Civic Minded, Racially Sensitive Former Pirate Whore Monsterknockers

There has been a request for pictures of the Pirate Whore Monsterknockers, so I'll accommodate that first and foremost:

I'm the one in the middle.  GOD DAMN we are some cute girls.

Anyway.  My friend Melissa who happens to be gifted with the picture-taking-skillz also took a full-on boudoir shot of me, and I look like a whore, but I don't even care, it's a pretty picture:

New Orleans was a bad-ish night for me, way too crowded and my phone was STOLEN FROM MY PURSE, but haha, fuckers, it was an iPhone 3GS, so it cost me like 99 cents.  I mean come on.  And too, I ended up with drunky girls and I was pretty sober, so that's a downer.  BUT, I didn't lose my panties, so we'll still call that one a win.

We revisited the costume on Halloween, as one ought, and even though the baby was tired, I like this one, too.  Far less whorey.

 Today is election day, in other news, and I took the baby to go and vote, so he could see how it works.  He was interested in reading the ballot (out loud), and I had to suggest that he not, as it is a) nobody's business for whom I vote, and b) I live in an extremely conservative little corner of an extremely conservative little town, so I thought it was possible that I might get my tires slashed if my liberalness was broadcasted.

Awesome.

My tires are intact.

Anyway, so there you have it.  I voted, again, for a minority because I think his opinions match mine closer than that of the guy who appears to look more like the people where I live.  Primarily because I'm too tall to fit in a binder.

His minority-ness really has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I mention it because the baby and I were talking about racial equality the other day, and he said that he knew what I was talking about.  "I can give you an ezample," he said.  "Okay," I said, "go for it."

"Well, I'm white," he said, "but Yaya is black."

um.  Yaya is his name for Beanie, my older son.  The one who is half Greek, half me, so...

Not really black.  More like olive.  But who's counting.

The little person is much whiter than we are, although he has got some mad moves, and the Bean doesn't, so based on this assessment, he's got it backwards.  However, I enjoy having one black kid, one white kid.  I have since referred to Beanie as my black son.  Boom.

Note:  I kind of wish I did have a baby that is either African-American or bi-racial.  They are so freaking gorgeous.  Just saying.  Similarly, I wish I did have one baby that was a girl child, because I'd like to name her Virginia but call her VaJayJay.

Anyway, so we expressed our civic duty, and I was super pissed/disappointed that they were out of stickers, I mean, come ON, so when I got to work, I made one for myself.  Because THAT is how I like to stick it to the man.

Well, that, and blogging...

Jim Cantore Secret Lover

Let's play pretendies.  We like this game.

Pretend I'm a yankee, one that says "you guys" instead of "y'all."  Not one that says "youse guys" because, come on now.  I can't pretend to be that person.

Believe me, there is NOTHING wrong with that person, but I'm just not one of those people.

The ants named Joyce, that lived at Janie's house for a while?  THEY were those people.

I digress, and only she will know what I'm talking about.  Oh well.

Anyway, back to being a You Guys Yankee.

I'd be all, oh, look a wicked bad storm is coming in.  That wicked bad sucks.  It's going to be wicked cold and kinda shitty.

(instead of the way I usually would say something like, "ohhhh heyyy, look, y'all, it's gwine be windy and curazy outsahd, and by the way, y'all wanna go get somethin' to drank?")

You'd think you were not really going to be all Perfect Stormy, right?  And then what would happen?  You would turn on the Weather Channel, right?  And guess what you would see?

CANTORE.

http://jezebel.com/5955815/fuck-marry-kill-all-jim-cantore-severe-weather-edition

Just saying.

(by the way, I kind of super love him, so I think it goes without saying which I would choose.  I'm not the marryin' kind.)

Pirate Whore Monsterknockers

We are officially in that time of year that most people would call either fall or autumn.  I can certainly use those terms, but right this instance, I'm sweating my balls off, so it's hard to think of it as non-summer.

Note:  I do not really have balls.

Anyway, so here are a few of the things that happen all upinhyah around this time of the year.  There is a sir-cuss, at my work, and it's, you know, whatever.  Fun-ish.  Whatever.

Then there is the Fair, which is not like a county fair or state fair or world's fair or the like, it's a fair put on by our large local Catholic School.  Which I fucking ADORE because, a) it is more or less in my neighborhood, which is to say, walking distance, and, b) they sell beer, on the cheap.  

What's really funner than walking a half mile, drinking beer while your kid rides on rides and you laugh at humanity?

Nothing, that's what. 

So that's what we did on Saturday.  Beanie came home for the weekend, too, which made it all that much more awesome.

The baby is on the ferris wheel.  You can just barely make out his tiny little head in this picture.  His friend Mafun, whom the rest of us would call "Nathan" rode with him.  God bless that kid- they probably wouldn't have let me take my beer on the ride.

