take them to dinner and a drag show next time they're in town.

So remember, your homework today kids is 'death to all things rattlesnake' and 'let more midget movies come my way.'

Sorry, I had to stick that last part in because I think I'm due for a comeback.

and I kinda miss Bridgette the Midget.

I Come To You A Year Older with Stories of Strange Creatures and Beheadings..

Yes I know! I've been blog constipated for months now, pushing out little hard turd posts a pathetic twice, three times a month. For this I truly apologize to the few readers who STILL come back. (thank you for your patience and patronage by the way) My daughter is headed back to school on Monday so that should at least up my blog posts from two/three a month (sigh) to once a week? Hopefully? No promises because you all obviously know what happens to my "I swear I'll blog more" promises. (big deep exasperated SIGH).

Since we last gathered around my sputtering blog fire, a few things have happened. My birthday has come and gone. (August 12th, please mark it on your calendar as a national holiday if you haven't already. And feel free to click on the Amazon wish list button on your right to give me a belated birthday gift so I can forgive you for forgetting my 21ST BIRTHDAY. - don't question me).

Go on. I'll wait.

The viking hubby asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I asked him if he could please babyshit ( <---- typo but I'm leaving it because I'm lowbrow like that.) while I took off for the weekend with main gay Joey to visit our friend Debi and her husband Drew in Morro Bay, which is this sleepy little fisherman's town in the central coast of California. Viking hubby happily accepted as that meant he didn't have to go to the store and do hard things like "get a card" and "get a present."

If left to his own devices, I would have a gun collection that rivals his. TRUTH: When we first got married, I once got a huge stuffed gorilla, a box of chocolates AND A GUN for Valentine's day. His reasoning? So we could go shooting TOGETHER (aww) at the range with my very own gun. (I never did know what the giant gorilla was for but I imagine it was a stand in for him when he goes out fishing all day). He IS romantic people.. just in a very soldier of fortune kind of way. But I know viking hubby's limits now and I abide by them.

So I had a fabulous birthday weekend in Morro Bay eating, laughing, sleeping in, taking naps, kayaking, - everything a vacation should be with good friends. I won't go into details because my vacation is part of my summer vacation episode of I'm Not Samantha Brown that is currently in the works.

In other news? I've been experiencing a whole new way of life up here in my new hilltop home and by 'experiencing' - I mean screaming at the top of my lungs at the funky creatures that insist on visiting us. Or they could've been sent by the bees and lizards to kill us for murdering their kind once we moved in.

For example, please oh baby Jesus in heaven, what in holy peroxide is this???


It was shaped like a giant ant with what can only be described as bleach blonde David Bowie locks all over its body. I guess I caught it as it was getting back from the salon, because I saw NO roots. This bug is way ahead of Britney Spears already.

And one time, I attempted to take a stick that had gotten stuck on my flip flop when it said, "oh hell no bitch!" and CRAWLED AWAY.

Let me recap for you what I just said in case you didn't fully grasp the creep factor of this incident.

THE STICK.

WALKED.

AWAY.


I won't even tell you how much crap ran down my pants when that happened because it would just be embarassing and would cause you to look at me in an even more unflattering light than you already do.

One bottle of hand sanitzer and a couple of soiled panties later, we found a visitor hitching a ride on our floating temperature gage in the pool. This visitor's first name was Rattle last name Snake.

That's right, you heard correct. A baby rattle snake decided to take a dip into our pool. This is truly when viking hubby's countrified blood starts pumping in excitement. Before I could even take a picture, he had pushed the floating gage to the edge of the pool with a stick and when Mr. Rattlesnake stuck his head up to the edge of the pool to get out, he was then treated to a beheading by viking hubby with said stick. I had to convince viking hubby to throw it away and not make meal and a belt out of it. I apologize for not taking a picture but I have to tell you that it takes all my might to go within two feet of a bug so really, unless I had one of those paparazzi camera with the telescopic lens, a drawing is the best I could do:

(click on below images to make it larger)

Seriously - who needs a camera when you have my lifelike paint sketches? It really does transport you to the moment doesn't it?

So anyways, that's it for now - we'll see if other strange creatures make an appearance here at Casa De VikingMidget Ranch, (dragonflies with mohawks? humming birds with fake eyelashes?, spiders scooting around in a lowered impala??) and I'll make sure to report these findings to you.

Thank you in advance for my birthday presents.

(If anything my new talent for subtle gift begging warrants at least a small gift of circus peanuts or smelly stickers.) ;-)

Dear Circus: Why So Circusy?

I got a Ramen noodle up my ass today (they don't digest well sometimes) and I decided to take the munchkin to the circus before the weekend crowd came. The price was a poor man's pleasure of 12 bucks per ticket. Sweet. Especially since the munchkin would practically drop a hard turd in her pants whenever she saw a commercial for the circus, I knew for sure she would be excited to go.

I bought our tickets which was indeed 12 bucks but I should have known better than to think I would get away with a bargain. We got inside and the munchkin wanted some popcorn. Okay - popcorn, that can't be that bad right, popped corn kernels in a cardboard box? How much could that possibly be? Four bucks tops right?

