I Really Should Have A Chaperone At All Times (Or At Least Once A Month)

So as you all know, last Thursday I was in a deep menstrual-induced psychosis, during which time I went on an internet and chocolate chip cookie binge. Update: Later that night I had 2 more cookies, a jumbo avocado (I have a serious addiction), and 2 Advil PM's. I am writing this on Friday, which is the day after that binge. The day when I told myself it was a new day and a less disgusting day. Well, today I skipped my healthy Friday walk due to the fact that I was having cramps and wanted nothing more than to drink a minimum of 4 cups of coffee (which I did), and when you drink that much coffee you can't go far from home, and I'm fairly certain that my walking partner, Cathy, might frown upon me dropping trou behind the bushes in someones yard. So my lazy ass skipped the walk. After I decided that I had sufficiently caffeinated myself and emptied my bladder, I decided to run a few errands. When I got in my car I was trying to plug my phone into the charger but it was being really difficult and wouldn't plug in. Then I noticed this:

Not my phone, you guys. My remote control.

So after a few minutes of feeling like a dumb-ass, I got over it and went on my merry way. Then while going down Highway 6, I got stuck in traffic behind this dude:

In order to protect his identity (not because I want to but because I think I have to) I gave him a personalized vanity plate.

After 10 minutes of being stuck behind him and fighting the urge to go cut off his nuts, I went to TJ Maxx and tried on a few shirts, and then had some woman in front of me in line tell me that I had Kleenex sticking out of my bra. Which I totally did.  But it's not because I am one of those old ladies who keeps her snot rags in her brassiere, but because I was wearing a low-cut black shirt which shows just a hint of cleavage, because I had period boobs and every girl knows that period boobs are big boobs and since during your period the rest of you looks like ass you might as well show off your big, sore boobs. Anyway, I needed to wear a black bra, and somehow my black bra got dented so it looks like I have some sort of inverted nipple problem or something, so I stuffed it with Kleenex so I wouldn't look like a freak with a nipple dent. But sometime during the trying on of clothes, some tissue got knocked loose so that when I went to check out I had Kleenex hanging out of my bra. Get it? So I just told her I had a cold. Whatever.

After TJ Maxx I had a quick and uneventful stop at Target,  during which I realized I was starving. I have to admit to you guys that although I was almost home, where there is healthy food, I drove through Whataburger. Because I am a loser. But I did order a chicken sandwich instead of a burger. Which is sorta healthy, right? But I just couldn't resist the fries. I'm not entirely sure where Whataburger gets it's french fry salt, but it's super powdery and addictive, and I'm pretty sure it might be some sort of half salt/half cocaine mixture. And their ketchup? What is in that stuff? Maybe it's Vampire blood, which I've learned from True Blood is very yummy and addictive. And also red. So they could mix it right in and we'd never know. But I also learned from True Blood that Vampire Blood makes you feel really colorful and cartoony and you can fly around in rainbow skies and see trails and stuff, which unfortunately did not happen to me, which totally sucks because that really would have helped with my periodness. But maybe Whataburger is only putting in small doses so that people don't get suspicious. Unless you're smart and Perry Masony and watch too much HBO. Anyway, after my fries were gone I searched my house for something else to dip in it, but I couldn't find anything so I used my finger because I am a pig. Unfortunately I had no cash to use at Whataburger so I had to use my debit card. Which means I had to put the receipt in Steve's high priority "Receipt Pile" so that he could log it into Quicken. Quicken is like his Xanadu. As much as I love disco things, shiny things, and totally cheesy things...that's how much he likes Quicken. He really gets off on pie charts and graphs and financial stuff. But since we are trying to eat healthy, I didn't want him to know about the crap I had eaten, so I put the receipt in the pile like this:

In case you can't read it, it says: "Salad! xoxo, Manager."  Since it was signed by the manager I thought he might believe it was official and stuff. That's also why I used red marker.

I must've done a really good job writing all managery and stuff because he didn't even mention the receipt to me. You know, I was feeling very bossy when I wrote it. It's either that or he's just too scared of me to say anything about receipts when he knows that I'm menstrually insane. Hmmm....I think I am definitely on to something here.