This is the baby at the end of the "Giant Slide," which is to say, a tall bumpy piece of tin on which he slid on a piece of burlap, because, you know, 1896 is a wonderful year.

On Saturday, my little band played at a festival in Olde Towne (and I shit you not, we are SUPPOSED to spell it like that, which means I live in Ye Olde Douchy Selfe-Importante Towne), and we were encouraged to wear costumes.  So I made Beanie wear this hat and pretend to be Gilligan.

"I've never even seen that movie," he said.  No matter, he looks like Gilligan without even trying.

The festival went well, we played a LOT and it was fun and we were tired by the time it was over, which is how it is supposed to be.  We went home and crashed, just chilled out and hung out watching movies about WW II.  The Bean is the master of all knowledge of the Pacific Theater, right down to the battle names.  I am not, but I still find it all fascinating.  This was a Ken Burns documentary, so believe me, after only 2 hours, I am well aware that I have an additional eight or ten hours of WWII footage to enjoy.

On Sunday, I took him back to college.  The baby was beat down tired and fell asleep in the car, but then he woke up when we were almost home, and I go, "hey, you want to go and get you a Halloween costume?"

He thought perhaps he would be Mario, but I talked him out of it.  I keep calling him the Dread Pirate Monkeynuts, or Monkeybutt, when he protests, but anyway, he says no fucking way.  He likes "Pirate Goldenrod Blackeye."  Hmph.

 At any rate, the DPM is adorable:

I would give the little crew-socked pirate some candy, you bet your ass I would.

I'm getting a costume too.  I ordered this one.  Fuckit.  I'll be a slut pirate whore if I goddamn want to.  I bought boots, too.  FUCKIT.

I forgot to mention that, on Thursday, the baby had a "carnival" at HIS school, which was code for, "bring your kid to the school, we will make him participate in math 'games,' and we will give him pizza, and if you are REALLY lucky, we will paint a yellow, orange, and white penis on his cheek.  Only we will tell him it is candy corn."

You thought I made that last part up, didn't you?  Well YOU WERE WRONG.

Happy pre-Halloween, everybody, from Pirate Whore Monsterknockers and the Dread Pirate Monkeynuts.

Roseanne Barr

For some reason, I agreed to sing the Star Spangled Banner again, tonight.  At a thing.  A work thing.

I do not know why I do this to myself.

I must leave the office now, to go skank up.

God Bless My Little Heart for thinking I can do this.  Le.  Sigh.

Five Step Program

1.  I got a marketing letter, you know, like an ad, in the mail, from my wireless phone carrier, which I'll call AT&T, here, since, you know, that's what they call themselves.

Here's what it looked like:

They used my correct address.  Look at my name.  LOOK AT MY NAME.

"Dear Sexy Mamma" was my favorite thing all week.  Also, I spell it "Mama."  Also, What the fuck is going on, here??

I called AT&T, to let them know that they had mis-spelled my name.  Fuckers.  The girl on the phone was terribly embarrassed, and I let her know that I was HIGHLY OFFENDED and a GOD-FEARING-CHRISTIAN WOMAN and WHAT-IF-MY-FIRST-GRADER-SAW-THIS and so on.  And I didn't laugh, although OMG it was hard to not laugh.  After apologizing profusely, the girl had me fax this to her attention.  That was a very, very good time.

2.  I know you have laughed at auto-corrects before, as have I, because they are funny.  I did suspect they were likely fake, at least largely, but one happened to me here, and I have to share it.  (Incidentally, once, I tried to text my friend Katie that I loved her "whole bunches," but my phone changed it to "hole punches," and so we now love each other hole punches.  How cute is that, eh?)

This is less cute, but way funnier:

 3.  First soccer game of the year.  He maybe kicked the ball twice.  They did not win.  I'm going to have to develop a taste for cat food if my retirement plans depend on his athleticism.  It's nice in theory.  Sigh.

4.  Everybody knows I like a good steak.  If you don't like steak, you should move somewhere.  I'd suggest maybe Vermont.  Not a lot of cows like the cold.  Right?  I honestly really just made that up.  I have no idea what cows like.  Milk.  Cows like milk.  I'd assume.

Anyway, but Winn-Dixie apparently thinks that all steaks should be grotesquely rare.  And so they put a picture of one with a tiny fat-blob, too - on their truck.  Grrrrrrosssssss...

5.  I went to a meeting in a little town called "Amite" the other day, for a Fema thing, for work.  It was a good meeting, very informative.  It was held in the city council chambers, which was kind of like a courtroom or something, with kind of a panel at the front, in a semi-circle of chairs, and then chairs for the non-council members, or, in this case, people like me.  A professional, fairly nice building, especially (from what I can tell) for Amite's standards.  

After the meeting, I needed to go potty, as I occasionally do.  On the way out of the restroom, I encountered the following sign on the door.  Because, apparently, Amite's council consists of six-year-old-boys, who may or may not be my sons...