SEVEN.DOLLARS.
For. POP.CORN.
I kept digging around in the box looking for gold nuggets, a small car or free maid service - something that would explain the exorbitant price. I can't tell you how much I wanted to give the popcorn man a thousand paper cuts with the cash I begrudgingly gave him. And they TOTALLY got me after that because they put roughly two cups of salt in it so of COURSE we would have to buy lemonade lest our tongues shrivel into jerky. The lemonade they had came in a lovely 'collectible' squeezee cup thingy at the "bargain price" of 9 DOLLARS. I think I snarled at the lemonade guy and nipped at his fingers when he came for my money.

The munchkin was very excited to be at the circus for about an hour and then she was over it. And I have to say I don't blame her. Since when did the circus get so A.D.D.? Isn't there suppose to be the center ring where all the circus happiness happens? This was not the case at the circus we went to tonight. There was crap going on all OVER the place - at the same time! The center ring, the side ring, the ceiling, the basement, under my seat. Oh lookit the horses over there doing the running man, but oh check out the zebras over here smoking cigarettes and oh lookit that foreign Chinese girl walking on a tightrope with her tongue, what about that guy juggling parapalegic midgets! DAMN! I got whiplash trying to look at everything all at once. I imagine this is what it must look like in Paula Abdul's brain.

The worst of part of it was the ringmaster and all the performers who had speaking parts were LIP SYNCING. Seriously? A Paula Abdul theme with a Milli Vanilli performance? No one could understand a word they said. You could tell they were getting pissed off when they would ask for some audience participation and got none because they all sounded like they were chewing on Dirk Diggler's peen.

Ring Master: Ladies and Gentlemen are you ready for the show?
What we actually heard: Shammies and gelatin, are few dilly in the snow?

Top that off with horrible community theater acting complete with cheesy overly gestured gesturing bordering on jazz hands, a stupid 'side plot' of some green clown trying to 'ruin the show' - the ongoing storyline was stupid and about as pointless as having a plot in porn (not that I've ever watched - I've just, you know, heard about it and what not ...) I was looking for the vendor selling fast forward buttons so we could just hurry up and get to the good shit.

The only time I was truly entertained was when the tigers came out. I was wishing so hard that one of the tigers would swipe the trainer guy that I think I popped a blood vessel. I didn't want him to get mauled or anything but a little maiming and a loss limb or two would've brought me right back into the show! Don't judge. The man was wearing a gold corset with tight sparkly cream leggings and was totally a German Tony Little. (pre-recorded, unintelligible yelling....with a heavy German accent.). He practically had a sign on his back that said "Tiger Food." Oh how I wished and wished. Screw you Oprah, The Secret doesn't work for evil! I should have known.

I also remembered why I don't like watching the circus. The animals. Elephants, tigers and zebras should be running around, indiscriminately shitting all over the jungle and sleeping in the shade. It just feels wrong when you bedazzle their anuses and make them do a ballerina twirls.

OH! And the irony of it all?
No CIRCUS PEANUTS at THE CIRCUS!!!

Unbelievable.

The entire circus experience was unnatural and surreal. It was too .........dare I say....CIRCUS-Y!

That's right. I'm complaining about the circus for being what it is. Just agree with me and lets not argue about it anymore.

The Bank Fathered My New Gray Hair #35.

But gray hair makes you look distinguised right??? So all this gray hair is a good thing!

Wait, I think you have to have a penis for that adjective to apply....

Oh well, aging hag it is. I curse you vagina.

On with the story...

The other day while I was checking the balance on my bank account online - and by 'checking my balance' I really mean, 'crying at the $5.00 left over when all our bills our paid.' However, instead of the paltry crumbs of cash left in the wake of our bills, it appeared that we didn't even have crumbs, we had a black hole! We were in the red!

Imposible!! I cried out. (I turn very Latin when I get angry.)

I had deposited a check on Monday that should have covered everything and then some! Upon further investigation of my transaction, I realized the check I deposited on Monday was never recorded and/or put through! How could this be? I had used their deposit box inside the bank which was basically the same as going to the teller, as in the checks were processed and deposited that day.... well all except for my check apparently. I guess I'm just lucky like that.

I called the branch and some douche bag who was about as useful as a fingerless lesbian claimed that no such deposit was made and was I sure that I went into THEIR branch? oh and what day did you go? Are you sure? Are you sure you aren't really a 80 year old woman with early onset of Alzheimer's? Are you sure the mensies aren't putting you in a crazed state ma'am? Clearly the last of your brain cells have lost their way and made it into your tampon because SURELY our bank could not possibly lose/misplace a check.

It was at this time that I went beyond Latin and turned into east L.A. chola on his ass, complete with sharpee eyebrows and the nickname 'Baby Puta.'

are you fukin tellin' me you lost my check eh? You stupid pendejo, Imma go over there and fuckin' kick your ass eh.'

Despite my threats to run him over with my Impala, he still couldn't find my check. I hung up on him, called my boss, informed him of the situation and he went to the bank and re-deposited my paycheck himself thank goodness. But upon checking my account again the next day, I saw that my bank had charged me $66.00 dollars worth of overdraft charges since checks had cleared against my account when there was still no money in it because THEY HAD LOST MY PAYCHECK!

