BREAKING NEWS...

Okay. Cade hopped the car today and said, "Mom! I have breaking news!" I suppressed a giggle and said, "okay dude, let's hear it." "Emmy is officially, really in love with me," he says. "Oh really buddy, how do you feel about that?" "Well, I picked my nose and wiped boogers on her and I farted on her because I really thought that would make her not love me. But she told me that she picked her nose and farted too so that didn't matter, she still loved me," says Cade very matter of fact. "So, what did you do then?" I asked, very nervous at this point. "I thought about it a little bit and decided I may like her too because I always help her up if she falls down." Hm.

Wieners...and I don't mean the dog.

It doesn't seem to matter the age of the man, they are ALL obsessed with their wieners. Whether it's my husband gesturing towards his "man parts" with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile or my son telling a family friend the he is going to "punch his nuts out of his mouth and then punch them back down" (cute, right?), they all at some point feel the urge to comment. My sons find great joy in fake hitting themselves in their wenis's (not sure why they call them that, at least they are close) and then rolling on the ground proclaiming "ohhhhhh my nuts!" My husband and his buddies think it's hilarious to sling shit at each other about the size of their "dicks". Little boys revel at the fact that they can write their names with their pee on anything that stands still, except the toilet. Men associate athletic ability with the size of their bulge and little boys become fascinated with their extra appendage in diapers. And I don't understand their need to constantly "adjust" their packages, I'm fairly positive they are just making sure it's still there in case they need to make a big decision. Perhaps women should try it out! We can drop hints by grabbing at our lady parts and raising our eyebrows and on girls nights we can drink a bottle of wine and talk about who has the biggest lula or we can try to finagle free drinks from bar tenders by yelling across the bar "I have a HUGE vagina!" I mean, that's a good thing, right?

Note from the husband

My husband finally figured out my password for my blog and thought this would be funny....





Women have this uncontrollable urge to make themselves think of what is going to happen, even before it does. The reason this is so important is it happens to be negative 95% of the time. Women also have vagine like sleeves of wizards. Let's not forget the fact that they bleed out once a month and somehow survive. I am not trying to rag on women or anything, but shit they rag on me once a month.



FUN FACT:

Did you know that women are the ones who came up with all those fancy spellings on an upside down calculator. That's right ever since digital clocks on stoves came out women got very creative while cooking dinner.



Women invented head aches to get out of sex. Then invented a medicine that gets rid of them. The funniest thing is head aches are just in your head, you don't need medicine to get rid of it.

Um...shut the hell up.

Picture this. I'm sprinting my daughter into her school trying to avoid talking to anyone for too long. I'm bra less, haven't brushed my teeth and I am WAY late. Then, one of "those" moms stops me. I try to avoid these women at all cost. They are the moms that share. I enjoy sharing, I enjoy hearing about people BUT not ever do I share some of the things that these moms do upon first meeting. I don't want to know how their last pelvic exam felt nor do I care that their husband gave them a nasty rash on parts I would rather not hear about. She talks about her children, he husband, her pets, her friends (and I am seriously wondering if she includes every person she pounces on her "friend")...her sex life. So. Just when I think I have an out I get, "So, I think I gave my daughter a yeast infection in her mouth." WAIT. WHAT? How the hell does that even freakin' happen? I know that curiosity killed the cat and all that what not BUT really. I found myself frozen. Unable to run or change the subject. So, Mrs. Over share says..."the doctor said it's probably because I don't wash my hands after I wipe and then feed her and prepare her food or something like that. I have a REALLY nasty yeast infection." Um....gross. Okay, I realize things are part of life. I. Get. That. But, you don't share that. No ma'am, you do not. And just when I thought I was going to be able to run away she says, "Well, I guess that's why my husband won't have sex with me." WTF. Maybe, just maybe, he won't have sex with you because the whole time he's going to town your running your damn mouth about the fact that you GAVE YOUR CHILD A YEAST INFECTION BECAUSE YOU DON'T WIPE YOUR LADY PARTS! Really. Some people should shut the hell up.

Wax my what?!