Sometimes When I'm Menstrual I Surf The Internet Looking For Stuff That Makes Me Feel Better About Myself

Yesterday I took my friend Anne out to a birthday lunch during which we discovered that we are on the same cycle. No, not bicycle or unicycle (although I would totally ride either of those things with her.) Menstrual cycle. I am pretty sure that this is absolute scientific proof that we are bestest friends. In case you don't have vast amounts of knowledge about menstrual stuff,  women who spend lots of time together get synchronized. What this means is that we are like twins, insofar that our bad moods, bloating, break-outs, sensitivity to Hallmark commercials, cramps, and cravings for junk food and Advil PM are exactly the same. I am not sure of the exact reason that nature does this, but if I had to guess I would say that it's because when we are at our worst (looks-wise and mood-wise) the last thing we need in our orbit is a friend who is perky and pretty. Nature is smart enough to know that if that were the case there would be so many more PMS-related murders going down at any given time.  It's probably all about Evolution. I betcha that in the olden days, especially before there was Midol, Clearasil, Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and Tampax, there were probably tons of girls offing their friends because one was bloated and pimply (murderer) and the other was thin and beautiful (murderee). It makes complete sense.

Today I look like I'm about 5 months pregnant. I have a pimple on my nose that makes it look like my nose is growing another - even larger - nose. My skin is oily. I have cramps. I feel like cussing somebody out and then crying about it. And I baked Toll House cookies today and ate 6 of them. In about 2 minutes. That's 20 seconds per cookie. Well, actually it's about 30 seconds per cookie since I stacked the last two cookies into one giant, mega-cookie. And I am so stupid and period-ridden that I had to use a calculator to tell me those numbers. Things are not good in the Ford house.

On the bright side, since all I've been doing is laying around feeling sorry for myself, I have had plenty of free time to cruise the internet and find things that disturb and confuse me. Enjoy!

This is a photo of a Blob Fish. I don't know what to say other than it looks like WC Fields after a long night of drinking and making out with prostitutes who squirted lube all over his head. It has no muscles and is completely gelatinous. It is a lazy asshole who just floats stationary and waits for food to pretty much swim into its mouth. Actually, this is kinda what I feel like I look like this week, but at least I baked my own cookies and didn't just sit on the couch waiting for someone to shove some into my mouth for me. Also, I have had no alcohol or lubey encounters with hookers (but it's still early so I won't entirely rule it out).

This looks like a giant stuffed shark who maybe saw "Pinocchio" and wished upon a star just like him and became a real shark and ate it's unsuspecting owner, which would totally suck balls because there you are just hanging out and snuggling with the giant stuffed animal your grandparents gave you for your birthday, when all of a sudden it comes alive and decides to eat your plush loving ass. Unfortunately, that is not what happened. What happened is that some weirdo decided that your child might want a sleeping bag that gives them a heart attack because when they woke up in the middle of the night they had forgotten that they fell asleep inside the mouth of a giant shark. I really hope it's machine washable because I give this sleeping bag approximately 6 hours before it gets peed in and/or puked on by a freaked out kid.

No. This is not a crime scene photo. Not unless the crime is spending $40.00 on a "Blood Spill Pillow."  I am not entirely sure what the purpose of this pillow is, other than to ensure that your nap gets totally ruined by police and emergency medical personnel. I don't know about you, but when I settle in for a nice siesta I prefer to not be awakened by someone attacking me with those difibrillator paddle things, or trying to give me an autopsy. It just kinda ruins the whole relaxation point of the nap.

Ok. Brace yourselves people. These are Under-Ease underwear, which are an underwear made especially for people who have flatulence problems. That means farts you guys. The website says they are made from air-tight polyurethane-coated nylon. Polyurethane is what you paint on furniture for durability, so...comfy. The site also says that these sexy undies have a "triangular exit hole" through which the fart is expelled after passing through a replaceable filter which is made from (get this) 2 layers of wool felt, 2 layers of non-woven polypropylene and spun glass, with a center of deactivated carbon. Did I just say "spun glass?"  Yes. Yes, I think I did. So at this point I have, like, a hundred questions. But my main inquiry is this: Just how bad does your gas have to be to cause you to find it necessary to wear big honking, air-tight, rubber granny panties with a pile of spun glass and carbon on your butt? Maybe instead of $30.00 glass-ass underwear, you should go visit your Doctor. Pronto.