I emailed the corporate offices about the situation, thinking they were the only ones that could refund an overdraft fee. But they gave me some bullshit email about it taking them 24 to 48 hours to 'review' my email and 'research' the situation so I called the branch that had lost my check again to see what they could do. We eventually resolved the problem and they found the check. As it turns out, it was kind of my bad and kind of their bad, the pen I was writing with was low on ink and they couldn't read my account number. My name in the system is my maiden name slash my married name and the name on my check was just my married name so they couldn't pull it up via my name either.

HOWEVER, the clueless skid mark I had spoke to the first time should have found that check and resolved the problem immediately. So they happily refunded the $66.00 dollars they had charged me with no arguments. I didn't go Latino, chola or even rabid hyena on anyone this time around, which was a relief.

On the corporate side, they sent me an email that stated they had 'researched' my situation, they saw that my check did go through two days later and that the overdraft charges were correct as they had to cover the checks that had gone through the day before the deposit. I told them that I was in awe of their 'stellar' research skills and suggested a future career with the CIA. (I wasn't sarcastic at all I swear..) I explained to them that the situation had been resolved with the local branch so thanks but I'm good. But I also felt the need to explain to them that the deposit that they saw was my boss redepositing the check that had been misplaced and that the overdraft charges that I was contesting would not have incurred had my check gone through on the day that I deposited it.

Does that make sense to you guys? I didn't think it was that confusing. I even gave them a break down that looked like this:

Monday: deposited paycheck.
Tuesday: paycheck didn't go through. So checks cleared and overdraft charges happened which WOULDN'T have happened if my paycheck went THROUGH on Monday - the day I deposited my paycheck.
Wednesday: Boss redeposited my paycheck.

The end right?

Oh no. They emailed me back, still NOT understanding the situation, and EXPLAINED TO ME WHAT OVERDRAFT CHARGES WERE and why they provide this valuable overdraft protection to their customers. Um yeah, I KNOW what it means as I've taken advantage of this "valuable overdraft protection" more than once - I could give a Learning Annex seminar on how to take advantage of their 'valuable overdraft protection' when you're short on cash.

At this point I'm convinced these online bank tellers are being outsourced from a ditch full of meth addicts. Were they even reading my emails? Just to check, I emailed them back and explained to them in detail what the term 'illiterate jackasses' meant and that I have provided this 'valuable' information at no charge to them. (See how nice I am?)

I'm still waiting for a response.....

My Neighbors Are Creepy.

Remember when I said I had no neighbors? Well I spoke too soon. I do have neighbors. A lot of them actually. Like the beige, M&M sized, spider whose residence is located right in front of our backdoor. I discovered our neighbor the first morning when I walked right into his creation and got a face full of spider house. My screeching and clawing at my face and hair didn't make a very good first impression I'm sure. In fact, we started off on the wrong foot. I totally blame myself for this. I attempted to get rid of my neighbor by spraying Raid spider spray killer on him. He said, bitch please, rolled his eight eyes on me, dabbed it on his eight underarms and thanked me for the free cologne. We ended up compromising, I'd 'let' him live as long as he relocated to one of the bushes in the backyard. I even provided transportation for my neighbor via a broom held as far away from me as my short stubby arms would go.

Tragically, we've already had an altercation with one neighbor, Mr. Holy Shit is That a Lizard or One of My Dog's Turds? Or Mr. Hstlomdt for short. I think he was Czechoslovakian. Anyways, he must have took a wrong turn at Albuquerque because I walked in on him using our restroom facilities and appearing to be very confused. Again, I made a horrible first impression by throwing my flip flops on him. He ran under the sink and that's where I lost him. I hoped Mr. Hstolmdt would find his way outside again and not talk shit about us to the other lizards in the neighborhood. I didn't want to get a reputation for being a snobby neighbor, you know how it is. I kept checking the bathroom and the sink for the next hour or two in hopes that I would see him so I could apologize and send him on his way. But I didn't see him anywhere so I figured he had fixed his GPS and made his way back home.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. My theory for Mr. Hslomdt's death is that he made the big mistake of asking our dog for directions. How was Mr. Hslomdt suppose to know that my dog is the little retard Lenny of the family? I'm sure my dog just wanted to love him, squeeze him and make Mr. Hslomdt his very own before he broke his neck. Tragic I tell you. I won't go into details on what condition I found him in but I will say that we conducted a very beautiful memorial, Jennifer Hudson came and sang via my Ipod and his tail performed a short dance before stopping abruptly. We then flushed him down the toilet in a very beautiful casket made of three ply toilet paper.

R.I.P. Mr. Holy Shit is That A Lizard or One of My Dog's Turds?

My other neighbors, thank goodness have been very respectful in keeping their distance and scurrying away whenever they see us. Shy types I suppose. I've met most of them, like the flurry of bees by the hillside who seem to want to join us in the pool whenever we go out there around noon. Unfortunately, and maybe this is a culture thing, they just don't understand the meaning of personal space as they fly right by our faces when we're swimming. I hope they don't think badly of us when we splash and try to drown them. And I'm so embarassed because I couldn't help but stare at one neighbor who was caramel colored, had six legs, was slightly furry and resembled a cross between a spider and a roach. I had no idea what it was and really I should have just asked instead of stared. I mean, of all people, I certainly have nothing against biracial (bi-insectal?) children.