Okay. Sally Hansen kicked my ass. Like a lot. I decided in my efforts to save my family money I was going to wax my own lady part. So, I trooped into Wal Mart and found what seemed to be the perfect waxing kit! No warming up wax. No slathering my body with nastiness. Just nifty little strips that you warm up between your hands and rub on whatever hair it is that you want torn from your body and pull. Seemed easy enough. I let the product sit on the counter for a few days while I thought of a great, pain free game plan. Fantastic pain-free game plan #1: ask Channing Tatum to come over and drink a bottle of tequila with me the HE can do the waxing....and stuff. Fantastic pain-free game plan #2: ask my husband to help, again after a bottle of tequila) but I am not sure he would EVER view my lady parts the same afterwards. Fantastic pain-free game plan #3: It's going to hurt like hell and there is NOT a single thing I can do to change that so I may as well grip it and rip it. So. Since Channing didn't answer and I couldn't bring myself to ask my husband, I went with number 3. I trooped upstairs determined to get it done. OMG. Never again will I challenge Sally Hansen to a beauty contest. She won. I will be the one at the pool with the 70's afro on my lady parts. Who knows...maybe I will buy a pretty pick for it.

Butthole Mouth

LOVE the fact that my daughter feels the urge to comment on everything. No really, it's like a running commentary on my life and all the lives around her. So she sees a wrinkly old lady in a store and starts staring at her. And I mean REALLY staring at her, like starting to make me feel uncomfortable. I asked her why she was staring at the lady...such a horrible decision. She said, "Because her mouth looks like a doggy's butt hole." What. The. Hell.

RAC...favorite saying of the week!

RAC or Random Ass Chick. No for real. That's funny.

Email to Hell

Hm. I am pretty sure that at least half of my friends and a small part of my family is damning me to Hell. I know that they know that I don't forward on nor respond to those adorable little emails that say "if you don't send this back to me and forward to 10 friends you will be damned to eternal Hell". With that said...why do they continuously send them? Are they, with all their knowledge of my intense dislike of organized religion, sending the emails knowing I wont glance at them twice therefore sending me straight to the fiery depths of Hell? Maybe I should think this whole church thing. Maybe I should become a feathery haired, polyester suit wearing, arms waving, screaming in the back row church goer?

NO! A pecker...

So, sitting at a spotlight is always an experience with my kids. They can see things and take the time to analyze their surroundings. We do live in Arkansas so I am very rarely surprised by the things that we see from our perch in my ginormous gas guzzler. But when I my daughter started yelling "Mommy, look at that pecker," I almost had heart failure. My mother just so happened to be sitting in the passenger seat and shot me a look that said "what the HELL have you been teaching my granddaughter!" I asked very calmly, "Sweetheart what are you looking at?" "Mommy, I am looking at that brown pecker over there!" Oh crap. What is going on? I'm looking around looking for a brown pecker (and you all know what I mean, don't pretend you don't). Finally, she rolls her eyes and looks at me in the rear view mirror, "Duh Mommy, I mean the birdie on the ground, the PECKER. Like the kind that hit their heads on wood stuff." Oh. Got it.

Boobie Repo

Boobs seem to be a huge topic in my life. Big boobs, little boobs, perky boobs, saggy boobs it doesn't matter what kind, color, size or shape. It never fails when I get together with my favorite girls we ALWAYS end up talking about boobs. Several of my friends have boob jobs (or breast augmentations for those of you that are politically correct), several more want boob jobs, and there are still a few who are happy with their mommy boobs. So, when the topic comes up we talk about what size you have, what size you wish you had, what you may do with your new boobs, how much they cost, how you paid for them, etc. Now, you must imagine my surprise when my ex-husbands wife (yes you heard that right) started telling me about a friend of hers who had financed her new boobs. FINANCED HER NEW BOOBS. Like was making payments on them. This opened the door for all kinds of questions...how long will they finance boobs, what are her payments, how about interest rate, did they have to put up collateral or are the boobs themselves the collateral, OMG! what if she doesn't make her payments?! Do they repo her boobs? Do the banker and the doctor knock on her door in the middle of the night and take her boobs then? OR do they call her and ask her back into the doctor office to take them? Then I heard that she was getting a divorce and her soon-to-be ex-husband was being stuck with the boob debt. My mind was off in another land at that point. Does he get visitation rights to the boobs he is paying on? Can he take the boobs and put them in his next wife or girlfriend? Or does he loose all rights to them? What man in his right mind would want the house and let the boobs walk out the door? Geeeezzz....