My Kid Is Just Like Confucius Except Instead of Chinese He's Super-White and Instead of a Philosopher He's a Smart-Mouthed Weirdo. Other Than That They're Exactly Alike.

The Boy is full of wisdom. Bask in it.


"When you're dead I'm gonna eat 5 Auntie Ann's pretzels a day. Cuz you won't be my boss."


While looking at himself in the mirror he said: 
"This is almost my one hundredth life. I've lived alot of lives. Some I remember and some I don't, and I'll probably live alot more." 


"I never want to go to a privates school! That's creepy. They just make you learn about your privates?"


The Boy: Mom, wanna take a bath with me?
Me: No honey.
TB: Why?
Me: You're a big boy and it's inappropriate.
TB: Well, how about when I turn 21 we get some beer and take a bath together.
Me: I don't think so. That's REALLY inappropriate.
TB: What if we wear trunks? 


"When I'm a man and I get married and have a little girl I'm gonna name her Sal. But for now I'm just gonna call you Sal. Okay Sal?" 


The Boy: (talking to my stomach)  Goodnight brothers and sisters!
Me: There's no brothers and sisters in there.
TB: Yes there are, but they were too slow and lost the race to be born. Tom was in 2nd   place. Makenzie was in 3rd and Joe was a few miles behind her."


"If I  farted fire instead of gas that would be a big problem."


"When I run, I fart automatically.  Sounds like a machine gun."  


"Mommy, some people say rain is God crying, but I think it's God sweating because I  think he likes to run around in those spinning tornado circles.  And next time I'm in a plane, I'm gonna look out the window and if I see him I'll jump out and he'll catch me and I'll say "Hey God,What's up?  Thanks for catching me!" 


The Boy asked The Hub for permission to stab suspicious men if they come onto our property whenever TH is away on business. He said, "I have the power to kill someone if it's an emergency."  The Hub said that maybe he should just stick to calling 911.


"Cold is better than hot because if the hottest thing, like fire, got you, you'd be dead. But if the coldest thing got you, like a giant ice cube, someone could always smash you out with a hammer and you'd be fine."


The Boy was singing "All The Single Larry's."  I pointed out that it is "All The Single Ladies" and he said "Well, I'm Sure there's plenty of Larry's that are single too."
  
"Mommy, I wish you were really fat so I could hug you so tight that you would explode into hundreds of little mommies and then I could hug all of them!" 


Me:  "I smell a toot." 
The Boy: "It was me. That's how I live." 


I just got off the phone with a friend, and The Boy said, "Who was it?  A naked hippie?" 


The Boy came out of the bathroom with a long piece of toilet paper tied in a bow around his weenie and said "Look mom, my weenie has it's own bow tie!  I'm gonna keep him like this forever!" 


The Boy gave me a drawing he had made...  
Me: It's ripped and a piece is missing!"
The Boy: Yeah.  I'm eating it. Everybody does that. Geesh.


"You know, when you die you go to deadland and everything is gold and your skin comes off."


The Boy was playing with a plastic lizard...
TB: You know what kind of lizard this is?  It's a Canadian.  
The Hub: Why is your lizard a Canadian?"
TB: Because he can change colors.


The Boy: Mom, I am a man now. I grew my first man hair!" 
Me: Where?
The Boy:  On my big toe! 


"Mom, there's lots of different names for your nuts. There's nuts, seeds, privates, and atmosphere."   


"Alot of people think I'm not smart because I'm so crazy, but I am proof that you can be both very crazy and very smart." 


"You know I could kill someone w/ my bare hands. I just choose not to." 


The Boy: School is strict. You're not allowed to dance unless they tell you to.   
Me:  Well, do they ever tell you to?
The Boy: Hasn't happened yet!