All in all, even though its been a rough two weeks neighborwise, I think everything has settled down and hopefully they're all starting to get used to the boundaries I've set. (Raid, bug spray, bee repellants, etc.). Although the other day I saw a disturbing amount of lizards by our car, a 'gang' of them if you will. I'm pretty sure they were trying to let air out of one of the tires. I think Mr. Hstlomdt family might be looking for a little revenge.

(Gulp)

Makin Dat Paper Sure Makes My Blog Hard-On Go Away Fast

So Texas came and went, my daughter's graduation came and went and I'm sitting at my new place, right now, as I type. And yet, no blog after that very convincing spew last post that I would not go too long without posting.

My bad. I allowed my blog to get constipated again, please forgive a liar. This is quick blog poop so I don't get too backed up next time. See? I'm trying! Smelly sticker for that - even if it is a black licorice smelly sticker, I still get one right?

Don't answer that.

Pictures, video of the new I'm Not Samantha Brown Texas edition, my daughter's kindergarten graduation and all that good stuff are just waiting to be edited and posted so bear with me. Work is cockblocking all the fun stuff I'd rather get to. And this weekend was yet even more work as we spent it moving to our new house. :)

I don't know why I always trick myself into thinking I can be that person who packs a month before the move. I really thought in my heart of hearts that I would do this. You see, in my head, I'm the kind of girl who is very organized and efficient. The kind of girl who separates her outfits by color and by style. The kind of girl whose shoes are in their orginal box, put in a row with the polaroid picture of said shoe on the front. THAT type of girl. When in reality, I'm the kind of girl who seperates her outfits by pajamas and NOT pajamas, and has two pairs of shoes, flip flops and NOT flip flops. And yet, I strive to be that girl in my head and I fail miserably each and every time.

I DID not pack a month before the move obviously. In fact, I didn't even pack the week before the move. I packed when it was TIME to move. It was hell obviously, but the deed is done (except for a few odds and ends at the old place that we have to sell.) and to reward ourselves we took a dip in our new pool....

This is our hilltop view from the backyard/pool.

This be where we gets our tan on.

It's nice being in a bigger place, but I would be lying if I said that the move was a little bittersweet for me. Considering that we moved into that condo four years ago with big dreams of possibly BUYING a house around this time. I would be lying if I didn't say I felt little bit like a failure after walking out of our condo for the last time yesterday. I KNOW there was no way we could have known that the market would have taken a dump as much as it has, it was completely out of our hands and yet still...it's weird when life steers you in a whole other direction. My tendency is to definitely go with the flow and not waste my energy fighting the current, but it does take time to readjust when your original plans get temporarily derailed.

Speaking of readjusting - I could not sleep at all last night because IT WAS TOO QUIET. Yes. I'm that big of a city girl that apparently I need a ghetto bird to lull me to sleep. Yesterday I heard....crickets and nothing else! No cars, no ghetto bird, no cats yelping from sexual ecstasy, no kids that should be in bed but their parents suck so they're outside playing and making friends with the pothead next door. NONE of this was heard last night. It was just...nothing...and so I heard EVERYTHING.

The creak of the door....'who the fu...?!' *grabs nightlight and starts scanning the room*
A car's engine started veeerrrry far away ...' omg someone's in our driveway!' *get up and peek out the window holding a rolling pin.* (I know so cliche', grabbing the rolling pin, and stupid since Brad's very sharp filet knife was right next to the rolling pin)

So it went like that all night last night. This is whole 'quiet at night' - 'no neighbors within a sneeze's distance' - is weird. I know it's suppose to be nice but it just feels like I'm a kid that's lost their old blankie. Sure it's stinks, it's frayed at the edges, it's been drooled on, dragged in the dirt and so worn out you can see through it - and yet still, it was comforting to me. All those annoying little noises.

All this quiet is making my very active imagination run wild - it'll take some getting used to.

Okay I have to end this on a anticlimactic note as work awaits! I told you! Work be cockblocking like a jealous college girl who can't get a dude anymore because her reputation for spreading easier than margarine and leaving behind a trail of fire urine precedes her...

Dude. I don't know what I'm talking about. Why are you still here?! I have to work!!! Stop distracting me!

A nice hot plate of cuntwaffles. Because I can't think of a clever way to title this blog and my new favorite word is cuntwaffle. The end.

I swear upon Pamela Anderson's accordion cooch flaps that I am NOT neglecting this blog. For the past week or so I've been trying to get a vlog together because I had so much random shit to talk about that it would make for a very A.D.D. kind of post. Random commentary vomit is much better served in a visual form.

Unfortunately, my ghettofied ass decided that triple A batteries from the dollar store were just as good as the ones at the grocery store. Except I found out that no, it really isn't. I would put in a fresh pair of batteries in my tired ol' Flip camera and five minutes into taping, it would give me the 'low on battery' sign and then cut a bitch off completely mid-rant! WTF Dollar Store?! Sure they're a dollar and what the hell do I expect but it couldn't even give me 10 solid minutes to do a decent vlog?! After ruining five brilliant takes, I said screw you random packs of triple A batteries from some country that uses dots and slashes instead of letters!