Pretty Ass Shoes

My two younger children have a knack for annoying each other beyond belief. We like to assume that when we all laying on the beach all day that life should be pretty perfect. Our jobs are managing themselves, our children are angels, and nothing should go wrong the whole time we taking on the difficult role of beach bums. My sweet little children always seem to bring serenity to a screeching halt. When we were in our condo for lunch Cade and Grace (the infamous younger children) decided to start a large scale war. They were yelling and screaming and hitting each other with anything they could get their hands on. My husband and I did what we could to make them calm down and eventually they ended up sitting on different couches in the living room. And peace was restored to our perfect vacation...until my sweet, little princess marched out onto the balcony with a pair of shoes and turned to look at her brother with an evil smirk and dropped the shoes over the railing. Cade laughed his crazy little laugh and said to his sister, "now your pretty ass shoes are gone!" He continued to laugh for several seconds until her realized that she was sitting on the floor putting her "pretty ass shoes" on while his favorite pair of Crocs were laying in the sand eleven floors down.

Boob Milk

In a time when most mothers choose to breastfeed, I clung to the selfish thought that I was ready to have my body back. So, when the topic came up my eight year jumped right in the middle of it. "Everyone out, Ann is going to breastfeed," I said as I hustled all the children out of the room so my dear friend could have a little privacy for a few minutes. "Why do we need to leave, she's just feeding the baby," said my very clever six-year old. I said, and I was definitely going for shock factor, "If you stay in the room you will see her boob, do you want that?" "NO, I DO NOT!" replied my son. As we are climbing down the stairs I can feel the curiosity pouring off of my eight-year old son. And I knew before the words came out what he was going to say, "Mom, why would we see her boob if she is feeding the baby." "Well buddy, she is breasting feeding," I answered quickly trying to insure the end of this conversation. "Okay, but I don't know what a breast is." Oh geez. I tried to sort out in my mind how to explain this without totally grossing him out. I just went for it, "Well, a breast is a boob. Some moms choose to feed their children that way." At this point I'm praying for an end BUT I did raise naturally curious children so, I knew this wasn't the end. My son looks at me with a horrified look on his face, "MOM! Did I suck on your boobs when I was little?!" Trying my very hardest not to laugh, I answered, "No, you did not. I fed you with a bottle." "OH THANK GOD!" my grateful eight-year old replied. I really thought the conversation would be over but, after several minutes of thought he said, "Mom, why do people breast feed?" "It depends. Some people breast feed because they think it's better for the baby, some do it it because it's cheaper, and some do it for the bond it is said to create between a mother and child," I replied thinking I was so creative with my answer and that subject would be done. "So what your telling me, Mom, is that you didn't breast feed me because you didn't want to take me anywhere?"

My Doggy Says F*CK, F*CK!

I know that other mothers (or fathers) reading this will completely understand the feeling you get in your stomach when you walking into you child's school and the Director is waiting for you at the door. In fact is not just waiting at the door but holding it open and waving you in with a look on their face like your child has just done the most hideous, indescribable thing imaginable. Then she says those dreaded words, "I need to speak with you in my office." I find myself dragging my feet as I follow her to the office and every possible scenario is running through your head...Did they get in a fight? Did they hurt someone? OR, OH NO...Did we forget to lock the bedroom door and they saw us and gave a vivid description to their classmates and teacher?! And then I heard, "Your daughter was using curse words today." I found myself giving a sigh of utter relief. And maybe a little giggle. I tried to keep a straight face as I asked the Director which of the curse words she used. I found myself giggling again as the Director tried to bring herself to say the word. She finally says "The F word, do you know which one I'm referring to?" "Um, yes I think so," I said." "Well, your daughter started saying it over and over again in circle time today. Do you have any idea why she would say that?" asked the Director, like I should know the very instance that my daughter could have learned that word. I said, "why don't I go get her and maybe she will tell me why she said it." As we step out of the office my daughter prances down the hallway exclaiming loudly, "Mommy, my doggy says F*CK, F*CK!" I smiled at the Director and look at my precious little girl, "So your doggy says ruff, ruff?" And with an eye roll and a sigh my daughter said, "Yes mommy. I said that already. My doggy says F*CK, F*CK!"