When your 8-year-old son is caught walking around with his hands behind his back saying in an English accent, "I'm just walking like an old timey English Gentleman" and you haven't even asked him what he's doing, he is most likely hiding something from you, and trying in a very unsuccessful and suspicious way to distract you from said hidden item. Just a parenting tip. Mom to mom.


We saw a truck with a plate that said "Mr. Stuff..." 
Me: I wonder where Mrs. Stuff is? 
The Boy: Unfortunately, she's dead. When I was a baby, I was out crawling around town and I saw her get hit by a car. It was sad. Mr. Stuff has never been the same. 


"Why do we go to school when we're just gonna die anyway?"


The Boy: How old do I have to be to drink beer? 
Me: 21
TB: Man, when I am 21 I am going to be extreme!

"I was gonna try to be good today, but you just make me so bad!" 


The Boy sprayed me in the face with Febreeze because, and I quote, 
"I don't know why I did it!  My brain didn't tell me I was going to do it, but my hands just did it!"

I Have A Mother F-ing Ballerina and I'm Not Afraid To Use Her... AKA: If you're thinking of burgling me, think again.

When The Hub is out of town I usually sleep like a dead person. I know, I know. Most people say stuff like "I slept like a baby" or "I slept like a log." But if you ask me, neither one of those comparisons makes any sense. It has been my experience that since babies are pretty much selfish assholes with severe drinking problems, they don't sleep. At all. Well, except if you drive them around, or carry them around, or push them around in a stroller, or give them Benadryl with a whiskey chaser, or change their pants and wipe their butts, or give them more to drink. It's really alot like having an alcoholic incontinent paraplegic hobo living in your house. I would guess that it even kinda smells the same. And logs? They are hunks of wood that are used for fires, and as far as I know they don't sleep so much as lay there being hunks of wood that are used for fires. And why would you want to sleep like a log anyway? The only possible outcome to that is waking up to find your wooden ass in some jerk's campfire. Bad idea. So anyway, I prefer to say that I sleep like a dead person. That is much more accurate since I don't really move much when I sleep, and as far as I know, dead people don't move much either. Except for Zombies. But that's a whole other story.

Since The Hub was out of town last night, I fully expected to do the super hard-core version of my dead person sleep. The super hard-core version only happens when I sleep alone and there's nobody there to bother me with their tossing, turning, farting, snoring, Undiagnosed Except by Patti Restless Leg Syndrome, and various other sleep issues. I used to think that I had a severe bladder disease because I would get up a hundred times a night to go to the bathroom. I even went to the Dr. for it and he put a camera someplace where one should never have a camera put. Ever. And although he severely mutilated me and made me yell verbally abusive curses at both he and his old lady nurse, he never found a problem. Then The Hub started traveling on business, I got to sleep alone, and I realized that when I sleep alone, I lie down on my back and wake up on my back without even messing up the bed. I. Don't. Move. The Hub's business trips made me realize that my bladder is fine, but HE is a fidgety-make-my-wife-think-she's-dying-of-bladder-cancer-so-she-has-to-get-a-camera-shoved-into-her-pee-pee-spot asshole. When The Hub is here his sleep jitters are waking me up and forcing me to think I have to pee a hundred times a night. And every time I get up to pee, I start thinking about something like aliens, ghosts, or zombies, and I can't get back to sleep, because.....Hello! Somebody has to be on alert for that shit.  I used to try to get back and forth from the bathroom with my eyes closed, thus tricking myself into thinking that I was still asleep, but then one night I almost peed on The Hub and that was the end of that. (Note: Men should not be allowed to sit down on the communal toilet at night, in the dark, because you will not see them there and you will pull down your pants and sit on their lap and freak both of you out like you've never been freaked out before. You're welcome.)