-;;--;0-*_- !! <-- I really hope that means 'screw you' in their language and not 'kill the whitewash Filipino Infidel.' So, I'm over vlogging my shit for now because I'm too lazy to go to the grocery store and get a decent pack of batteries. I know. I'm pathetic but cut me a break will ya? There's a lot going on in the House of Midget. First and furthermore (I sound so Abe Lincoln when I say that out loud), the munchkin is graduating Kindergarten next week! Which means....she's in FIRST GRADE? How and why did this happen so fast? Although, truth be told I'm not too sad that she's leaving her Kinder teacher. (Crazy baton lady.) Again, great teacher but I'm going to be relieved that we no longer have to be peer pressured into attending/participating in anymore inane baton events (where we have to get into a gray Delorean, make sure the flux capacitor is working and go back in time for these events...you know, when baton was relevant...wait. was baton ever relevant??).

In any case, glad that's over. I''ll also be very happy that our parent/teacher talks, where she speaks to me as if I'm an infant, is also over. I don't know if she does this with every parent, but I really believe in my heart of hearts that she thinks I'm a teen mom. I'm not complimenting myself like, oh yeah because I look so young and shit (although my skin IS exquisite I have to say...) but I really think it's because she's a 1000 years old. She probably sees her students as wiggling amoebas.

Immediately after the munchkin graduates, that weekend to be exact, we are moving to our house!! Please note I said HOUSE, and please note that we will be renting the 20 dollar a day U-Haul because the move is LOCAL. As in, NO MISSOURI. NO MISSOURI. NO MISSOURI. I don't think I can thank Jesus De Cristo & Dios Grande enough for such a blessing. Sorry Missouri, I love to visit but that's about the extent of my love for that state. Oh and Sonic food, I love Missouri for Sonic. I USE Missouri to get to Sonic, so sick is my love for Sonic.

But before even THAT all happens, I am going to visit my BFF, sista from anotha motha, Judy in Dallas, Texas. That's right, to all you people in Texas, if on Friday there's suddenly a smell of Circus Peanuts and Fabulousness in the air, don't fret! It just means that I've arrived and your midget population has been temporarily increased by one. I'm so excited because Judy has lived there for years and this is the first time I'm visiting her. I know, I know. Bad best friend. It will be a quick little jaunt - just Friday and Saturday and I'll be returning Sunday just in time for Father's day. Short as my travels will be, I am taking this as an opportunity to film the second installment of my 'hit' travel vlog: "I'm Not Samantha Brown."

I'm seriously dedicating myself to this series. I loved making it (even though it ended up dark and kind of patethic), I loved putting it all together and I think I can do better. And I love/hate Samantha Brown so much that I don't mind being the Wal-Mart version of her.

So yes, I know I've been lagging on making new episodes as of late, but after this Dallas trip, I'm MAKING time for it. Be prepared to go with me and my 20 dollars to exotic places like this Pho' restaurant across the street (I got a buy 1 get 1 free coupon in the mail. Time to splurge!) or we'll drive across the way to this Hawaiian restaurant that serves a teriyaki beef & rice platter that's so good I have to pause between bites to allow my mouth to have its multiple orgasms. When I move east of SD, there's this fabulous liquor/convenience store on the way that's right next to a trailer park. You won't believe the 'exotic' people that frequent that establishment. Mullets, gap tooth smiles and meth withdrawal shakes galore! It'll be just like visiting Kid Rock's house!

The budget might be limited but the possibilities are endless.

More to come soon and I won't be a lazy ass and wait so long to post a blog. Either my ass will go get some real batteries to do a vlog or I'll blog the ol fashioned way, hunker down and finger bang my keyboard. This not posting a blog for weeks on end is not a good thing. It makes my soul feel backed up and constipated.

Is it possible that I mentioned cake, glory hole and poop mosiac all in one blog post.? I'm so impressed with myself.

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Helloo? Is it me you're looking for?

I SWEAR on a bag of circus peanuts and baby Jesus' dirty diapers that I will post something worth reading (or seeing..I might do a vlog due to time constraints) soon because the Queen twat post below is getting chewy and downright smelly.

Meanwhile, for your Tuesday enjoyment please enjoy Tyrone Jones' super delicious moves. And try not to get so jealous...

The Queen Twatted Me And It Felt Dirty In A Good Way.....

Following a celebrity on twitter is pretty interesting. I'm not too starstruck as a general rule, but it's interesting getting a peek into their world and twitter is probably the closest you can get without literally following them at a restraining order distance. It does feel personal, but only from the non-celeb side. The celeb most likely doesn't follow you back, (except LadyGaGa! hey gurl! Did I mention I don't get starstruck?) doesn't know you, doesn't care - most of the time, they only tweet their other celeb friends. A lot of them do respond to the masses, but the more followers they have, obviously your chances of getting a reply are slim to none.

So you can imagine the sheer twitter vomit pandemonium it causes when Madonna jumps onto her manager's twitter and starts to tweet.

And sure, I'm right there making feeble attempts to attract the Queen's attention. I've proposed to her numerous times, sexually twittered harassed her, I've told her that her ass is such a work of art that it should have it's own world tour. I throw those twats out there, not really expecting a response, because thousands of other people are doing the same thing. I just hope she'll read one and go, "Oh LadyHAHA, she's a hoot!" (yes, Madonna uses the word 'hoot.' Don't question me.)