It's been a good week here in neverland, where I think I must live, or some such.  Tonight I'm going to the high school football game, and then I'm starting a new quilt tomorrow.  Because I am the Best Grandma EVER, that's why.

Happy weekend!

Dancing, drinking Milf Toast

Two stories for you.

1)  Today, we went, as we do almost every day, out to grab lunch through a drive-thru.  Today's choice was Wendy's.  No, I'm not going to bother to couch that and make this less-searchable.  Fuck Wendy's.

Anyway, so here's what happened when we got to the order place:

Dude:  "HI!  We are so glad you came to visit us at Wendy's, would you like to try a baconator today?"

Me:  "No, thank you, but thanks for being so excited to have us here!  I have two orders.  The first one is a kid's meal with a burger only ketchup and mustard, and add bacon, and a Large Diet Coke to drink..."

Dude:  "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't upsize your drink like that..."

Me:  "..."

Well, fuck that stupid rule.

So I changed my whole order, ordered the second one, and drove up to issue my complaint.

They were all, yeah, no, fuck you, you can't have a large diet coke.  Assholes.  I said, "that's ok, I'll call the number..."

Hadn't even picked up our (I'm sure, spit-filled, by this point) food yet, and I called the 800 number.  The girl was very friendly.  Very apologetic.  I told her that, since I was kind of a little person, I needed to get happy meals* but that I wanted a large diet coke, because I don't want a lot of calories, you know?  And she was all, yeah, I get it.  And then she asked if I spell my name with an "h", and I go "YES!  Thanks for ASKING!"

Anyway, so she said she'd call in my complaint and see what they can do, and I'm thinking WORD UP I'm getting coupons for this.

A few minutes ago, my cell phone rang, and it was the Big Mr. Manager from Wendy's.

"OH, HI!" I said.  "Can I call you Mr. Wendy?"

He said no.

And then he explained that I can get a kids meal and also a - get this - 32 oz medium drink, and then they could put them together in a 40 oz cup, and the kids meal drink is a 12 oz, so...  And I'm just thinking, a) I am mathy, and this is shit, because that's 44 oz of diet coke I'd be paying for (NOT TO MENTION THE CUPS) and I would get, at most 40 oz, but probably less, even, because of ice, you know...

and also, b) why wouldn't he let me call him Mr. Wendy?

and also, c) McDonald's makes this place look full on trashy.

And guess what???  Mr. Wendy did not even give me a coupon.  WHAT A JERK.

Here's the second story:

I went out with the girlies this weekend, for a "girl's night" in New Orleans, the kind of thing with dancing until your feet REALLY hurt and then obnoxiously buying flip flops and using your new bff, the lady that works in the bathroom at the Cat's Meow, to get a discount on the flip flops, because really, $16.00 for flip flops is a bit absurd.

It was glorious.

I danced.  Oh, yes, I danced.

Anyway, I had recently encountered this term from the Urban Dictionary, which is to say, "TOAST", which stands for Tits On A STick.  I'm going to tell you right now, I'm thinner than I've been since college, and I look mighty fine in my size six jeans that are a little too big for me, and that night I wore, too, a MEDIUM shirt, which, over this rack, was... snug.  Because I'm a chesty girl.  So there.  I'm a TOAST.  Clearly.

And I'm a milf.

Which...  makes me...

A milftoast.

God DAMN don't you wish you could go to Wendy's with me tomorrow?  I'm totally telling them that Mr. Wendy himself called me.  You don't mess with a milftoast.


*yes, I know, it's only called a "happy meal" at McDonald's, but I was really enjoying being extra obnoxious to that lady today.  It's my only joy.  Leave me alone.

Blow

I don't know if it is a freak thing or what, but there are literally hundreds and hundreds of dragonflies swarming right now.  My kitten knows something is up, too.  Animals really can sense strange weather, can't they?

As you know, Isaac, a Big Bad Tropical Storm, is pointed right at me.  I'm actually pretty excited, being that I super big love weather, but I do wish I were not at work right now.  Oddly, my folks, who live right at the water, keep begging me to come to their house.  I can't do that, though, because my plans involve wearing panties and a tank top and drinking beer, pretty much constantly.  Boom!  Hello, Hurricane!

Anyway, my big kid is at college, and he wants to stay there, so I'm going to let him.  If the power goes out up there, I can always go and get him later.  Whatever.

The little boy will probably not have school at all the rest of this week, but certainly not tomorrow or Wednesday.  Ergo, this girl is not working, either.  I wouldn't have to, anyway, because I'm government, by God, and the government has already said we are closing up shop.  God I love everything.

And so, I'm preparing for some good wind (the gusts have already started) and some rain.  We will do jigsaw puzzles and listen to my iPod.  We will read books and play board games and comfort the kitten.  We will snuggle on the air mattress in the living room, if it feels like the right thing to do.  We are going to have a good time.

Wish me luck, people!  Bring it on, Isaac!  I'd like a bloody Mary, and your signature wink, please...