So I thought I was gonna have the sleep of a lifetime last night, but I didn't, due to the fact that I had -what I assume - were beer and Bunco-induced nightmares. Or my friend Stephanie may have slipped me some sort of roofie because she knew Steve was out of town and she was wanting to get a piece of my action. I don't know all the details yet. But something happened. Anyway, I didn't even get to sleep until midnight, then I woke up at 1:30 because I had a dream that I got a finger monkey that was trained to find bedbugs, but he kept eating them because according to National Geographic that is what monkeys do when they pick bugs off of something, and the ingested bugs turned finger monkey into some kind of finger monkey bug of death and I woke up in a sweat. Then, I had a nightmare that The Boy had caught a robber in his room and was beating him with a bat. That nightmare woke me up at 3:30, and I thought "It was just a dream" and I tried to go back to sleep. Then I thought "What if it isn't a dream and The Boy is up there all alone and beating a robber to death? He'll be scarred for life unless I dispose of the body and give him enough cough medicine so that he forgets everything that happened here tonight!" So I went upstairs armed with Nyquil and a tarp to check it out. With my ballerina statue as a weapon. Because she may look sweet but she could totally bash in your skull. Thankfully The Boy was asleep, although it looked like he'd been involved in some sort of scuffle because his sheets and pillows were on the floor. Even his fitted sheet. That kid is even more of a sleep-wiggler than his dad, so I will have to remember when he gets married to warn his wife that no, she doesn't have bladder cancer, and yes, the Ford men are sleepy-time freaks.

Anyway, I went back to bed, but by that point I was awake enough to start thinking that my white noise machine was talking to me again. And I was hearing creaks and moans, otherwise known as: Holy crap balls...There is someone trying to get into my house! Since the alarm was on I assumed that nobody was inside the house...yet, but were possibly at the trying to get in stage. Although when I thought about it I realized I had hired a babysitter that night so I could go to Bunco, and it's quite possible that she could have let in a burglar who was now hiding in my attic waiting to pounce on me if I went back to sleep. She seems like a nice girl, but teenagers will do lots of things that are crazy or just don't make sense.  It's called hormones, people. So I decided to get back up and walk around the house a bit, just in case a burglar was watching, stopping every so often to do that amazing kick that Ralph Macchio did at the end of Karate Kid when he finally showed those Cobra-Kai assholes who was boss. And I would also pick up various household decorations (vases, statues, etc...) and swing them around to show that I had some bad-ass hitting-people-with-random-household-objects skillz. I talked to myself a lot too, because (a) Talking to yourself always makes you look crazy, (b) Crazy and scary are the same thing, and (c) I talk to myself all the time anyway, so I was really just doing it out of sheer habit. But I did talk more gangsta than usual, to, you know, show the would-be robbers I was not one to mess with. At all. I may not pop a cap in your ass, robbers, but I will smash a cute ballerina statue into your skull. Word.

I realized today that the only bat we had in the entire house was this pathetic miniature one.  I'm sure that would have done the burgular in good.

P.S. The Hub is now back from his trip so if you were thinking about robbing and/or attacking me, you can forget it. Not that he could kick your butt or anything, but his annoying wiggling will keep me awake all night so me and my ballerina will be ready for your burglar ass.

P.P.S. I am fully aware that "word" doesn't sound very gangsta, but the only gangsta-ish things I know how to say are "word," "yo", "fo shizzle," and "Bring me a bottle of Cristal." I did the best I could.

Thank you, Hollywood and Evolution, for ruining our lives.

Just in case you've been living in a cave somewhere and have had no access to any form of media, let me be the one to break it to you: We are being attacked. By Bedbugs. And I mean "We" as in THE ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD! Well, except for maybe those caves that some of you have been living in. I haven't heard any evidence that shows that bedbugs live in caves, so if that IS where you've been, maybe you should get your ass back there because all you have to worry about in a cave are bears and bats, and from what I've learned about bears from watching tv with The Boy over the years is that they often wear overalls or hats, like honey, sometimes have jobs, and seem to sleep alot. And don't worry about the bats because I'm pretty sure that bats will turn into really sexy vampires if you look cute and flirt with them a little. I know that in those Twilight books the vampires didn't turn into bats, but those books are fiction. In case you didn't know.