On May 1st, a day that will now be in the midget history books, Madonna jumped onto her manager's twit account and started twitting away about how she was at Jessica Seinfield's house cooking. I did my usual twitter come-ons, asking her what she was wearing and other pervy shit like that. I only twatted her three times and almost called it a night, so imagine how the midget's bowels loosened upon her cabbage patch pants when, from the clouds, royalty touched my computer screen and asked me....

guyoseary@LadyHAHA tell us a joke..
7:46 PM May 1st from web in reply to LadyHAHA

Oh! My! SkidMarks!
Did she...?
Is she...?
........muh......??

The Queen has asked me to dance!!! Oh yes, Queen, a dance I will do! And dance I did. I told her as many jokes I could possibly think of. She signed off a couple minutes after. I still don't know if she got to see any of my jokes. But with her one magic twat, she's officially appointed me to be her royal jester and I'm happily taking the job. And really, she's given my twits a focal point (jokes) which is good because if i twitted about real life, it would be little nuggets of extreme importance and interesting topics like this:

Just woke up, had a cup of sugar and cream with a dash of coffee.

My ass itches. Should probably take a shower soon.

I want Circus Peanuts.

I gotta fart. Oh wait. no.....I gotta go to the bathroom.

Phew, close call.

Although, I have a feeling she might have read some of my jokes and it might have tickled something in her because she gave me the Hahas right back when she wore this to the NYC Met's Costume Gala last night:


Oh Madge. Darling, my love, time to get rid of some of those 'Yes' men/women who are clearly doing their job all too well. Or maybe, just MAYBE, she was SO inspired by my humor that she wanted to physically represent my hilarity via a hilarious outfit! Another attempt to reach out to me? A subtle way of saying, yes midget/LadyHAHA, I love you too? Perhaps.

It really is the only logical conclusion.

Crunchy Elegance. You might want to wash your hands after reading this post.

There is no one on the planet that will bring me out of my blog writing slump like Pamela Anderson. So thank you Pam for getting up off of that sticky floor of your trailer and going out there; half dazed and looking all kinds of crunchy. Nothing gets my writing juices flowin' again like a (barely) walking, talking carny ride like yourself.

GLAMOUR! SOPHISTICATION! DIGNITY!
(but on this day, she obviously left them at home.)

Seriously, what exactly is going on here? Surely the economy can't be this bad that she's succumbed to dressing herself in toddler fits? Then again I guess this is what happens when 100 years of sun beats down on an open bag of STDs. I'm impressed that her white outfit remained white for the pictures because she sincerely looks like she oozes hot burning pus uncontrollably from her flappy gash. When I think of the worst/best example of rode rough and put away moist, one particular girl comes to mind. Once upon a time I used to do ad copy for a telemarketing company and one telemarketer literally came into work one day high on coke, wearing a short silver dress with a safety pin holding one of the straps in place and heels...except one of the heels had a broke during her guest appearance on Cops that evening. She smelled of sour milk and sorrow. And yet SOMEHOW, compared to this picture of Pam, she's become Audrey Hepburn in my mind.

But don't get the wrong idea, I love a hot mess. If Pam and Courtney Love were to go on a hot mess tour, I'd be right there in the front row ......with a hazmat suit.

In other news...

* My Palm Springs trip was uneventful, relaxing and way too boring for me to write to you about. When I say nap, eat, lay out, repeat. I mean it. On Saturday night we both fell asleep while watching t.v. at the twilight hour of 6:00 p.m.! Suffice it to say we were both wide awake at 12:00 a.m. but both of us thought the other was asleep so we kept going in and out of slumber until about 6:00 a.m. the next day. It really is the best type of vacation. Like charging up our very empty batteries.

* On a low note, ever since Palm Springs, I've been eating like crap. I allowed myself to splurge a little in PS - and by 'a little' I mean I ate everything that didn't move fast enough. (KFC strips on Friday, coffee cake with cream cheese icing for breakfast on Saturday, shrimp pasta for lunch, chili cheese omelet). I got back home and all of a sudden I catch myself eating fried pop tarts dipped in chocolate. Okay, I'm kidding but wouldn't that make some great fair food??? In short, (ha) I fell off the wagon momentarily, my bloated pop tart filled belly is temporary, and ...um....Robin Williams is really hairy.

* LadyGAGA is following me on Twitter. I'm an idiot but I'm kind of flattered. And really how can she not follow LadyHAHA? (me) It was bound to happen.

* I'm slowly but surely starting to gather up our belongings preparing for the move. Most of which is going straight to the yard sale pile. You should see the crap I've accumulated over the years, I have a stack of US magazines that's about as tall as I am. A year's worth of US Magazines. Why??? Why did I keep all of them? because of their stellar journalism?

"Look! Reese Witherspoon picked out an annoying wedgie! LIKE US!"

On a positive note, I found Jessica Simpson's career underneath my pile, unfortunately, it's dusty, worn out and has her father's handprints all over it. (eww).

* I'm almost positive that if I keep digging through my crap I'll find the giant wooden spoon and fork that I was meaning to hang in my kitchen. (I'm kidding. I don't really have that and I'm trying really hard NOT to go on ebay to look for it.)

remember these??? I still remember our giant fork and spoon that we had in the Phils.

* Where can I buy a box of Count Chocula? Oh wait. I'm suppose to be getting back ON the wagon, not falling off of it, crawling into a tub of sugar and going for a swim with my mouth open.

Okay. I get it now.

The World Would Be A Better Place if People Co-Existed as Peacefully As The Random Knick Knacks Do On My Shelf.

We checked out our future place of residence this past weekend and wow! It's huge and I'm already feeling overwhelmed - in a good way of course. I can't believe how incredibly lucky we got nabbing this place. Basically it's more than twice the size of our two bedroom condo, the living room alone is half, if not the size of our entire condo. There's a huge backyard, a pool and a pool house complete with bathroom and shower and a lovely hillside view.

I've recruited the help of my friend Brandie to pick out colors (the owner is letting us paint!) for the walls, cabinets and just general help with placement of furniture and decor. Being that I'm Asian or more specifically, FILIPINO - my natural instinct is to fill every little nook and cranny with crap. Intermixing knick knacks, themes, decor, color - and basically turn the house into a living breathing definition of A.D.D. I'm not saying ALL Filipinos are like this, but most of the ones I've encountered, including my parents fit the A.D.D. decor mode.

For example, my mom had Buddhist and Catholic art and decor sprinkled throughout the house. It was not unusual for Buddha statues to co-exist with crucifixes and candles with saints on them. We had a 3D - YES, that's right, THREE DIMENSIONAL - painting/diorama of the Last Supper (faux gold plated for your pleasure) hung up on a wall in our dining room area so that every meal was like breaking bread with Jesus and his desciples. Or in a lot of instances, breaking a hot pocket or a bowl of cookie crisp with Christ. But the decor wasn't limited to religious Gods, oh no. If it was the hot ticket item at the swap meet or given to us, you can bet it had a place of its very own in my house.

There were these random paintings that a relative did that my mom simply could not resist putting up. They were nature scenes (a river, a cabin, a forest) that I think would have given the paintings at your local Motel 6 a run for it's money. We also had another 3D diorama type painting of an ocean with movement (SEE the ocean crash!) AND sound (HEAR the ocean waves!). It was like looking at a painting during a bad LSD trip, except no drugs were necessary, only a nearby outlet to plug it in. Let's not forget the clock that played a different CARPENTERS song every hour. (Okay, I kind of loved that one..)

That was my house and it never even occurred to me how horribly maniacal the decor was because it accumulated slowly. My mom would change her mind on what 'theme' she wanted but failed to take down the prior theme and wala, by the time I moved out in college the house looked like a storage room for Antiques Roadshow rejects.

I vowed to never be like that and yet....in my first tiny tiny apartment, I already had 'themes' going on in my head. For example, my bathroom was going to be done up Superman style. (STOP LAUGHING AT ME! I was still a kid! Okay, 22, but still...) Of course in my head, it was going to be done in this cool retro vibe. I was going to build (cough*viking hubby was going to build*cough) a nice high shelf and display all my Superman collectibles on it. I use the plural term 'collectibles' loosely as I only had a Superman statue, an old Superman pretzel tin and two old Superman metal lunchboxes. Thank you Ebay.

I was going to hang a retro Superman painting ...somewhere..in there... only I never could figure out where... and so my 'retro superhero' bathroom ended up basically looking like a normal bathroom except there were a few Superman knick knacks on top of the toilet that occasionally fell if you closed the lid wrong. Then, like mother like daughter, I would change my mind on these ridiculous decor themes and accumulate crap that fed into my 'hoarding' gene - also passed on by my parents who KEPT everything! When they finally retired, they still had my old speak n' spell because it worked and I guess you never know when you're going to need something to robotically nag at you on how to spell squirrel. I really don't know why they kept it. They claimed they kept it so I could give it to my child. Can you imagine giving an old speak n' spell to your child right now?? Or a Teddy Ruxpin with the story cassettes that go up his ass? Complete that set with a catch a ball in a cup toy and they'll never need the internet again.

Anyways, I've been pretty restrained with my condo because I'm well aware of my problem. It's an inner fight with myself to NOT buy that life size Elvis cut out at the gift shop. Where would I put that leather clad hunk?

First thought? "You could totally make your office into an Elvis shrine! And you could install a CD player that can play Elvis songs on a loop as soon as you sat down!"

If Nate Berkus could see the decor ideas in my head, he would need serious therapy afterwards or a mental scrub brush to erase the gaudy decorating taste I would leave in his soul.

I've also been restrained because from this point on, my dwellings have been rather small and I value space a teeny bit more than my penchant for room themes and useless knick knacks. A teeny tiny bit, not a lot. I may or may not have a Bob's Big Boy statue bumping shoulders with a matching set of ceramic tiki mugs on my kitchen window ledge. (head down in shame).

This house however, has space and ...gasp...an extra bedroom ..that in my head has already turned into my MADONNA themed office...with a DVD player playing Madonna videos on a LOOP! (what I've learned about myself today: Apparently I like my entertainment played on a loop!?) There's also a fully equipped bar - and of course, since viking hubby doesn't drink alcohol, in my head, that has already turned into a mini-Jamba juice smoothie bar, complete with a retro Coke advertisement above with flashing lights!