Look guys: Cute hat, ascot, and wants peace. (bijouliving.com)

Anyway, every time I turn on the tv lately they are talking about freakin' bedbugs. At first I wasn't very worried because Steve pretty much told me that I was being an idiot and that there were no more bedbugs that usual and it's just that the stories are getting reported more often. The Hub says he know this because he is a Scientist. But you know what? He's an engineer. And if I have learned anything about engineers in the past 20 years it's that (A) They always think they're right, and (B) They really don't know jack shit about bugs.

When we went to Chicago over Labor Day weekend, I knew enough to yell at The Hub when he put his suitcase on the bed because Dr. Oz had already told me that if you do that, all the bedbugs will immediately jump on and stow-away in it kinda exactly like Leonardo Dicaprio and some other poor people did when they snuck onto the ship in the Titanic movie, and they will get a nice, cozy, free ride back to your house. But instead of hitting an iceberg and totally fighting over lifeboats and drowning at the end, they will just hide in your underpants and socks until you unpack and then live in your drawers and stuff until they can infiltrate your bed and all of your orifices. The other thing Dr. Oz had told me was to make sure I check under the hotel bed, which I thought sounded like a smart idea, but since I have a fear of finding used condoms and/or dead hookers under hotel beds, I skipped that part.

This could be happening on your body, as we speak.

In the past few days, I have learned soooooo much more.  First of all, the name "Bedbug" is a total lie, because now the news is telling me that not only do they live in beds, but in movie theater seats. Yes. Movie theater seats. So now if I want to go on a date to the movies, I have to take a flashlight with me so I can search the cushion of the theater seat to look for bedbugs and/or bedbug feces. That's poop, you guys. I am also not allowed to put my purse on the seat next to me in case it is harboring bugs that wanna hitch a ride back to my place and get into my bed. Usually on a date you do have to assume that someone is trying to end the night in your bed, but if you're lucky, it usually isn't a bug. So the news people told me to put my purse on the floor. Of the theater. Where they keep all the spilled coke, sticky butter, spit out gum, melted chocolate and semen. That doesn't sound gross at all.

Not only have our movie theaters been compromised, but our department stores as well. I have learned that if I go buy or try on clothing at a store, I may get infested with bugs. If you try on clothing that is currently serving as an apartment home for bedbugs, you guys, the bedbugs will hide on your body so you can bring them home. So if you're trying on pants, and there are bedbugs living in the pants, they may ride home with you on your privates. Like it's their own personal Taxi. Except hopefully cleaner and with less cussing and flipping off.

So how do you know if someone's body is currently serving as the Las Vegas for bedbugs? Well, you are supposed to look for nasty bumps that look like mosquito bites but are way grosser and usually found in clusters, like herpes. Not that I have personal knowledge of herpes or anything. This is just what I heard. If - for example - your neighbor is suddenly covered with "mosquito bites" and you notice that they are in a cluster, you need to run away immediately just in case they are infested with bedbugs. And also, don't have sex with them because it might be herpes. As far as I know, the only way to tell for sure if there are bedbugs on something/someone is to use a bedbug tracking dog. Yes, the bedbugs are so bad they've trained dogs to find them. I am not totally sure as to how one can acquire a bedbug dog, but I am definitely wondering if dogs are the only animal they train for this, or if they can possibly train a teacup pig or finger monkey as well. I'm definitely gonna have to look into that.

But what I'm really worried about, people, is Evolution. The Hub likes to talk about Evolution and I have seen my fair share of Nova/Discovery Channel specials on how people used to be monkeys and killer whales used to be minnows, and stuff like that. Sometimes it's just difficult to have a mind like mine. You know, one that totally grasps the complexities of things like mutation, adaptation, genetic recombination, natural selection, and other things that you guys couldn't possibly understand. Since I really know alot about all this sciency stuff, I can tell you with 100% certainty that we are all goners. This thing has spun way too far out of control now that the bedbugs are going to the movies. Think about it: The  news is always telling us that if you watch violent movies you might become violent. And these bugs have been living in the theaters during the entire summer, i.e. the height of the action movie season, loading up on sugar, carbs, and human flesh and blood (that's DNA, people)  and learning how to kick our asses and get away in a car chase. Trust me on this one guys. I'm, like, super-duper smart and my husband is a scientist.