Don't even ask my head about the ideas its had for our bedroom.
Two words: Space Cowboy.

wait..three words: RETRO space cowboy.

If left to my own devices, it could get straight up Graceland II in this new house. (The Jungle room is my favorite! Sick.) - so thank you to my friend Brandie in advance for holding my hand and knocking some good taste in me.

San Diego is my mother and I shall not be extracted from the comfort of her bosom!!!

Let's start off with some GREAT, FANTABULOUS NEWS! - I'm staying in California!!!! whoooo! The job outlook for the future was much better for viking hubby here than it was in Missouri; we felt it would be foolish for us to leave when he has a 40 hour a week job, a very good reputation with his company and the fact that we just found out that they are signed up to do a lot of big projects in the future. His boss has a rental house east of San Diego that he's offered to us that is a less than what we pay at our current condo. It's on top of a hill, no neighbors, three bedrooms, and...what I'm most excited about ...a wa-wa-wa-..(sorry I'm getting ferklempted) ..a washer and dryer!!! Which means...sniff...no..(hiccup)..no more digging around for quarters to get my laundry done?

Pinch me sweet baby Jesus because it feels like a dream! That is truly the sole reason why I HATE doing laundry, having to go out and get that coin! Either I have to go to Wal-Mart and get the side eye from a disgruntled Wal-Mart cashier when I ask for a roll of quarters, or I have to dig around couches, steal it from unsuspecting bums or children, or sneak into the car wash, get some change and get out of there before the owner sees me and screams "Change fo customah ONLY!"

Although, I'm going to miss living 3 miles away from the beach our consolation prize is we have a pool. And check this out, right after I found out that we got the rental and we were officially staying put for a while, I saw this in the sky:


See? Baby Jesus' daddy be giving me love from above via a heart cloud? Awww. Ain't he sweet? It's like he was all, 'Australia was a crazy idea girl, but here I'll give you this just to show that I got yo back - now shut up about it.' Okay so maybe the cloud looks more like an artichoke than anything else but even so, I wanna believe it's an an 'artichoke heart.' Maybe he's giving me love AND telling me to get a artichoke dip appetizer at Chilis to celebrate. Dual messages and what not.

Moving right along, let's see what wonderful totally irrelevant crap I've discovered/observed this past week....just two things really and then class is dismissed I promise....

You would think running three miles everyday would afford me some time to think about a lot of things, get really deep and introspective about life, maybe meditate a little, get in touch with my inner child and yell at it for being such a dork in 7th grade (and 8th, 9th, ..). So far though the only thing I've realized is I'm one of those idiots that push the walk button 50 kajillion times in hopes that the lovely walking man will pop up and allow me to cross. EVEN if I SAW the red hand just came up and I KNOW that fucker works on a timer, I will still push that button like it's a morphine drip going straight into my veins every time I press it. The only excuse I have for this is because A. the traffic light happens to be right before my home stretch and I just want to get the run over with, go home and soak neck deep in a tub of ben gay and B. I cannot COOL DOWN. I don't know if the traffic light understands that I was born in the 70s and I run a whole lot like a car from the 70s. It takes me a while to warm up and if I cool down, I basically shut off. My body thinks "oh this bullshit is over? thank god." And then it'll want to lay down right there on the curb and take a nap. That's how the ol' machinery works people and that damn traffic light just doesn't understand me but at all.

You know what multiplies faster than Octo-Mom? (wait does that joke make sense? bah! you know what I mean!) Publisher's Clearing House contest entries! I made the mistake of filling out an entry form because I'm a retard like that and the prize of winning 5,000 a month for life seemed like a great not too over the top prize. (me in two words? total idiot) And all I had to do was take this stamp and stick it to the left side of this entry, and then I take this bright sticker and put it on the envelope to show the PCH mailing crew that it's a rush entry and then oh...I get a nice offer on a box of mighty mend that I only pay 2.99 a month for? Okay, lets put that on because they say ordering something doesn't improve your chances but you know that's some booshit. I think they put the non-order entries into the shredder.

A couple days later, I had THREE entry forms come in the mail all telling me that, YES bitch we got your ENTRY! Good for you! You're SOOO CLOSE! SO CLOSE! All you need to do is open this entry up, put three little stamps on the top of this form, sign that form with blood obtained from a baby chicken and don't forget to look for a BONUS entry in the mail. THAT IS URGENT. You need to fill that out or your other entry is null and VOID! It has a red sticker on it, please take that sticker, put it up your asshole, let it marinate for a day and then put it on top of this yellow envelope. That way we know you're serious.

Meanwhile, I've ordered a mighty mend, a electric bug repellant, (you just plug it in and the bugs STAY away! I wonder if they have those for people? Hmmm.), and a curved shower bar to give the illusion that my bathtub/shower is bigger than what it is. A lot like what my Spice Girl stilts used to do for me in college.

But really guys I'm so close to winning. I'm serious. They are going to be knocking on my door any minute with that giant check (I'm going to have to ask them where I can cash that because I don't think it's not going to fit in the deposit slot at my bank.) Right now, I'm just waiting for THE final entry to come to mail, I think I have to sacrifice a goat and send them the entrails so that I can be in the running for the 500,000 dollar prize.

All right, I'm outtee ya'll. I gotta go see a man about a goat.